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"For God so loved the world. .
." Bellowed the man in the median. "That he gave his only
begotten son. . ."
The driver side window in the lead car whined as it's driver
hit the up button.
"Get a job, you freak!" This came from the driver
second in line, who was not only late for work, but hung over as well.
". . .that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish .
. ." continued the street preacher. Although it was not yet nine, the
sun was starting to take its toll. Beads of perspiration were beginning to
form on his face, already red from the effort of shouting. He held a Bible
high over his head and waved it to emphasize his words as he completed the
passage.
". . . everlasting life." he concluded, taking a
single deep breath
afterward, before beginning anew.
The woman in car three, inside lane to the median, had her
window more than halfway up when she caught his eye. She was middle-aged,
almost stylishly dressed. The vehicle, a pewter colored mini-van, looked
like it had seen better days.
"The wicked are doomed to hell!" shouted the street
preacher, making eye contact with her. "Whereas the righteous shall
surely bask in the glow of heaven!"
The light changed and the vehicles, like suddenly ungated
greyhounds, jack-rabbited away.
For more than an hour, the street preacher sermonized in
minuets. Red Light. His captive audience groaned, made faces, and looked
away, pretending not to see or hear. He worked hard at telling them who
Jesus was and why they needed to know. They listened or didn't, then drove
away.
The sun became inhuman after a while. The street preacher's
voice became a rasp, then a croak. That he was fading fast was obvious
from the drenched back of his shirt and wet hair plastered to his
forehead. Still, though, he persevered.
Then the pewter van pulled up to the light again, this time
in first
position, but with the window closed and the air conditioning blasting. He
could barely see her through the dark tint, but she could see him. His
Bible arm drooped now. His voice had lost much of its thunder, but the
fire in his eyes was still there. She could feel the intensity of his
commitment right through the glass.
She hit the button and the window buzzed down. Her hand
emerged and offered him something. It was a cold bottle of water, beads of
condensation forming instantly as it hit the hot air of the day.
He smiled and croaked weakly, "Thank you, sister."
The light changed. The car behind her beeped loudly. Her
window went up and she stepped on the gas.
He downed the quart bottle of spring water in a single long
deep draught, tossed the bottle next to his backpack for easy retrieval,
lifted his Bible arm into the air and shouted with restored vigor,
"For God so loved the world. . ."
The lady watched him in the mirror until she could see him no
more, then set herself to complete the remaining tasks she had scheduled
for herself.
In Pensacola, some Saturdays go like that.
(c) 2002 by Bob Liddil.
All Rights Reserved
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