He was one of the first people we met in Waco. We didn't so much meet him as see him standing over Interstate 35, in African garb, with two prayer sticks, slowly raising and lowering the sticks as he stood over the busy interstate. I asked one of my friends what he was doing, and she said "praying." He became my hero.
Day after day, he prays over Waco, our little truck stop of a town. One Saturday morning, as we drove under him, Ben said, "I think he's one of those people who holds the universe together. If he weren't there, it would all fall apart." I think Ben was right. This man became a constant reminder to pray and, each time I would see him, I would be reminded to say a prayer for this town that has more fast food restaurants than one can count, temperatures that hang around 100 degrees for the duration for the summer, and represents a culture I still struggle to understand as my Minnesconsin blood thins out to accommodate the heat.
One of Ben's coworkers once had the courage to stop and talk to the man. His name is Virgil. He is, indeed, praying for the world, blessing complete strangers in this crazy truck stop town, holding the universe together as he intercedes on our behalf. One day, when Ben's coworker saw Virgil praying alongside the road, he shouted a greeting, and Virgil shouted back, "Bless you, bless your family, may good things come to you."
In a world where we would sooner sue our neighbors than have a difficult conversation, where it is easier to send bombs to kill the other than to act with humility and gratitude for this earth we share, where it is easier to worry about ourselves and what we might gain from another, Virgil is a reminder to me. Virgil may not be changing the world, but I am convinced that he is holding it together. He is a reminder to me that the light breaks through the darkness, that prayers of intercession and blessing make us mindful that we were not called to care for ourselves and seek our own best interest regardless of the effect it has on our neighbors. Virgil reminds me to confess that I am turned in on myself and, for a moment, I say a prayer for him, blessing him, thanking God that there are people placed in this world that draw us out from our curved-in self-obsessed selfishness and remind us to bless the stranger, welcome the widow and orphan, and "to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us," (Matthew 5:44). Virgil is salt and light in this heat-stricken, truck stop town. In his bright orange tunic and pants, his extended arms gripping wooden prayer sticks, I see Christ.
Day after day, he prays over Waco, our little truck stop of a town. One Saturday morning, as we drove under him, Ben said, "I think he's one of those people who holds the universe together. If he weren't there, it would all fall apart." I think Ben was right. This man became a constant reminder to pray and, each time I would see him, I would be reminded to say a prayer for this town that has more fast food restaurants than one can count, temperatures that hang around 100 degrees for the duration for the summer, and represents a culture I still struggle to understand as my Minnesconsin blood thins out to accommodate the heat.
One of Ben's coworkers once had the courage to stop and talk to the man. His name is Virgil. He is, indeed, praying for the world, blessing complete strangers in this crazy truck stop town, holding the universe together as he intercedes on our behalf. One day, when Ben's coworker saw Virgil praying alongside the road, he shouted a greeting, and Virgil shouted back, "Bless you, bless your family, may good things come to you."
In a world where we would sooner sue our neighbors than have a difficult conversation, where it is easier to send bombs to kill the other than to act with humility and gratitude for this earth we share, where it is easier to worry about ourselves and what we might gain from another, Virgil is a reminder to me. Virgil may not be changing the world, but I am convinced that he is holding it together. He is a reminder to me that the light breaks through the darkness, that prayers of intercession and blessing make us mindful that we were not called to care for ourselves and seek our own best interest regardless of the effect it has on our neighbors. Virgil reminds me to confess that I am turned in on myself and, for a moment, I say a prayer for him, blessing him, thanking God that there are people placed in this world that draw us out from our curved-in self-obsessed selfishness and remind us to bless the stranger, welcome the widow and orphan, and "to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us," (Matthew 5:44). Virgil is salt and light in this heat-stricken, truck stop town. In his bright orange tunic and pants, his extended arms gripping wooden prayer sticks, I see Christ.
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