To Timothy my true son in the faith:
Grace, mercy and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord.
1 Timothy 1:2 (emphasis mine)
In my recent venture into podcasting, I talked with Paul Daugherty, pastor of Victory Christian Center. Our conversation shifted to a someone over a something. Paul and I share one common thread that links us together – a mentor. A man he calls Dr. Wilson, a man in recent days I call Billy, but for most of my early adult life called Pastor. This common connection is a man who has invested in each of us as son’s and served a role as spiritual father.
On our brief side step from a conversation of creative preaching and teaching into mentors lead me down a road of remembrance. Scattered on these memories are stories of men that mark my life. They are godly men who have carved pathways for me to walk in. Pastor just so happens to be one of them.
Another of these men was “gramps”. I have well documented this small North Carolina native throughout posts. I do have an early memory of my grandfather that have yet to find space in my writings. A time when he pastored a storefront church in what I believe to be Mt. Vernon, IL. Sitting in the back row on a cold, beige metal folding chair my grandfather slipped around during the time of singing to whisper a question in my ear. “Do you want to sing a special song?” While my love for music and the spotlight at the tender age of 10 wanted to say yes, my infantile level of wisdom knew it was not my gift. Even with my “no”, my grandfather did what he did best. He stepped to the pulpit with a fiery passion and proclaimed the Word of the Lord. My young eyes listened to the man I called “gramps” hammer home a convicting message of Jesus power to save and set free. Although, I had spent many Sunday’s in church with my grandfather, something about that Sunday stood out. Something about his passion for the preaching. Something about his adamant tone encouraging the faithful and calling to the sinner.
The years would pass and the spit-fire of man I would watch turn grey in his hair and his mind. In the later years, before the passing of my grandmother, she would call to check in on me. Almost as if we were two children, she would force my grandfather on the phone, one of his least favorite activities. In those six minutes of conversation, we would talk church, preaching, and pastoring. Passions that would tie our hearts together.
Gramps was a man who marked my life.
From the age of 12 to 21, life was filled with change and challenge. My parents divorced and opportunity for betterment put miles between me and the man I call dad. In the gap, stepped men that I have probably never said “thank you” to. Through my high school years, filled with hormones and horrible fashion choices, were several men who spoke hope into my story. To Dave, Jim, Steve, and Doug, thank you. Men who were models and mentors. Men who were wrestling out faith for themselves and attempting to steer a group of teenagers toward Jesus. While never in formal roles, their care kept me on course for most of my high school days.
How I got to college is a unique story. A non practicing Jew named Evan and full practicing sinner named Steve spoke into my life more than they know. The paradox of their influence is that in spite of their lack of relationship with the Lord, they were somehow charged with doing the Lord’s work. Their pushing on my present to be more than an employee in a sweaty t-shirt shop persisted in causing me to pursue college. The light in this story is that Steve fell head over heels with Jesus before his untimely death. Maybe when he arrived in glory God let him know how he impacted my life.
Six months of running from God at a state university lead me to Lee University and eventually to a 1/8 of an acre front lawn that held a 4 room house in East Cleveland. There stood a man named William. William was the first person to look me in the eye and say “God told me to spend time with you.” This sounds charming until you hear the first part of this story, William also confessed he did not like me much and for good reason. My story of redemption and restoration from wild college life to called preacher had left a reside of pride. Pride that I used to disguise insecurity, hurt, and shame. William stepped into shoes that were left open to be filled – that of spiritual father. In what I thought I wanted, is not what I got, but exactly what I needed. Psalm 23 talks of the Lord’s comfort, but it also talks about the rod. My life needed more rod than comfort, William was the man for the job.
In the years that followed, my spirit was crushed and my life was lifted. Modeled before my eyes was a husband, a father, a man of God. Many days I have thanked William. He thinks he did little. My life resembles that he did a lot.
Maybe that is sum of mentoring. Giving what feels like a little but for the one receiving the love, care, instruction, really equals a lot. Mentoring does not take much and cost very little. It is simply the process of giving away what has been given to you. As I reflect on the man I still call Pastor, the youth leaders who lead teenage Jeff, and the unknowing participants in the plans of God in my life, each of these men made a mark. Each man making impact on the lineage of my life.
The words of my dear friend and mentor William Lamb echo loudly most days: “freely you have received, freely give.” To those who have freely given to me: Thank You.
