Generations of Silence

I missed the bus by two minutes. Not shocking considering it happens every time I come out of the hair salon. And it's one of those bus stops that takes forever for the next bus to come. But today was different. Not so different in the fact that my hair was now nothing like it was when I went in, or so different that Taylor had found a stone wall to climb and slide on, but different in the fact that I sat down next to a little white haired old lady.

Looking at her from the corner of my eye I noticed that she could barely sit upright on her own, and observing her cane, clothing, and face I had the unfortunate thought that she probably won't live much longer. And then I thought "I should give her a tract." I thought to myself "She may be dead soon, she could be in hell in days writhing in pain, how will she hear the Gospel by then?" I also thought on a sigh, "If I don't give her a tract I will be upset for the rest of the night, she will plague me."

So, I gave her a tract. A Billy Graham tract. I said it was about God, that I was American, and I spoke little Polish. She opened the tract, never acknowledged me talking to her, and started to read. Part of me panicked and hoped the bus would come quickly. But then I told myself to stay calm, and if she speaks, do my best to answer. She never spoke. She just continued to read. My bus came. I got up, turned to her smiled and said goodbye and she nodded her head and smiled back.
That's it.

But is it? We could ponder, was that truly effective? Will it bear fruit? Was that really the best way? I don't know the answers, but what I do know is this-Christ was glorified today on that bench, I presented the Gospel to a dying woman the best I possibly could, and in that one moment of hope that she may come to know Jesus through it all, made not only moving over 4,000 miles worth it, but missing the bus too.