It was one of those nights the old folks tell you it’s not the heat, it’s
the humidity. I had ridden across three states, and was looking for a place for
the night, when I came upon an old motel, whose neon light flashed vacancy. My
kind of place, I got a room, and soon found that the old window air conditioner
put out more sound than cold air, so went out on the front porch, where others
were seeking relief. Parked next to me was an old blue Chevy, with one white
door, and an older couple with three teens, two boys, one girl, sat next door
drinking grape soda. “Nice motorsickle Mister, where ya from? asked the old
man, who everyone called Grandpa, and he waved me over, offering me a grape soda
from an old metal cooler. I had wanted to be alone, but something told me to
accept his offer, and soon we began talking, or he did. “Used to ride one of
them motorsickles myself, right after the war. A group of us all bought
Indians. The Harley guy never came back form the Pacific, and his wife had let
the shop go. Best $300 I ever spent”...and he paused taking a gulp of grape
soda. “We were gonna see the US, we had seen the world in the service, but
slowly we drifted apart. I married Ma here, and had a family, Joe moved to
California, maybe you know his family,” as if we were all neighbors out there,
“Bill went to college,got a real job, heard Carl died of cancer a few years
back. Boy the rides and times we had...” and his voice tailed off, maybe the
visions of past rides took over for a moment. He talked more of past rides, and
soon the string of lights flashed off, telling us it was time for bed. “See you
in the morning,” I said. “Doubtful, we’re gonna be on the road early,” and firm
handshake confirmed all he had told me in his recalling old friends and rides
that evening. A night we both will remember. And I felt like I knew his old
friends.
I slept well that night. Almost peaceful despite the loud air conditioner,
and awoke with the sun streaming through the old worn curtains. The old alarm
clock on the night stand had its big hand just at 6, and as I got up to watch a
pretty sunrise, noticed the old blue Chevy with the one white door was gone. He
said early, I guess he meant it. As I squinted in the morning sun, I hoped he
was heading west, that early sun can be brutal. But he had never mentioned
where he was going, he only talked of where he had been. Even his opening line
“where ya from?” didn’t ask where I was heading. Reflecting on the old blue
Chevy with the one white door, maybe his best days were behind him, his memories
that he shared last night the highlights of his life. 40 years had passed since
he rode, he had lost touch with all his old riding buddies, all recounted over a
bottle of grape soda. Somewhere in an old motel on the old highway that very
few travelled any more. Suddenly my new Yamaha didn’t look right, and for the
next hour I rode before breakfast, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Somewhere
in the countryside of Illinois our paths had crossed that night...I wondered if
I would look back with fondness of my past like he did? But today I was looking
ahead....
It was one of the those February mornings where they tell of the wind chill
factor back east, but for me it was bright sun in Laguna Beach. I had stopped
to spend some time alone and read my Bible, and found all but one bench empty.
A beautiful ocean view, I wanted to be alone, yet felt attracted to a bench next
to an old man. “Nice motorsickle Mister, where ya from?” he asked. Before I
could answer, he asked, “what ya readin’? The Bible?” And then he began to
tell me about when he was younger, and his life was all about church. “Remember
Reverend Smith at the First Church over there?” No I nodded. “Man could he
preach up a sermon. We had pot lucks after the service each Sunday, his wife
made the best fried chicken. My wife used to make chocolate ice box pie....”
his voice streaming off for a moment. “Before she died.” “We were tight, we
loved the Lord, and many baptisms were held right here at this beach. Our lives
revolved around that church, we saw many saved and Jesus changed lives. But one
day the Rev got a telegram his son was killed in Viet Nam, and he was never the
same. It had to hurt him losing a son, and he never recovered. Soon the church
split apart, he was our strength, and he left town. Never did hear where he
ended up, I still went to church, but it wasn’t the same. Haven’t been in
years...” Standing up, he shook my hand. “Learn from an old man, stay close to
Jesus. At one time the church was my strength, and when it folded I was
aimless. Then Jesus came into my life, gave it meaning. I had religion as we
used to say, now I’m saved. Stay close to Jesus young man, stay in the word,
and let him stay in you.” And with that he was gone, and I was all alone. Just
like I had wanted to be, yet something was different. His short testimony had
been what I needed to hear, and just like the night in Illinois, with another
old man, their memories shared with me were precious. Both made me think, both
made me reflect. And I stopped and thanked God for coming into my life some 40
years ago. How Jesus had changed my life, and was still changing it. This
morning again proving him.
In both cases the conversations started off with where you from, both ended
giving me hope for a new day. Two moments in time, separated by 30 years, but
connected by riding a motorsickle. Now some may call these a chance meeting, a
coincidence, but I know better. Maybe not an angel, but when needed, God always
sends someone along at the right time. Sometimes I travel back, but after I am
faced with looking ahead. And realize what a bright future I have because of
Jesus Christ in my life. No religion, and no regrets. A hope and a future. No
matter where I happen to rest my head, or sit. In both cases I had wanted to be
alone, but God provided company I didn’t know I needed. After spending some
time with the Lord, I looked for a place for lunch. An old taco shop got my
attention, a grape Nehi sign, faded and worn seemed to beckon me. “Do this in
remembrance of me,” Jesus said of communion. And I had spent precious time with
him, one in remembering, the others their memories. I don’t remember the taco,
but I do the grape soda. And the night with Grandpa with the old blue Chevy with
the white door. Grape soda and pretzels we had. Communion we had. Nothing
fancy, certainly not religious. A time that Jesus set aside for both of us to
be ministered to. A time when both could remember, when we both would
remember. Maybe it really is in the small details, when we aren’t looking for
him that he appears. He tells us he never leaves us, nor forsakes us, I can
tell of more to verify that. But these two will do for now. Maybe you have
some precious times when God intervened, just to show how much he cared. Live
life in remembrance of him, commune with him daily. “Nice motorsickle MIster,
where ya from?” Let the testimonies begin. And I know where ‘m going.
love with compassion,
MIke
matthew25biker.blogspot.com