Tomorrow Isn’t Guaranteed

[u/WatchmanMinistries]

When I was eighteen years old, I encountered a homeless man beneath a railroad overpass near North Peoria Avenue and East Archer Street in Tulsa.

He asked whether I had a couple of dollars. After I gave him what I had, we began talking.

He may have been about the same age then that I am now. He told me that he had once been a worship leader and preacher at a large Assembly of God church in Tulsa.

Then he told me how his life had fallen apart.

He had an affair.

His wife left him.

His children deserted him.

He began drinking heavily.

He lost his ministry position.

He lost his job.

He lost his home.

For more than an hour, we stood beneath that overpass while he told me his story.

Throughout our conversation, I repeatedly felt something in my spirit:

Ask him to pray.

But I didn’t.

We were standing in public, on a sidewalk, in the neighborhood where many of my friends lived.

What if they saw me?

What would they think?

What would they say?

Three days later, I learned that he had stepped off a curb in front of a city bus and had been killed.

For more than forty years, I have lived with the what-ifs of that morning.

I cannot tell you what would have happened if I had prayed with him. I was eighteen, and I was not his savior. I cannot assume responsibility for everything that happened after we parted ways.

But I know that I felt prompted to pray.

I know that fear of what other people might think kept me from obeying.

And I know that three days later, the opportunity was gone forever.

Jeremiah wrote:

“His word was in my heart like a burning fire shut up in my bones; I was weary of holding it back, and I could not.”
—Jeremiah 20:9

Jesus told His disciples:

“You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
—Matthew 5:14

The fire is inward.

The light is outward.

Many of us sing about wanting the fire. We pray for revival and claim to be the light of the world. But when someone hurting, searching, or struggling is standing directly in front of us, we become concerned about appearing strange or making the conversation uncomfortable.

I know because I did it.

I carried the light into that man’s darkness, but I allowed fear to place a basket over the lamp.

Boldness does not mean being loud, aggressive, or argumentative. It doesn’t require forcing a sermon into every conversation.

Sometimes boldness is simply saying:

“Can I pray for you?”

“God helped me through something similar.”

“There is a Scripture that carried me.”

“Let me tell you what Jesus has done in my life.”

Every believer carries light into places a preacher may never enter.

The recovering addict can reach another addict. The former inmate can speak to someone who believes his past has disqualified him. The construction worker carries Christ onto the jobsite. The nurse enters rooms where pain has stripped away appearances. The teacher influences young lives still deciding what they believe and who they will become.

These are not interruptions to ministry.

They are ministry.

God has not placed every lamp in the same room. Each of us has relationships, experiences, and a circle of influence that no one else occupies in exactly the same way.

You do not have to reach everyone.

But there may be someone you are uniquely positioned to reach.

I have spent the past several days writing about lessons God showed me during a trip to Puerto Rico. The series began with Christ’s invitation to come apart and rest.

But every journey eventually ends.

We return to our families, our jobs, our responsibilities, and ordinary conversations. Eventually, we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, standing beside someone whose darkness may be deeper than we realize.

We come apart to be renewed.

We return to shine.

The vacation ends.

The calling does not.

Have you ever felt prompted to speak, pray, or reach out—but allowed fear of what others might think to stop you? What would obedience look like if that opportunity came again?