There were four of us last night at the rescue mission, a number that limits us in so far as trying hard to ensure all get to share. In what old-time holiness used to refer to as “popcorn”, the unwritten rule we utilize is: Speak your heart and use your own common sense to shut up unless, somewhere along the way, the Holy Spirit makes Himself known in what you’re saying”. We don’t always achieve any perfection in that. It’s a learning process and people remain people, much like me driving McKenna home from school yesterday afternoon, making a stop at Wendy’s to get her a burger, catching a red light and, while sitting at the intersection, phoning my wife to see if she wanted anything. Yep; I got lost in thought and looked up to realize the green was about to finalize its cycle with me having gone nowhere. As I turned on the yellow, my mind pondered what the fellow left behind me was thinking about the idiot not paying attention, me knowing full well how many times this old man has been the one left waiting for another go. It happens. On this occasion, though, knowing Tony and I had talked beforehand of having little on our mind, I opened with some lyrics written by me over three decades ago. The words, as it happened, enabled Frank to step in a flow, his short message on God meeting us where we are when we, ourselves, but turn to Him in what we are, connecting with the men. Dave, as well, found the same stream, speaking on how this was a journey with a divine promise of never forsaking us in our stumble down the path. It was 7:30 when my buddy took his turn, his face with a shine to it, his eyes and a smile letting you know an inner well had sprung from what the others had already brought forth. For twenty minutes he fed us with the above verse, the anointing through him spilling grace and hope in our midst. He shouldn’t have quit. With less than ten minutes, however, I found myself using my grandson’s Veterans Day words to me to illustrate how Christ “in” me” was a “hidden treasure”, a “pearl of great price”, a reality that each of us has to confirm for ourselves. It was an hour in His presence, not some thick manifestation wherein all must fall down and worship, but assuredly a “touching the hem of His garment”, a “walk to Emmaus” that culminated in a prayer, all of us one in Him. This, for me, is “church”. It’s what I walked into over forty-two years back and what keeps me alive…….