Mark Millican: To our weaknesses no stranger

Published 8:00 am Tuesday, December 24, 2024

He had a hard look about him, a visage that said “No matter what life throws at me, I’m going O-for-four.” His shoulders slumped forward as he walked, keeping his eyes downcast so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge anyone passing by on the sidewalk and therefore discouraging a cheery “Good morning” or “Good afternoon.” There was nothing good about this Christmas season.

Yet life hadn’t always been like this. A star pitcher in baseball, he’d graduated from high school with a scholarship but faltered at college when he drank after a bad outing on the mound. Hitters at that level had seen his kind of stuff before and had him figured out by their second or third at-bat. So he dropped out and went to work painting houses, keeping his family and friends back home from learning of his failure — at least for awhile.

But painting was boring, even though after work he tailed along as the other guys went to the bar before going home. By now the name “Lefty” had stuck since he was a southpaw pitcher, and so feeling left out he just drove around. But with a third DUI came a year of jail in the county lockup, and by then his cheap apartment and car were gone and repossessed. As well, his marriage had dissolved in the devilish vapor of a meth pipe, and besides his wife an 8-year-old son was a serious casualty.

He’d slept under a bridge near a ministry that provided meals, shelter and even a substance abuse rehab program. But he only dropped in when his hunger pangs screamed for food, and besides, he was too proud to sleep among homeless men. As for rehab, well, Lefty just felt a lucky break was needed. He was unaware that when prospective employers interviewed him they had to go into a back office to get a breath of fresh air from his body odor and smell of alcohol, where a secretary pointed out his arrest record on her desktop computer.

Another door slammed, so what? Still, he fought the fear that his life was in a downward spiral.

Maybe he just needed a decent haircut. He’d heard about a barber across the tracks who was kindhearted and helped down-and-outers now and then. He’d try to put up with the tonsorialist’s reported hymn singing mixed in with quoting Scripture.

However, when he walked in the door the senior barber had a customer so he handed Lefty off to his assistant, a middle-aged woman who had been a drill instructor for women Marine recruits at Parris Island. But her style of kicking butt and taking names to transform teenage girls into tough young ladies with purpose and a mission had run into hurdles. After her second time of being called onto the carpet of the battalion colonel’s office about what some would call her intense methods of training, she decided the new military doctrine of taking it easy on recruits was not going to change and walked away.

Unfortunately, Lefty had drifted into her sphere just as she had been mulling over the jilting she’d taken in her Marine career path. She let him have it with both barrels.

“How old are you, son?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“So you’re not even 30 and you’re giving up.” It wasn’t a question, but a declarative sentence that demanded an answer.

“Wait a minute, I … ”

“No, you listen to me. The good Lord gave you one life, and you’re wasting it. You’re going to make some changes, and when you come back here in less than two months you’re going to give me a positive report. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He couldn’t wait to get out of the chair, but it was not to be. The older man with six-plus decades of experience cutting hair and reading men ordered a shampoo and shave — it was an old-style shop — so Lefty had to put up with another half-hour of a pep talk that was thankfully less harsh. It was pretty much “You can do this, son” patter with a softer edge.

Back under the bridge, he was pensive while sitting on his ragged, rolled-up sleeping bag. Suddenly, a teenage boy and girl from a local church approached with fliers they were handing out about that night’s Christmas Eve program at the outreach ministry. One man already curled up in blankets just replied “Leave me alone” and another fellow sitting on a stump nearby just nodded and said “Thanks.”

Given one of the fliers, Lefty said nothing.

Yet he was drawn to go, and couldn’t understand why. At least it was warm inside the ministry chapel, and the singing of Christmas carols and hymns brought back good memories. Lefty found his heart strangely warmed as well. The preacher had shared the Christmas story from Luke 2, and then said the choir would sing one last song before an invitation was given to come down front and ask for prayer.

Some words from “O Holy Night” arrested him:

“The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;

“In all our trials born to be our friend.

“He knows our need, to our weaknesses no stranger,

“Behold your king! Before him lowly bend!”

Wild horses couldn’t have held him back from going down front. If the one from heaven who came to Earth so long ago knew his trials and weaknesses, Lefty knew he needed to know him.

He knelt and bowed his head and a prayer team gathered around. When he arose, tears were running down his cheeks and his heretofore forced smile had become genuine.

Unnoticed, a lady who knew his wife slipped away from the small circle and punched a preset number on her cellphone.

Around 25 minutes later, he was still sitting on the front pew feeling new and wondering what had happened when a small voice boomed out from the back of the room, “Dad!” Lefty jumped up so fast from sitting so long he almost fainted, but in about two heartbeats he gathered his wits and took off down the aisle. Young Roy met him halfway, and as his father went down on one knee he leapt into his arms. At the back of the room, his mother Patricia — whom some called Patsy — gazed with glistening eyes. Then it was her turn to feel pensive. It sure looks real, she thought. If so, she’d never had a better Christmas gift.

Down the street and across the way, a steady patron at a dive bar was sipping on his third whiskey and absently thinking about another one. At the same time, several seniors had arranged chairs into a circle at the local church — it was time for their traditional Christmas Eve prayer meeting. His was one of the names on their list.

Mark Millican is a former staff writer for the Dalton Daily Citizen.