Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles

The True Story of Big Bad Green

There is a reason to listen to the Shepherd

There is a reason to stay close

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. Copyright  © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2011 Steven Stiles. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Third edition October 2012

ISBN 978-1-4611-5209-5

DEDICATION

To those servants who labor for the Shepherd in difficult places.

With fond memory of those riders of Big Bad Green who have gone on before: Ed, Laurie, Marilyn, Linda, Jeff, Louise.

Until we sing together again.

FOREWORD

It does not take a long acquaintance with Steve Stiles to gain a deep respect for his commitment, character, and competence—though I personally have had many years in which to have such initial impressions about the man confirmed. I was impressed when I first met him, in 1975. He was then, as now, humbly serving God in a ministry that has never received as much publicity as it certainly deserves. That was over thirty-five years ago now, and Steve is still serving in one of the most difficult fields in which a minister can labor—namely, laying down his life to help those in bondage to self-destructive addictions. His wife, Nancy, and his sons also deserve credit for the degree to which they have had to surrender him to the many demands of this ministry, and they have stood at his side serving with him through the years.

For a couple of years in the seventies I served as one of the teachers at New Life Center. I had occasion to observe some of the things described in this book, and to see the versatility of its author to adjust to unexpected emergencies and rise to the wide array of challenges that this unconventional type of ministry presents. In addition to holding a doctorate in ministry with a focus on pastoral counseling, there is hardly any practical skill—from building construction to auto mechanics—which this man lacks.

But more impressive than his skills is his servant’s heart and his willingness to stoop down and wash the feet of anyone in need, without the slightest indication of an itch to be recognized or specially appreciated by the public. In fact, if these compliments end up printed in his book, you can be sure that it was due to the insistence of others over his protestations!

The miraculous providences documented in this book really occurred. In the early years of New Life Center, the Jesus Movement was at its peak—a time of surprising conversions and remarkable answers to prayer. It was a time of pristine simplicity in Christian faith for thousands of young believers and for those seasoned believers who were flexible enough to lead them in the fledgling years of their discipleship.

Reading this book takes me back to those charming days of simple devotion and faith, which were so often rewarded by palpable manifestations of God’s presence and care. Many of us who lived through that era would love to see such times return to the body of Christ. If such days do return, it is likely that Steve Stiles and New Life Center will be ready to step forward and again serve the needs of the day.

Steve Gregg

Steve Gregg is the author of several books and is the host of The Narrow Path, a weekly Christian radio show.

He can be found at http://www.thenarrowpath.com.

PREFACE

I will remember the deeds of the LORD; yes,

I will remember your miracles of long ago.

Psalm 77:11

This is a record about following the Shepherd where we are not inclined to go; stories reminding us that we are never in charge, and that ministry neither begins nor ends with us. It is told to encourage those who have a heart to serve people, especially in circumstances that are difficult and/or discouraging.

With the exception of minor details changed only to protect anonymity, you will read the unembellished record of actual events that have become precious, if not challenging, memories for the many who witnessed them.

I have come to believe that those special miracles that shake our pre-conceived realities, and even those quiet miracles we may see day by day, are not for entertainment purposes. They are memories to be cherished, lessons to be learned, and counsel to receive.

They cause our knees to bend and our hearts to yield. They are a privilege to see, and they tell us, sometimes when we need to hear it most, that nothing can or ever will happen in our lives unless it is allowed by the Good Shepherd.

The dozen or so special miracles recorded here occurred most often in circumstances of hardship and struggle, sometimes during quiet desperation; and they almost always arrived by complete surprise. I have found miracles to be just that way.

This story of following the Shepherd and learning from miracles, the hard side of miracles, is shared from the hearts and memories of the many who rode some old buses and saw the mercy of God.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

PART I

The Beginnings

CHAPTER ONE

Miracles: Is there a Reason?

CHAPTER TWO

The Pea-Green Ceiling: Pastel with an Attitude

CHAPTER THREE

Greenie Days: The Miracle that was Not to Be

CHAPTER FOUR

The Big Bad Green Chapel: The Fortress

CHAPTER FIVE

Greenie Gets Sick for the Last Time: The Pit Stop

CHAPTER SIX

Yellow: Off to the Wilderness

PART II

Highways & Byways

CHAPTER SEVEN

Greenie at the Caves: A Change of Plans

CHAPTER EIGHT

Greenie and Redbird on the Mountain: Miracle at Dawn

CHAPTER NINE

Redbird in the Desert: The Shepherd’s Voice

CHAPTER TEN

Big Blue and the House of Concorde: The Shepherd’s Path

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Redbird on I-5: A Time to Listen

CHAPTER TWELVE

Laurie: Feeding the Hungry

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New Life Center: The Rescue

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jordan River: A Matter of Timing

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Street: A Few True Stories

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Crossing America: Living with the Unexpected

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Through the Night: Lead Me On, to the Light

PART III

Looking Back

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Look Back: Living with Failure

Acknowledgments

Appendices

A: On the Road Again

B: Global Greenie

C: Tiger by the Tail

D: The Rest of the Story

PART I

The Beginnings

CHAPTER ONE

Miracles: Is There a Reason?

He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.

Deuteronomy 8:3

Miracles may be intriguing to see,

but the truth they reveal may be priceless.

We had been warned—repeatedly. But we were pilgrims with a plan, and keeping us off the road would require far more than good advice.

While it was obvious that nothing could dampen our determination, it was also true that not one person had any idea what might happen when we first climbed on board that tired old bus. With two hundred easy miles to our destination we saw little cause for concern. Yet somehow, despite our every effort, our humble band of Jesus people never got there—and we never really found our way home.

Our desire to follow the Good Shepherd kept us out on the road for years, and thousands of miles drifted by before we ever paused to wonder at the storms along the way. Why had they happened, and how had we survived?

As the mountains, valleys, rivers, and stretches of rugged wilderness passed beneath our wheels, we knew beyond question we were being cared for. But difficult and unexplainable events also revealed we were deep into an incredible journey on the hard side of miracles. Realizing we had gone too far to find our way back, we knew only to follow on.

Never had we anticipated the miracles, foreseen their purpose, nor dreamed how deeply they would change us. They were far more than they first appeared to be, and given the fragility of our faith, we often failed to see what God was doing right in front of our eyes.

What was true in Jesus’ time was just as true for us—seeing is not believing, and blind faith may scarcely be faith at all.

Jerusalem: about AD 30

Passers-by could hardly have missed the intensity in the faces of the crowd. Every eye was fixed on the humbly dressed rabbi down on his knees, mixing dirt and spit at the side of the road. Close to him stood a beggar, listening intently, yet gazing vacantly. His facial features clearly revealed that he had been blind from birth.

The muddy-fingered wonder-worker was clearly up to something again, and his actions would soon be the talk of the town. But why did this particular miracle need to be so complicated? In fact, why didn’t he just heal the man? Did the rabbi’s actions have a deeper message? Could this remarkable roadside encounter have been part of an even greater plan?

Cuba: La Amistad

Loaded with fifty-three chained slaves, the schooner La Amistad found itself battling unexpected westerly headwinds off the northern coast of Cuba in July of 1839. Who on board would have known that simple shift in the summer wind would precipitate a series of events impacting faith around the world? Who would have dreamed that very same wind would help set the stage for a stream of miracles now long forgotten?

Africa: the Ivory Coast

Thirty years later, deep in the African jungle, a small one-armed man, with dark hair and soft blue eyes, dressed in the rough working clothes of rural America, reached over to shut down a noisy, fire-breathing steam engine. Certainly there was no apparent miracle in the making—or did that simple action also reflect a deeper purpose?

California: the San Joaquin Valley

Forty years later a tall lanky young farmer, with dark hair and soft blue eyes, stood on a country road talking to a weary, poverty-stricken family sitting quietly in an open horse-drawn wagon. Those passing by would only offer the scene a moment’s glance. What would lead them to think or even care that something life-changing and supernatural was occurring right before their eyes?

The Amazon jungle

In the late 1940s, far up a tributary of the Amazon, a young missionary lost her fountain pen while walking through the Peruvian jungle. Quite to her own astonishment, she suddenly announced to the energetic Indian children crowded around her that God would help her find the pen.

Why in the world, she thought later, did I say something like that? Especially since the pen didn’t show up?

Oregon

The sun still dominated the late afternoon sky as the humble six-cylinder engine struggled to pull the heavily loaded green bus up the twisted ascent of Mt. Elijah. Packed between random sleeping bags, row upon row of hungry, sweaty, and weary passengers peered through occasional openings in the trees to catch a glimpse of the canyon below. The young faces reflected a certain preoccupation, even a sense of determination.

The California license plate affixed to the bumper offered a clue to the casual, counter-culture dress of the 1970s worn by the riders. But even as slowly as the bus was moving, a glance through the windows from the side of the road would have revealed little that was unusual. Certainly the scenario did not appear to be the stuff of miracles.

What then was the reason for the riders’ sense of urgency? What was waiting atop the mountain—and more importantly, why?

Jerusalem: about AD 30 continued

The crowd tracked every movement as saliva from the young teacher’s mouth swiftly darkened the dust of the road. A few onlookers were quick to catch the emerging symbolism: was it not an image of the Creator of the universe creating flesh from the dust of the ground? But how could something pure ever come from such “unclean” dust, even though touched with words and water from the Master’s mouth?

Intrigue gave way to dismayed astonishment as the rabbi stood and pushed the fresh, warm mud directly beneath the beggar’s eyelids. The wonder-worker had restored flesh before, but why was he doing this to a disabled person? Why did he actually proclaim that the man’s lifetime of blindness had a divine purpose?

The rabbi soon ordered the sightless man—the muddy mixture now streaking his face—to go and wash in the sacred pool of Siloam (meaning “sent”). Again, some in the crowd noted the import of the pool where water literally and figuratively flowed down from the spring Gihon—water sourced in the mountain where the holy temple stood. Was it not a clear sign of life flowing from God? And what else was the rabbi trying to tell his followers? Why did he refer to many of the onlookers as being blind when they had failed to understand what they had seen?

Some of the crowd, and possibly a few who just happened on the scene, followed the blind man to see what would happen next. Perhaps, as he reached purposefully down into the pool to wash himself, they stood close enough to catch intimate details of the healing itself, for before their own eyes his face was suddenly and dramatically changed, sparkling with unmistakable vision.

But what did the onlookers really see: a startling phenomenon, or a sign from God? a random miracle, or the intentional purpose of God revealed? This healing that amazed the onlookers, that many observers tracked only with their physical eyes, may have been no more than the tip of Jesus’ miracle and sign.

Many in the crowd that day would return home without discovering that when you really “see” a miracle, it can change your life forever.

Failure to see

Two thousand years ago, untold thousands of Israelites witnessed the miracles of Jesus, and multitudes became believers.

Sadly, despite all they had seen and heard, most of those who came out to scrutinize the Master’s every move and word remained mere spectators, and more than a few became deadly enemies.

But while many Israelites casually threw aside their chance to follow Messiah, many others longed for the privilege of seeing a single miracle at the Master’s hand; yet they never had the chance. Some were never to receive a desperately needed healing. Some never had the joy of hearing the Son of God teach in their synagogue.

Even his disciples were to discover that following the Shepherd of Israel did not mean that all their trials and needs would be answered by miracles of deliverance. They too would experience hunger, exhaustion, imprisonment, and fierce persecution. As with countless believers throughout history, their path of faith was to be anything but a walk in the park.

In the kingdom of God, trials and miracles must both come in their own time. Although we may seek to avoid trials and embrace miracles, they are neither ours to control nor necessarily to understand. Indeed, even the absence of apparent miracles can reveal the purpose and authority of God just as much as the obvious ones that leave us astonished.

Epilogue: the Amazon jungle

I never was able to travel the thousands of miles to that village deep in the Amazonian jungle where the pen was lost. I never met any of The People (as the Indians called themselves) face to face, and I am limited in what I can tell you about them because of the threat of Maoist guerillas.

I can tell you The People knew me well, just as I knew them through letters we shared through their broken second-language Spanish. I grew up in a home filled with artifacts from their village: blow guns; fish, bird, and monkey arrows; ingenious cooking devices; clothes fashioned from llama wool and tree bark; and even articles used to remove demons. There were albums of pictures.

I learned of tribal values, and how they raised their children. I knew their struggle to survive. I knew what happened after the village discovered Jesus, and I knew what life was like before their eyes of faith were opened. I prayed for The People, and shared the excitement when the Bible was printed in their own language—the language of their hearts. Only two or three words could I understand.

But it was the stories of faith I grew up with that drew me closest to the many Indians who, along with me, followed the Shepherd of Israel. I knew from letters home of their disease, their fears, and their loss, as well as their joy. I knew faith did not always make their life easier. Sometimes it led to martyrdom.

Miracles? Yes, there were some astonishing stories from the jungle, but many times the absence of desperately needed miracles was just as surprising. Why did God care for them and me in ways that were so challenging to faith?

The stories that my Aunt Francine, a Wycliffe Bible translator, brought back from the Amazon when I was young helped shape my very limited understanding of how God intervenes in our lives—especially when it comes to supernatural events. I learned that miracles don’t arrive just because we think we need one. Far from centering solely on our needs, they reveal God’s eternal purpose, each one fitting perfectly into God’s eternal plan to capture the hearts of mankind.

The village

Beneath an awkward arrangement of mosquito netting deep in the Amazon jungle, Francine, worked intently over an ancient typewriter that seemed to almost pulsate in the dull, flickering glow of a nearby kerosene lamp.

Thousands of miles separated Francine from the comfort and security of her native homeland. She was now facing the biggest adjustment of her life. Not only did she have the task of learning a new language and culture, but she was responsible for teaching reading skills, health care, and even agriculture.

Always the children clustered around her and clamored for attention. Throughout the day, villagers had lined up to talk to Big Sister, and only now, late at night, could she make real progress on the translation of the New Testament.

The stress was persistent. At any time an animal or hostile war party could attack from the surrounding cover of dense vegetation. She could not forget to watch for snakes. And then there were the mosquitoes. Even under the netting Francine was covered with welts. The People repeatedly expressed wonder that she had willingly joined them in their perpetual itching, pain, disease, fear, and hunger.

Though the stress was taking a heavy toll on Francine, she pressed toward her self-imposed deadline. She saw too many new friends dying without God's Word in their language. At day's end her body protested with aches and pains that seemed to join forces with her mental exhaustion. Once again Francine found herself dreading the long walk across the village to her bedroll. Hut by hut, the dogs would lunge at her, snapping and snarling. What was normally quite troublesome loomed tonight as intolerable. She wondered if she really had the strength left to face the merciless dogs.

Blowing out the kerosene flame above the typewriter, she reluctantly turned in the direction of her hut. Taking a deep breath, she stepped cautiously into the darkness. From her heart arose a simple prayer, brief and furtive, too urgent to include any profound considerations: Lord, the dogs—please.

God answered. On the walk across the village, dog after dog raced at her, but they all stopped abruptly, their mouths never opening. One by one, they cowered and slunk silently away as if they had seen a great and upturned hand. The village remained strangely quiet.

But the merciful protection from the harassing dogs happened only that one night, and each sunrise brought new trouble of its own. On one particular day things became much more difficult. While walking in the jungle, Francine lost the fountain pen with special brown ink she used to mark manuscripts. When she realized, to her dismay, that her irreplaceable writing tool was gone, she looked everywhere. Even the children were eager to help her search.

That was when Francine told the children, “God will help us find it!”

Why in the world did I say that? she wondered afterward. She knew better than to make idle claims about what God would or would not do. If the pen failed to turn up, could not serious damage be done to the children’s new-found faith? Yet it was as though the words had left her mouth by divine providence. There was no other way she could explain making such a statement without direction from God. She would never dream of giving the kids the impression that their faith should be based on preferred outcomes.

Now it was too late. The harm was done. They had heard the statement, they believed it, and they started looking. But the desperately needed pen was not to be found.

The monsoon season came and went, and the humid jungle changed with every passing day. So did the children, who began to experience the same transforming faith that had sent Francine to their world of poverty. Each one was learning to trust God for themselves, whether or not the missing fountain pen ever showed up. Besides, even if it was finally found, the pen would have long since been ruined by the relentless humidity of the jungle.

Transformation

While life in the village had improved in simple ways, it remained a struggle to survive. A discarded nail retrieved from a construction site in a distant city and brought to the village by dugout canoe was a valued possession that could be hammered down with rocks to create a simple knife. Medical care was infrequent at best. Hunting and fishing was a life-and-death necessity, and there was no reprieve from the many dangers lurking in the jungle.

As the Indians learned to read a little broken Spanish along with their own language, the land-owning padrones from downriver were less and less able to take advantage of them. You could measure the tribe’s progress in the children who had lived their lives in tattered bits of throwaway clothes that were scarcely worth putting on. Now, with a few additional centimos in their budget, families were able for the first time to trade raw materials for a single set of used children’s clothes that still had a little color in them.

With truth being consumed daily from the Scripture, the very soul of the village was changing as well. Forgiveness was becoming a cherished value. Marital vows began to be honored. Even the behavior of the village children was revealing a different moral footing, a fact which Francine had seen most clearly one morning down by the river.

It had been one of those occasions after the chief had encouraged a gathering with a tribe from up the river. The time of feasting would offer his people a few hours free from the routine of their daily effort to put food on a banana leaf.

When the tribe had gathered enough extra food and enough tree gum to form a crude soccer ball, they sent out the invitation to their neighboring tribe. Soon a flotilla of dugout canoes was drifting cautiously towards them through alligator-infested waters. There would be a day of feasting, soccer, and of course good times. Everyone would look and dress their best. There would certainly be laughter, regardless of the language barrier.

The traditional welcome was ancient and precise. As the host tribe, The People would assemble on the bank of the river to offer the arriving dugouts a VIP welcome. Kids would cluster in front of their parents, crowding closest to the river to greet their young counterparts as they stepped from their canoes.

But on this day, something unimaginable seemed to go wrong. With the visiting canoes now pulling ashore, the gathered parents watched in horror as their children suddenly turned and ran back to the village. Several awkward minutes passed as the arriving children stood dejectedly on the bank with no one to greet them. The bewildered parents of the host village could do nothing to repair the damage. There simply was no explanation for the embarrassing demonstration of their offspring’s callous disregard. They had expected better of them.

Suddenly the village youngsters reappeared en masse, just as abruptly as they had left, and finally their mysterious actions became clear. Without a word from their parents, all the children had, in unison, run to their homes and put on their tattered old clothes so as not to embarrass the young visitors they had just seen arriving in ragged apparel.

As they returned to the river bank, the young villagers carried with them the precious “new” clothes they had just taken off, folded in their arms. Unbidden, they presented them to the visiting children, who then joyfully donned their new attire.

______________

Nearly a year after Francine had questioned her own seemingly bold prediction about the lost pen, a group of the Indian children were playing in a monsoon gully wash. As they raced through the fast-growing jungle, the lead child was vigorously exercising his responsibility of using a machete to clear the way. A swing here, a whack there—and a small tree split open.

There inside was the lost fountain pen—in perfect condition!

______________

Who was it who had told the children to leave the river beach in unison and return with an unrequested sacrifice of kindness? I suppose the same One who prompted Francine to tell the kids that the pen would indeed be found, but then made them wait until their faith had first been defined by serving him. One miracle seen, perhaps a greater miracle unseen.

Nevertheless, the intriguing find of the fountain pen is hardly a typical event in a missionary’s life. Nowhere does Scripture suggest that obvious miracles were ever supposed to be routine, or provided simply to remove our daily troubles. Even if we greatly desire them, such events depend on God’s purpose—not our preference.

Beyond considering God’s eternal purpose I cannot begin to explain why miraculous moments appeared when they did in the Scripture, nor do I understand why they happened for an exhausted missionary in the Amazon jungle. I do not understand why deliverance happened for the one-armed missionary on the Ivory Coast, or mercy for the young people in the bus on Oregon’s Mt. Elijah. Why do miracles happen to anyone for that matter? I am certain an element of mystery must remain, for after all, miracles usually arrive without warning.

The journey

Since I am unable to adequately explain the unexplainable, let alone the unexpected turns in the road you will encounter in this book, I will simply join others in recounting the following story just as it took place, raise a few questions, share some thoughts and meditations as we go along, and allow you to decide for yourself what actually happened.

First I will tell you the essentials -- how the journey started, and then why some energetic young Jesus people found themselves out on the road in some tired old buses. Wandering with them along America’s highways you will soon hear personal memories of a few unexplainable events that forever changed their lives.

As it turns out, those remarkable providences and miracles of years gone by were clearly part of a greater plan. Each had a purpose, and that is why, no matter how challenging those memories may be, they have not been forgotten.

CHAPTER TWO

The Pea-green Ceiling: Pastel with an Attitude

Does God give you his Spirit and work miracles among you because you observe the law, or because you believe what you heard?

Galatians 3:5

Even now the Shepherd calls us to follow him. Where will he lead us?

I had never really liked the pea-green ceilings. And, in truth, that pungent shade of amber did little for me either. School-bus Yellow was mixed to jar the senses, not to please the eye.

This story of roaming buses, quiet street ministry, and think-again miracles first draws my memory to a tiny child riding along in the rolling coulees of eastern Washington. There, trapped in a chorus of adolescent chaos, my wiry frame bouncing on a stiff bench seat, I would bring home my lunch box, papers, and a simple lesson in quiet resignation.

But my defining pea-green nightmare was riding Bus Number One near the tiny town of Hopland, in northern California, where I spent my teenage years. Geography would have it that although several of the high schools we competed against were less than thirty miles away, they sat across the mountainous terrain traversed by Route 175, long considered the most twisted, hair-pinned highway in all of California.

It wasn’t just about that night when no one returning from the baseball game in Lake County could sleep again. That ride could have been the end of this story. Cutting a tight inside turn, the right-rear wheels of Number One dropped over the side of a 1,000-foot cliff, and the rear of the bus lurched down dreadfully before momentum brought it lunging up and back on the road. The kids in the very front were scared, but judging from the noise, the ones in the back were traumatized. They would not have gone quietly.

I was seated far enough back that, for a fleeting moment, I too considered eternity; but even then my attention returned quickly to the darkened pea-green ceiling. For me that drab pastel was at the very heart of my problem with school buses.

Since childhood I had had a history of travel sickness, which was, on occasion, bad—very bad. Riding to a ball game jam-packed on Number One—inhaling those insidious engine fumes, sitting amidst the lingering odor of long-forgotten sandwiches, and enduring the periodic all-you-can-breathe buffet of inevitable flatulence—fairly taunted my stomach to launch its contents north.

Bracing against the next seat forward, I grimaced my way through the tightest corners that Number One could possibly handle. After enough miles in the mountains, my memory all but fused that nauseous ordeal with the pitching and rolling pea-green ceiling.

Sometimes I would desperately fight my nausea by rehearsing my journey’s end. In my imagination I would stumble off the bus, drag myself home, and glue myself face-first to my motionless bed. But despite my desperation, relief seemed only to linger beyond the next curve. After high school, I had no desire to ever see the inside of a school bus again.

Jesus and the street people

Things were beginning to shake in the American church. It was the late 1960s, and the Jesus Movement was in full swing with its smiling and hugging Jesus People and more than a few hard-core Jesus freaks.

New denominations emerged, big-name Christian singers and bands surfaced, and there were the unforgettable spectacles of massive Jesus festivals and marches. Mega-churches sprang up in the suburbs, while in the cities coffee houses, street ministries, and para-church outreaches flourished. In the countryside and elsewhere were planted a wide array of Christian communes and ranches, especially in the West, where flower children blossomed in the Love Generation of the hippie movement.

It was a time where great attention was drawn to both faith and the supernatural. But no matter what you may choose to believe about miracles, something remarkable was going on in God’s kingdom during those days.

On the street I would occasionally hear tales of miracles and even of visits from angels. While a handful of those stories may well have been true or at least based on actual events, a wealth of contrived miracle stories marred the testimony of that which was genuine.

As is to be expected when God does something special, the Jesus Movement also saw a parallel surge of spiritual counterfeiting, when cults and other dysfunctional sides of religious life crowded the spiritual radar screen, and competed for the human soul.

There was plenty of street game as well. Unscrupulous teachers and evangelists peddling spiritual snake oil took advantage of unsuspecting young Christians, some of whom believed whatever they heard whether it was scriptural or not. Our street ministry would have to learn to deal not only with bad theology and seductive cults, but with the ever present “street song;” the get-you-if-I-can con-artists and manipulators who not only prowled the streets, but as subtly as chameleons took sanctuary within the church itself.

The Jesus Movement—I was part of it. All those who traveled on our old buses were part of it without ever paying it a great deal of attention. My own shoulder-length hair was an almost-necessary requirement of street ministry as I expressed my own respectful rebellion against some of the staid traditions of the church. I longed for the traditional church to relax a little and make room for the next generation before they found somewhere else to go.

During the turbulent days of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I attended seminary in Berkeley, in the San Francisco Bay area. After class I would climb the stairs to my room, directly across the street from the infamous People’s Park, where radicals took over vacant property belonging to the University of California, set up camp, and stood off the riot police.

Those old apartment windows gave me quite a view, but they could never keep all the tear gas out. Down the hall lived one of the leading communist agitators in Berkeley. After directing the occupation of a building by protesters, he would duck out just before the riot police arrived and let everyone else get arrested.

There were many meetings in Berkeley where plans were made to overthrow our country. There were riots in the streets, soldiers on the corners, and the Vietnam War was daily news. I increasingly wondered what the future would hold for the church in such a turbulent world.

I was annoyed by the bumper stickers on rioter’s cars that proclaimed “Liberals, you’re next.” That lightly veiled threat to Berkeley’s elite liberal establishment failed to acknowledge me as a Christian. To the communists and radicals, the social impact of the church was basically irrelevant to the problem of social justice. They never saw the church’s ministry to those in need as important enough to be challenged.

On my way home from class I would protest the fact that the church had not reached bumper-sticker status. What are we, I thought, chopped liver? My people are more radical than yours. Let me tell you what revolution really is. My people live sacrificially to help people who suffer: they feed people; they comfort the hurting; they live compassion. They don’t just debate human suffering in lecture halls and protest it with bricks through windows.

On the streets I would try to bridge the frightening disconnect between radical in-your-face street preachers and their offended listeners by moving through the crowd in a sometimes futile attempt to dialogue with the most discontented. How could I let them know that Jesus was anything but out of touch? How could I let them know that if for just a moment they took Jesus as seriously as they did the opportunity to laugh at a street preacher, it might “blow their minds”?

In Berkeley I rubbed shoulders and debated with students and revolutionaries, gurus, monks, intellectuals, con-artists, hippies, addicts, radical theologians, agnostics, atheists, homeless people, anarchists, witches, cult groupies, musicians and artists, and every imaginable representative of the counterculture and the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. They were the street people I had come to know and love. These encounters made me ponder how the American church as it existed in the late 1960s could ever speak to that complex world of emerging sub-cultures.

On the weekends I would return to Santa Cruz, a coastal city south of San Francisco where my family had moved. There in my church I entered yet another world, one where many traditionalists in the congregation wished the entire counterculture would simply depart the United States. They couldn’t understand that even then, amongst the young people, the Jesus Movement part of counterculture was blossoming right in the middle of their church parking lot! In less than two hours I had transitioned from Berkeley’s political streets to walking with a bunch of Santa Cruz Jesus People who just wanted to love and serve. At times reality seemed to be a moving target.

The drunk

For me, street ministry was never quite the same after I had a life-changing encounter with a drunk.

Long before the miracles started the years previous to my studies in Berkeley, even back during my college days at Sonoma State University, I had yearned to reach across the great divide between Christian and secular culture. I wasn’t looking to compromise my values; I simply wanted to help the church gain a little credibility with those who would never step foot inside its doors. Jesus had clearly done it in his day, for society’s rejects loved him deeply.

Although I had been raised in the church, I had no realistic idea how to help street people get their heads around the gospel. Relating to people on the street was a skill I really needed to learn, and God taught it to me in the last place I would ever have imagined.

It was 1968 at Sonoma State when I found myself responsible for the campus InterVarsity Christian Fellowship group. One of the ladies in the fellowship came from a big local church, and though she was warm and kind, she was perhaps more zealous than judicious. This woman also happened to be in my abnormal psychology class, where the professor announced one day that we were going to investigate addiction as a mental disorder. For that topic the professor set apart two weeks: one for discussing drug addiction, and the other for discussing alcoholism.

The first week’s class was interesting but unremarkable. That day a few addicts from a local drug program showed up and talked about their drug use. At the end of class our professor asked if anyone knew of an alcoholic that could visit our class the following week. I became quite alarmed when the nice Christian lady from our InterVarsity group mentioned that she knew an alcoholic, a minister, whom she could invite.

The whole idea was unnerving to me. There I was on one of the most radical campuses in California, where Christianity was often perceived as an antiquated and dysfunctional social aberration entrenched at the root of our social ills. Now I would be in a psych class enduring a presentation by a well-meaning minister telling everyone present how they needed to get their lives together. Gurus of the San Francisco Love Generation taught at my school; our campus was so loose there was never enough traction for protests, much less a riot. But now some stranger was coming to represent my faith! Such a visit, I thought, could set back the Christian presence on campus by decades.

During these years of rubbing shoulders with players in American counterculture, I had learned how negatively they viewed the Bible-in-hand representatives of Jesus that they encountered. Their critical attitude is evidenced to this day, trumpeted by the bumper stickers that I still occasionally see: “I'm all right with God. It's his fan club I can't stand,” “It’s your HELL—You burn in it!” or “God, protect me from your followers.”

The next week, there I was sitting in the back of the class waiting for our mysterious guest to arrive. The dread was still building when through the door swept a woman very much overweight and sporting a colorful chiffon muumuu (a loose Hawaiian-style dress). Her neck was adorned with colorful flowing scarves, and she had a bouffant hairdo. The whole look was set off with dramatic makeup. I felt like crawling under my desk, afraid to witness what I was certain was going to happen next: a dear, sweet Christian lady shooting her foot off—maybe both feet—right in front of a room full of cynics and intellectuals.

For the next hour the woman talked about her love affair with Beefeater Gin. She was a minister's daughter who had fallen headfirst into acute alcoholism which, in turn, had left her life in chaos and wreckage by the time she had entered recovery in her early forties.

The woman was articulate and gutsy. She talked candidly about her years in Alcoholics Anonymous and the lessons she had learned there, unable to find help in the church. She went on to talk about how God had found her, how she continued to work the Twelve Steps of AA, and how she spent every day walking with Jesus. Yet even as she talked, one thing became abundantly clear to everyone in the room; she was focused more on her audience than on herself. She cared about each student, no matter their belief, appearance, or even their attitude. She actually seemed to love them!

As clearly as the lady spoke about her faith, she was even more straightforward about the fact that she was a drunk, a liar, a thief, and an adulterer. I had never heard candor like that from a Christian—ever. I had heard a lot of Christians talk about being changed and even about a few past wrongs they might have done.

But to talk in the present tense about character defects that still existed the way this woman did, now that astonished me. I’d heard lots of stories about someone having been wonderfully “delivered,” but never the unvarnished truth about the failures that mark everyday lives in the real world.

The woman related that she had been sober for thirteen years, and as far as I could see she did not look the least bit under the influence. Why then did she repeatedly refer to herself as still being a drunk? She appeared to be truthful, yet she continued to refer to herself as a liar. Somehow this apparently open and honest lady genuinely perceived of herself as being a sinner and a changed person—all at the same time. How could that be?

The candor of this drunk about her personal failings challenged me to take a hard look at the heavy sugar coating I was able to apply to my own shortcomings. When I wanted something God didn’t necessarily want me to have, was I pursuing a dream or indulging in a creative form of spiritual adultery? Was taking time God had given to me to use for his kingdom and spending it on myself just self-care, or basically a form of theft? And when I acted like I appreciated something even when I didn’t, was I being caring, or perhaps a wee bit dishonest? How did I measure up against the standards the Scripture set for me?

God set the bar high: “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:48). “For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it” (James 2:10). If we are to judge ourselves by scriptural standards, then adulterers, thieves, and liars apparently aren’t just someone else.

In all my years in church, I had never heard anyone who was willing to be so straightforward about their personal failures and, indeed, the whole host of character defects that plague our human existence like this drunk.

For the first time in my life I was hearing an un-sanitized testimony to the Scripture’s revelation that not only is no one righteous, our personal predicament is far worse. The Scripture tells us that our hearts are deceitful and wicked, desperately wicked: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9). As I listened to the lady share her story, I came to understand that I was witnessing a living testimony; not of redemption past but of redemption present.

At the end of the hour the drunk received a roaring ovation, and what was even more remarkable, she was invited back the following week to continue discussing what God had done in her life. After class she went out on the campus quad, and clusters of students gathered around her to listen to the gospel. As she spoke in terms they could understand, the students couldn’t get enough of hearing about Jesus, and they loved listening to a Christian whom they were certain did not look down on them or judge them in any way.

So, I thought, is that how street evangelism is done? Is that the same kind of love and acceptance people on the street felt from Jesus in his day? Forgive me if I say it again, but I had never seen the gospel received the way it was that day on a college campus. Looking back, I suppose it wasn’t so much about the drunk as it was who the drunk represented—the very One that people in spiritual need have forever been drawn to.

I was jolted by the contrast between what I had just witnessed on campus and the Christian “presentation mode” I had learned growing up in church. It struck me that I was often more focused on talking about truth than yielding to it—talking about God than listening to him. By that point in my life I had collected a boatload of awkward memories stemming from failed attempts to persuade people to discover faith in Jesus.

I had scarcely comprehended that God was better at persuading than I was. I could hardly help but wonder, Have I been approaching people with my personality or my brokenness? my victory or my need of God? as an intruder on the street or a friend? How genuine was I?

So it was that when this woman presented herself as a badly failed Christian, I soon realized she wasn’t the only one, then or now.

That classroom encounter triggered an avalanche of changes in me. I began to get real with my own denial systems and the way I was able to downplay my many failures or even disregard them in my effort to serve God. I was beginning to understand that while I couldn’t fix my shortcomings by my own efforts, in God’s economy my defects and failures actually helped remove the focus from myself and put it on the cross and the power of Jesus Christ:

“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me…For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12: 9–10).

Keeping the focus off of me and on God’s kingdom was the challenge of a lifetime, and loving others instead of me was no less difficult. I remember the same lesson echoing from a shiny brass plate on the top of the pulpit in my old seminary chapel. Glaring in the face of every speaker was this phrase from John 12:21: “Sir…we would like to see Jesus.”  The world certainly did not need to see me.

Change

Days later, the shock waves of that abnormal psychology class still had my brain in a blender; and even though I was trying to sort things out, God was by no means done with me! In fact, my life was soon to, figuratively, turn upside down.

The drunk had noticed I was a part of the campus Christian community, and within a few days she called me and asked, “Hey, would you like to go with me somewhere? I want to show you something.” Later, after my cautious, “Sure,” she arrived in her bright yellow 1965 Chevy Impala, and off we went across the countryside to the biggest, most notorious hippie commune in northern California—Morningstar Ranch.

However, her destination was still unknown to me when she suddenly pulled off the road into a small country store. I followed her in, and watched as the drunk proceeded to load her arms with cigarette cartons and large cans of coffee and carry them over to the counter.

Now the ministers I had known would no more smoke a cigarette than the man in the moon, much less buy them or offer them to anyone else. I was stunned. Those cartons of cigarettes, as the hippies would say, blew my mind. But here was a Christian drunk with a treasure trove of cigarettes, and there I was trying to figure out what was about to happen.

We departed the store and arrived at a primitive campground in the hills. The chaotic scene before us was clearly put together without a game plan. There were ramshackle dwellings, Volkswagen vans filled with belongings, old buses painted with psychedelic impressions, and people stoned out of their minds on LSD walking aimlessly with blank stares. There were drums, campfires, odors of marijuana and patchouli oil, and of course, lots of beads. In no time at all I learned that if you left the trail you had better watch where you stepped. Occasionally some of the more in-your-face types would step up unclothed to see if we Christians were “uptight,” if we would “trip,” or even if we would lose our “cool.”

Clusters of hippies greeted this street-minister drunk upon our arrival. It was clear that she had been there before, for she was very well received with peace signs and the predictable “Groovy;” “I can dig it, man;” and “What’s trippin’?” They gathered around her as she passed out the newly purchased cigarettes: “Lay ‘em on me.” Far out! Everyone, straight or loaded, knew the drunk loved them just the way they were.

As the residents smoked the best cigarettes they’d had in weeks and fixed their nicotine deficit (while laying off the marijuana for a spell), they listened to the drunk talk about Jesus as life after life was forever changed. Those cigarettes bought more than a little trust, and when the air had cleared, it became obvious that the store-bought smokes would be the last some of those hippies would ever inhale. In fact, the entire commune would never be quite the same.

For the next year I drove back and forth to the commune. Every Sunday morning I would fill my station wagon with hippies who wanted to come to church.

I became involved in street evangelism like I had never seen it done before—without presentations or formulas, just love and, when it was desired, truth from the Scripture. In that same year, I saw many hard addiction cases walk away from profound drug and alcohol abuse and embrace a brand new life of faith—from the skinniest meth tweakers to the biggest, bad-to-the-bone bikers out of the most notorious gangs.

I never forgot the lesson of love expressed through those free smokes, and while I have never had enough freedom to do what my friend did with cigarettes, the lesson of meeting people where they were—caring about their needs and then offering them only what they were ready and willing to hear—was not destined to be lost on me. Neither were many other lessons, such as when my friend the drunk would take other drunks to a bar and buy them a drink to stabilize their detoxification just enough to get them to an AA meeting so they could get sober for good. Those were things I had never seen or learned growing up in church.

All these lessons went on the road with our street ministry. For the years to come our goal in doing street ministry was always to care about people first—for who they were and where they were at—and then we would wait. We waited to see what God would do. When we waited, street ministry always seemed to happen. When we didn’t wait, when we tried to produce results, all too often we left behind only the wake of our own personalities.

[Jesus]… said, “This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. All by itself the soil produces grain—first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head. As soon as the grain is ripe, he puts the sickle to it, because the harvest has come.” Mark 4:26-29

CHAPTER THREE

Greenie Days: The Miracle that was Not to Be

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.

Ecclesiastes 3:1 NIV

I’ve got Jesus, and that’s enough.

The Shepherd

Little could I imagine that within a few short years after meeting the drunk, a bunch of us Jesus People would crisscross the United States in buses just like Number One. Under the shadow of those pea-green ceilings, the Good Shepherd of Israel would lead us by quiet waters and through green pastures of ministry. On occasion he would lead us down through the valley of the shadow of death as well. We would see sickness and healing, guns and joy, black grime and beauty, fiery trials and wonderful peace. Through it all, the wise and gentle Shepherd would lead us on pathways where we would come to understand that we needed nothing else but him.

Buses, ministry, and startling miracles, all overshadowed by lessons in trust taught in a boot camp of faith, were to become woven together. A lifetime of lessons were awaiting, for God had a plan that would not only bring me fond memories of pea-green ceilings, but take all of us back to school on an old Green Bus.

Through circumstances we never intended, our ministry was in its early days to venture out as part of a dying breed—street ministry on the road. Only a handful of such ministries still exist, and fuel prices threaten to close the curtain on even those. Of course churches still use buses from the ordinary to the elegant for transportation, but taking to the nation’s highways for street ministry in antique vehicles, even when fuel was 39 cents a gallon —that’s another thing entirely. It always was just a little edgy. I am reminded of that fact whenever I see a modern tour bus broken down on the side of the road with passengers peering impatiently out the windows. How long will they be there before help arrives?

A pastor’s heart

Simply told, our Journey On The Hard Side Of Miracles started with a few kids, an old bus, and the Wind of God. At least, that is, if you tell the story from the time we all got together.

I was still in seminary at Berkeley when I was captured by a tiny church youth group in Santa Cruz, California. Becoming a youth minister was never part of my plans for the simple reason that I had no plans.

I had somehow learned to just wait and see what God was going to do next, and next was the humble beginning of what would one day develop into a ministry that neither I nor the other passengers on “the bus” could have ever foreseen.

For those who rode our youth ministry’s first bus, the name Greenie evokes an immediate and indelible memory. It wasn't just the excitement of a first vehicle. Greenie became synonymous with a collage of memories saturated in images of changed lives, faith, and wonder.

Long before I became a teenager, God called a certain young man out of a chaotic and self-destructive lifestyle. Eventually that man became a youth minister at my childhood church in the San Francisco Bay area. One day he took our youth group on a snow trip to the mountains, with me riding in the back of his 1956 Chevy truck under a wooden camper shell. I tallied many long and uncomfortable hours sitting on a rolled-up sleeping bag with my back against the side of the steel truck bed. Fortunately I had a carefully rationed stash of Lik-M-Aids, a powdered candy quite popular at the time. It tasted far better than the scalded hot chocolate I tried to drink later on that night.

About a dozen years later that same youth minister became a pastor in Santa Cruz – and yes, he still loved young people. Just about the same time, my own family moved there, and we all ended up at the same church. It was one of those surprise crossing of paths God sometimes ordains.

My pastor was serious about serving God, and I still remember him saying that he would be happy to serve God “even if I have to sell hotdogs at a ballpark.” That kind of commitment works for me, I thought. He would often tell me, “I’m not jealous of my pulpit.” That was his way of letting me know that he would make room for me or anyone else who wanted to work in his church or even preach in his pulpit.

I had finished my undergraduate work at Sonoma State University and was in my first year of seminary at Berkeley—all the while actively involved with street ministry—and it didn’t take long for this pastor to come up with the suggestion that I should sign on as the church youth minister. The idea caught me off guard, and although I immediately knew it was something I needed to do, I wasn’t quite ready to close the deal.

Despite my interest, I was still a little worried about what I might be up against. The church was newly located on a street that was hard to find, and the once-large congregation was slowly decreasing in size. Those who remained were mostly elderly, and they filled only a few pews in the upscale new sanctuary they were just finishing. My pastor warned the congregation that this new building could kill the church. He was dead serious about the danger of church members getting caught up in physical possessions, even if the possession was a church sanctuary.

I knew that any youth ministry would almost have to start from scratch. Only four or five young people showed up for any event, even on a good day, and they were hardly interested in church. Not wanting to face a high probability of failure, I argued that it would be better if I served as a volunteer. However, in spite of all my reasoning the pastor insisted, and so I came on board. I even got a modest paycheck, when the truth was, I would have been happy to pay the church for the privilege of working there.

New beginnings

Right away things began to happen that I have never been able to explain. No, I don’t mean miracles here; the obvious ones had not yet started. It is just that I have never figured out why God chose to make that humble little effort in ministry, hidden away on a back street, ever set sail at all. I have been a minister long enough to know it didn’t have to turn out the way it did.

Within weeks we found ourselves in a whole new ball game. A number of new young people had begun to come around—some to look for girls, others to cause a ruckus—and soon most of them became Christians. Best of all, the new believers shared a desire to help people on the street, especially addicts. This newfound faith of theirs was explosive because they truly cared about people, and they wanted to give back the love that God had first given them.

There were of course some memorable “wild cards” as one young person passed the word to another to check out the new youth group. Dale, one of them, remembers those days:

My friend Pete called me up one night and said, “Do you want to do something crazy?”

“Sure,” I responded.

“Let’s go to church,” Pete told me.

“That is crazy!”

“Hey, there are some good-looking girls there. Let’s go make fun of them,” argued Pete, and so I ended up actually going to church.

I was never prepared for what I encountered there. One young guy walked up to me and told me something of a personal nature that had to have been a supernatural revelation. I was pretty cynical and would never have returned, but that one statement rocked me to my core, and I knew I had to come back to find out what was going on. How could he have known anything about me?

Most of the new young people themselves were from broken and dysfunctional families outside the church. Some of those parents were glad to get their kids out of the house. Others were happy enough to see their kids come home with better attitudes, though they never could understand why those attitudes had suddenly changed. Some kids faced harassment by drunken parents just because they wanted to go to church, and almost every young person faced peer pressure at school because their values had changed. Their faith had to mature quickly.

Before long we began to receive invitations to do street-evangelism outreaches and help with youth programs in other communities. It was then that we started talking about getting a bus. It seemed like such a reasonable idea at the time, so we started looking around.

When we presented our well-intentioned plan to the church, the old-timers argued that by no means was buying a bus a good idea. Soon they began to issue vague warnings about the inevitable problems we would certainly encounter if we purchased a bus. I don’t think they realized that we were only trying to answer a call to do ministry. We really did need a bus, but to be fair, we didn’t worry much about all the possible downsides of owning one. We were to find out all about downsides—and soon enough.

The catastrophe

Greenie wasn't always green. At first it was a faded yellow with black trim, and it was more than a little rusty. The smell of old trash still lingered inside the worn-out, forty-two-seat coach. Built first as a 1950 International, it was fitted with a Gillig school-bus body. The once-proud machine, still marked on each corner with a faded “Two” was now in storage at an elementary school gathering dust—with a “for sale” sign in its window. It had what is referred to in car sales as “lot rot.” Old Number Two was cheap, and with good reason.

It was powered, if I may use that expression, with a lethargic six-cylinder engine that was basically designed for driving down city streets. It was not exactly a bus for road touring, but it was what we could afford. After finally getting the machine started, we brought it home only days before we were to embark on our first major street outreach, this time for a large church in northern California.

We finished the insurance and other paperwork for the International only hours before our departure time, and we were barely able to do even basic preparations before the bus was loaded to the windows with luggage and young people. We were finally off to do ministry!

Our bus departed Santa Cruz on a Friday afternoon, early in the summer of 1969. We were soon climbing a steep grade leading up to a nearly 2,000 foot pass called The Summit on one of the most dangerous highways in the state—“Bloody 17.” With its narrow shoulders, no center divider, heavy traffic, sharp turns, and blind curves, Highway 17 presented an interesting challenge for our ancient, recently resurrected bus.

Filled with anticipation at our first ministry outing on that old gospel bus, we had no reason to suspect that on our very first ride, God would begin to both humble us and toughen us up in preparation for what would become a steady regimen of fiery trials on the hard side of miracles.

There were indications early on as we plodded up that first steep grade (only one of many to come) that we were driving a bus with what mechanics call a “sick” engine. However, with patience and low gears we managed to creep painstakingly over the summit amidst the threatening smell of hot oil.

As I drove, my appreciation of the praise that filled the bus was tempered with the stress of monitoring the gauges, as well as repeated jolts of unwanted adrenaline. I was beginning to wonder how sick the bus might actually be, and why the school had really put it up for sale. Was I slowly losing rpm’s, or was it my imagination? Far too deep into our outreach to turn back, I could feel the hot breath of buyer’s remorse already breathing down my neck.

For their part the young people sensed our situation was questionable, but they remained unbothered. The whole busload just kept singing songs of praise and faith. How they loved to sing! Years later they would still be singing, and even today I can hear those sweet, sweet songs of salvation.

We were now well past the summit and winding our way downhill through a series of challenging curves that had been given their own names, due in part to the terrible and frequent accidents that had occurred on each of them.

The first one, a long, steep, downhill run on a sweeping S- curve, was aptly named the Valley Surprise in honor of the unexpected end for those who failed to gauge their speed as they approached the Santa Clara Valley. Then came the infamous Big Moody Curve with its long 180-degree-plus bend that, back in the days before it had a center divide, caused many speeders to cross over into oncoming traffic.

We were almost through the Big Moody when, in a millisecond, a nasty but quick chain of events took place. First, deep inside the motor, an engine bearing failed and then locked up.

This in turn caused one of the connecting rods between the pistons and the crankshaft to be driven from its rhythmic up-and-down motion and to exit—right through the side of the engine block. As the engine disintegrated, hot oil sprayed everywhere through billowing clouds of smoke.

Thankfully, the bus coasted to the edge of the slow lane, but since it was not at all a safe spot, we rushed everyone off the bus and up the bank at the side of the highway. Tires squealed, trucks and cars squeezed around us, but we were grateful that there were no collisions.

While we waited beside the road for help to arrive, my sister Meggie, our song leader, already had her guitar out, and the highway resounded with song after song of praise and thanksgiving. I had become preoccupied with trying to resolve our predicament, yet these exuberant young believers continued to be just as preoccupied with honoring the Good Shepherd.

A sheriff radioed word back to a large church in the Santa Cruz area, asking them to send their big bus. It finally arrived, not to take us to our eagerly anticipated outreach, but to bring us all back home. When Meggie climbed on board she smiled and told the driver, “We’ll get there yet!” Ever eager to do ministry, she certainly was not convinced our journey was over. Nevertheless, our disabled bus was towed, and we humbly returned to our own church.

The mission trip was canceled. We had made it less than twenty miles. There had been no miracle of deliverance as far as we could see. There had been mercy, but no apparent miracle. We were going to have to wait a while before God would begin to give us a glimpse of his larger plan and show us where we were really going.

Finding God’s will

I can still remember that when the hood of the disabled bus was open you could lie down underneath, look up into the bottom of the shattered engine and out through its side and see blue sky. Clearly there was nothing left of the engine block to rebuild. We now owned an even bigger piece of junk than we had started with!

The experience we had just gone through left me with more than a few questions: What had just happened to our outreach? Why hadn’t God simply intervened to prevent that mechanical catastrophe? Was buying a bus a really bad idea after all? Why did the bus break down before we could do our outreach instead of after? Should I just be thankful it didn’t break down farther from home? Had I listened carefully enough before trying to do the trip? Had God not wanted us to go in the first place?

But in the end, God had a reason for the Big Moody disaster that hot afternoon. He had a better plan for old Number Two and for us, one that we were simply not ready for at the time.

One surprising fact sticks in my mind when I think about the breakdown and the expensive return home on a heavy-duty wrecker. In all the years that followed, crisscrossing the United States with five different buses, we were never towed again. Many times we had reason to think that we would have to be towed, and once we even tried; but it never happened. After all, why would you need a tow truck when you had a miracle?

Hope

The next day at church, our brave, soft-spoken pastor did what he could to help ease the wave of criticism that was sure to come.

“Now we could say, ‘I told you so.’ Or, we could try to help,” he told the congregation. He was obviously speaking to the old-timers in the church who were still talking about the bus they had owned many years before and how it had somehow failed them. I don't know what the story was, only that it wasn't very pleasant, so I had never felt it wise to ask for more details. Whatever had happened, their experience convinced them that having a bus was only an invitation to disaster.

After church, a dear Christian man by the name of Mr. Britton walked up to me and quietly asked, “Steve, what do you need?” referring of course to the now-powerless bus.

“We need a short block (the main part of the engine),” I replied.

“Then go get it.” Mr. Britton later wrote a check that covered the cost.

Thus, our work was cut out for us. I had a few tools I had scraped up from my father’s garage and placed in a small tool box. My mechanical skills were limited, but arriving with other youth-group members at the discouraged-looking bus, we all went to work. I pulled parts off and Shirley, full of her usual enthusiasm, had the job of numbering them so we could have a better chance of finding a way to put the bus back together.

Still more trouble

Presumption and faith do not mix well. Have you ever found yourself going through a trial or time of testing and then, beginning to relax, think things were going to get better—when they weren't?

Even with a rebuilt engine block waiting on a pallet, our first few days with the International seemed to be a continuation of the mechanical disaster we had faced at Big Moody. We were discovering that replacing the engine was going to be far from easy.

The engine had been designed with nonremovable rear mounts, which in turn sat on a nonremovable crossbar deep under the body of the bus. Even after we had taken out every mounting bolt, it would not budge more than an inch or two. Try as we might, we fledgling mechanics could make no progress in extricating the shattered engine. There just didn’t seem to be room enough between the body and the frame to squeeze it out. We might as well have been trying to remove a ship from a bottle. What were we doing wrong?

In desperation I finally called a major International truck repair shop and described my problem. I still remember the service manager’s blunt reply: “That engine doesn't come out.” He explained that the engine had been mounted on the bus chassis while on the assembly line, and then the body of the bus was set over the engine in such close proximity that there was no practical way of removing it. So we weren’t crazy after all!

Thankfully, the service manager was kind enough to reveal the solution to the dilemma. He said that unless we wanted to lift the entire bus body from its frame, we would have to remove some front floor sections from the inside and then bend or cut back the firewall between the engine and the cab, which would permanently distort it. Then we would need to use large pry bars and rock the engine back and forth to wedge it out by brute force. Finding out what the solution was made me feel somewhat better and a little worse at the same time; there was a way to get the ship out of the bottle after all, but there was clearly going to be some broken glass.

Returning to our task, we pulled up the floor panels and wreaked havoc on the firewall. With a little more clearance established around the back of the engine, we pried and rocked it back and forth as instructed, and finally it came free. But now the old International was more of a bent-up mess than ever!

Big Bad Green

Personally speaking, I learned a lot as we put the bus back together: I was becoming a mechanic out of necessity rather than intention. And while we were building the engine, we had time to improve the rest of the bus too. The young people put a lot of love into that old machine.

The outside edge of the roof was rusted through nearly all the way around, so we caulked it and covered it with a strip of aluminum to seal it and give it a semblance of dignity. We sanded the bus, masked it, and painted it American Motors Big Bad Green, a bright lime color, then offset the green with white trim and finished the paint job with a white racing stripe over the hood and front fenders.

In 1969 American Motors had wanted to make a statement with three bold colors: Big Bad Orange, Big Bad Blue, and Big Bad Green. Only 283 new cars were painted with that startling lime color—and now there was one bus. We were trying to make a bold statement too! We were well aware that we were driving an old school bus instead of a big fancy highway coach, but by faith we were going to hit the road and make an impact for the kingdom anyway.

Next, we removed all the seats and sanded and painted the interior 1967 Ford Dark Forest Green. We chose not to paint the pea-green ceiling. I really wanted to make that obnoxious color go away, but the amount of labor required was too much for us at the time. I would simply have to come to terms with it and, mercifully, God was going to help me do just that.

We finally finished putting the Big Bad Green Machine back together, stopping only long enough to watch the Eagle land on the moon in July of 1969. The moon landing was a “giant leap for mankind,” just as we were planning one small step for the kingdom of God. Never mind what had happened to us on Big Moody Curve!

Greenie was back—slow to be sure since you can get only so much performance from an old school 269 cubic-inch motor—but it was ready for the road. We could not have dreamed where that road would take us.

Then the master told his servant, “Go out to the roads and country lanes and make them come in, so that my house will be full.” Luke 14:23

The Wind from heaven

A year soon passed and the youth group was really beginning to grow. That January we headed off for our annual youth-group snow trip, this time to Sonora, California; or, as it would ever after be called, the Sonora trip. That was the first year we took Greenie to the mountains, and it was the second year that the drunk I had met in my college abnormal psychology class was our guest speaker.

Greenie ran superbly, and the only real problem we faced happened right after we installed snow chains on a slippery section of steep mountain road. We had no more than started back up when the chains on the right-rear wheels immediately slid inward and proceeded to tear off the brake line. We had to act quickly but no, we didn't lose control and launch ourselves over a cliff or go careening into oncoming traffic. Over the years, we drove some wrecks but we never had one. I am grateful God spared us that kind of trial.

A trip to a parts store in our overflow car provided the necessary replacement brake line, and we were able to make the repair with the very few tools I brought along. How naïve I was. You ought to see the tools I carry now!

While the rest of us sat on the roadside waiting for the parts, we watched a nearby highway patrol officer sitting in his black-and-white cruiser, writing a report on a car that had just slid into the ditch. Before long, another car, whose brakes were working, slid by us on the ice and rear-ended the patrol car. That collision, along with the unhappy look on the officer’s face as he sat there slowly shaking his head, made our problem look mild. We certainly preferred fixing a brake line to having our own vehicle attached to a police car.

Once in the mountains we headed off to hit the slopes. However, that winter it had scarcely snowed, so we couldn't put together a single decent inner-tube run. We then returned to the church that was serving as our base, where we spent most of our time with Bible studies, prayer, and worship. Soon no one cared if it wasn’t snowing. All of us somehow knew we were in a special time and place, and the issue of inner-tubing and sledding just faded into the background. We were aware that our lives were being changed and bound together in some inexplicable way, and by the time the trip was over, absolutely everyone inside that church had made a decision to serve God with their entire lives.

The majority of those who shared that Sonora experience are doing so to this day as missionaries, ministers, teachers, and Christian workers. That snow trip was a milestone, and from that point on the youth group and its outreach were to grow enormously. After Sonora it was as though everyone shared in a common calling. Nothing was more important than serving God.

“Wait a minute!” you may say. “What exactly happened at Sonora?”

I can only respond by asking, how do you explain the Wind of God? How do you explain what happens when God sovereignly gathers a random group of people and gives them a heart to serve? I have never witnessed anything quite like it before or since. I’d love to see it again, but I don’t assume I will. I do know with certainty that I didn’t make it happen.

How do you explain what happened to Pete, who had just joined the Coast Guard Reserve and had come on the trip just to hang out with friends before leaving for boot camp? That night he found himself running over patches of snow under the starry winter sky trying to express his overwhelming joy at encountering Jesus!

“Uh, oh,” he bemoaned the next day. “I’ve just been called to do ministry on the street, and here I am with a career in the Coast Guard!” So we all prayed for God’s will to be done, whatever that might be. The answer came quickly. As it happened, Pete never had to report for duty, for suddenly President Nixon eliminated the Coast Guard Reserve, and he was set free for a lifetime of Christian service.

How else could you explain what happened when Mary, a painfully shy young girl from a family of Greek immigrants, returned home from that snow trip an entirely different person, or when energetic Patty, once intent on smuggling marijuana onto Greenie, became a ministry leader?

How else do you explain the radical change in Jill, a gentle and shy young thirteen-year-old girl dropped off at different churches each Sunday for years, who met God for the first time in Sonora? She later recalled, “I felt like a new person, full of joy, and I had a feeling of being loved beyond anything I had ever experienced.”

Now a grown woman, she will tell you, “It is this love of God that has carried me through life, through cancer, through the difficult and blessed times.”

How else could you explain a group of teenagers who were so impacted by the power of God that they would rather pray by the hour or do ministry than anything else?

How else could you explain why, some forty years later, the same teenagers—the very characters you will read about in this book—were still pastoring churches, doing full-time missions from Alaska to Africa, and otherwise deeply involved in church leadership?

Looking back, we have only been able to conclude that we had found ourselves by a mighty river, and once we had waded in the water, our lives were never to be the same.

While tracing events in the early church, the book of Acts records the public’s perception that the world had turned “upside down.” Only the Spirit of God—the Wind of God—can produce such results and explain what happened at Sonora. “Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit, says the LORD Almighty” (Zechariah 4:6).

The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. John 3:8

CHAPTER FOUR

The Big Bad Green Chapel: The Fortress

The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Psalm 18:2

It can be difficult to follow the Shepherd; but it is dangerous to follow any other.

The wilderness

Living a life of faith is no easy matter. It was to the wilderness that God took the Israelites; and God said that it was in that same wilderness that he would test his children to the point that they would think they were going to die. Why would God do such a thing?

Consider the words of Moses:

Remember how the LORD your God led you all the way in the desert these forty years, to humble you and to test you in order to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commands. Deuteronomy 8:2

So it was that fresh from Egypt and the baptism of the Red Sea, the children of Israel were well on their way to the Promised Land when the Shepherd of Israel took them on a hard right turn. Going southward into the wilderness, they were to wander for decades in a desolate landscape so barren they would have no practical option but to trust God for their physical safety, for food and water—for everything.

Those ancient wanderers were to be forged into a servant people from whom would come a shepherd king, the Suffering Servant of all mankind, and then from him the suffering-servant church. Their wilderness journey on the hard side of miracles demonstrated for all time that though it was sometimes difficult to follow the Shepherd of Israel, his was the only path home.

Trouble on our doorstep

The Scripture’s lessons about the years spent in the wilderness offered our ministry some much-needed perspective when we found ourselves going through our own time of testing. It became clear that if we were going to become servants, if we were to share the gospel with broken people, we would need to be broken ourselves.

Early in our ministry together, we had been quite content enjoying all of the wonderful things God had been allowing us to do. We just kept loving people, singing, and doing ministry with no thought for tomorrow. Our innocent and youthful enthusiasm was reflected even on the posters which occasionally appeared on the outsides of our buses – Jesus Power or Jesus Loves You And So Do We.

In time however, we began to notice that the Shepherd of Israel was taking us on our own hard right turn. Ever so slowly we began to awaken to the fact that our circumstances were perilous, and in our naivete it took us a very long time before we started paying attention.

The newly arriving—and often quite colorful—young people who came to our home church were beginning to encounter an uncertain welcome. Many tradition-minded years-long members simply didn’t know what to make of all those street people who were starting to come around. There were girls with flowered hippie dresses, guys with long hair, old vehicles with psychedelic paint jobs, and plenty of bumper stickers you wouldn’t normally see around a church. Most of the street kids were far too poor to dress up for church. Some of them were able to adjust to the formality of Sunday worship, but for others, going straight from the street to worshipping in a very fancy building was a bit challenging.

While the greater church congregation was struggling to maintain attendance, the youth group continued to grow. Eventually, the sheer size of the youth group created an even more awkward situation.

“What were all those young people doing praying so late at the church?” people questioned. “That doesn’t look like a normal youth group. Where is all this going?” And then there was Greenie: “Why do all those young people want to travel on Greenie? What’s happening on that bus anyway?” We had only seen Greenie as a mission field, and it had never occurred to us that, to some, the color green would mean Stop.

The pea-green chapel

So, what was happening on the bus? It’s a tall order to capture the experience of traveling on Greenie, let alone explain it all to anybody who had never been on board. Inside it looked like any antique school bus—well-worn and starkly utilitarian. However, the young people knew it as something else. To them that gospel bus was a lot of things, but above all it was a rolling sanctuary—a church on wheels. Unbounded by the forest-green interior and that pea-green ceiling, mile after mile of praise lifted heavenward as if within a vast and vaulted cathedral.

The bus was its own mission outpost. When we hit the road we always took along some kids fresh off the street. They in turn would bring extra “baggage” in the form of drug problems, emotional struggles and, on occasion, some difficult behavioral issues. No matter who they were or what limits we had to set, everyone who stepped on board would experience acceptance and love. Spending days in that rolling chapel was a dangerous place to be if you did not want to end up with a transformed life. Surrounded by prayer, praise, and singing, newcomers would soon find themselves traveling with their own personal invitation from the Good Shepherd himself. And prayer didn’t stop just because we weren’t onboard Greenie. At church we would pray before meetings, even when we were only meeting to pray.

We met every Saturday night in the church conference room for Executive Board—our weekly prayer and planning session. But when it came to doing any kind of ministry, everyone preferred riding Greenie. Each Sunday evening we would go to Destination Unknown, or as we conveniently called it, “DU.” We would leave the church and often end up at someone’s home, where there would be a Bible study and worship lasting two or three hours before we returned back to the church. Of course we always worshipped on the way to DU, and we worshipped on the way back. Sometimes, back at the church, prayer would continue past midnight. The moving of the Spirit of God is that way—beyond our understanding, transcending our personal frailties and limitations. It is neither built up nor maintained; it is not the result of devotion or effort. It simply overflows from an eternal Fountain.

Whether traveling to an outreach for migrant workers’ children or to do street evangelism; to help a struggling church or to perform a concert; Greenie was a mobile version of just about anything you would find in a church. It was a rolling administration building, and even a planning workshop on wheels. When we went to do a concert, Greenie was a music practice room. When we traveled long distances, it was a dorm and a kitchen. No restaurants for us; just camp stoves and soup pots. We would buy loaves of bread, and sometimes we would have peanut butter and jelly, while at other times we would have jelly and peanut butter. And we would be very grateful.

Who could forget the Christmas season it wouldn’t stop raining. Determined to go caroling, we filled Greenie with straw so we could still go on a “hay ride.” What a mess! What could we possibly have been thinking?

Oh yes, there was the camping trip where for one memorable meal everyone was allotted two sandwiches: one peanut butter and jelly and one tuna fish. Jeff was supervising food preparation and he had hatched a “perfect “plan to make sure every young person got acquainted with someone new.

The sandwiches he handed out were more than a little unusual. Some had only jelly in them, and others only mayonnaise, peanut butter or tuna. Jeff’s plan? Everyone would have to take their sandwiches apart and then find a partner who had the missing sandwich halves they needed to create either an edible tuna with mayonnaise sandwich or one of traditional peanut butter and jelly.

To this day I think the scheme could have worked, but unfortunately some folks either didn’t listen to directions or didn’t mingle very well. Somehow all the sandwich halves never got matched up right and more than a few people ended up eating some unforgettably bad sandwiches.

We never tried that idea again.

Crater Lake

Before I tell you what happened next, I need to explain about Crater Lake. In all of our travels in the Northwest we had never been able to visit that national park, even though we often dreamed of going there. Our schedule was always too tight, or we were headed in the wrong direction. We would discover there were less obvious reasons as well.

We had traveled by bus through many of the scenic wonders of the West: Sequoia, Yosemite, Lassen, and Olympic National Parks. Those beautiful parks were places we could view and enjoy without hefty visitor fees. It is no surprise that over time, Crater Lake National Park made it to the top of our list of places we still wanted to see.

But our lives are built on what God wants, not on what we desire.

The big bad fortress

Crater Lake was on our minds the night Greenie became a fortress. I have never really considered this story to be one of the special miracles we saw on the road, but it was certainly a demonstration of God’s care and protection. We know God preserves our lives every minute of every day against disease, war, violence, and accident according to his purposes. He is in charge of our lives and our deaths. He remains our protector and keeper, despite our shallow understanding of how he constantly watches over us. Although I believe what happened that night on Greenie was just another time God preserved us, this particular time God permitted us to see the danger of this world up close and personal.

This incident occurred late in 1970, just as we were finishing up a concert trip to the Northwest, and of course we were having the usual mechanical difficulties. No matter how much we prepared, something always seemed to go wrong with one of our old vehicles. Greenie was behaving beautifully, but our 1948 Ford was not cooperating. This was particularly sad because everyone had been talking excitedly about the chance to finally visit Crater Lake on our way home. Now the whole idea had to be scrubbed because we simply couldn’t take the chance of getting off the beaten path with the Ford misbehaving.

We weren’t just having mechanical problems. The whole trip we had been struggling with the quality of our concerts. They just weren’t as ministry-oriented as we wanted them to be. In part that could have been because we had many new young people who were along more for the ride than serving God. But then again, that was nothing new. Why then were the church concerts so difficult? What was God saying to us? We had no desire to be in a spiritual slump, yet it was so clear we could do nothing to change the situation unless God helped us.

The Ford

The old Ford was our second bus. I don’t recall how we found that antique with the old-school-flathead V8 engine. It was a little smaller than Greenie, and I do remember that it was rather cheap. So we bought it, went to work on it, and we soon had it on the road. After we got Yellowbird (its radio name), I never could figure out if traveling with two buses instead of one decreased our chances of getting stranded or doubled them.

As we neared the summit of the Sierra Nevada Mountains heading east towards Reno, Nevada, we encountered our first warning of trouble to come. The closer we got to the top of a grade, the worse the Ford ran, and the problem increased ever so slowly with the passing miles.

The Ford had an old-fashioned “crash-box” transmission, which meant it took real skill to make a gear change. Shifting had to be done perfectly, or the tranny would emit a terrible grinding noise. That transmission, with its noisy square-cut gears, sounded like it would never make it across town, never mind complete an interstate journey.

We had just rebuilt the transmission in the middle of the church parking lot the week before because the bearings inside it had frozen and caused the bus to stall. Now, high in the mountains, the worsening loss of power made us think the bearing problem had somehow recurred. When we reached Reno, we completely disassembled the transmission at the side of the road, only to find it in working order. Clearly we had taken a “swing and a miss.” We re-installed it and arrived at our destination up north by ascending long grades with an extra measure of patience.

Returning from our concerts in Idaho, we found ourselves crossing the wilderness area of southern Oregon on US Highway 395. We were still more than a day’s journey from Santa Cruz, and now the elusive loss of power returned with a vengeance and began to stalk us mercilessly. It was beginning to look like we might be facing a difficulty that would accompany us all the way home—if indeed we could get there.

Given the trouble we were having with the Ford, we decided out of desperation to get off 395 and head straight for I–5 and the more populated region of western Oregon, where we would have more options of finding parts and alternate transportation. First we turned back north on Highway 31 in the hope of bettering our situation, but we had no idea how much our circumstances would only worsen, just around the bend.

What was going on with the engine, and what was God’s purpose in our struggle? We knew God could have kept the problem from occurring, yet he did not. We also knew he could have quickly shown us what to do to fix the problem—but he didn’t do that either. And what of the spiritual struggle we were having? What we did not know at the time was that he was directing us to an appointment that would not only clearly resolve that struggle, but change our ministry in ways we could never imagine.

With the Ford barely running, and having to stop every quarter-mile or so, we fought our way 500 feet up over Picture Rock Pass before descending, with gratitude, into a relatively flat section of road. The loss of power had now become so severe that we were reduced to a snail's pace, and it was becoming obvious that the Ford had no intention of going home. When you don’t have the luxury of rushing down to the auto parts store for a new part to see if it fixes your problem, you are obliged to do some tall guessing. Over and over again we stopped and tinkered with the carburetor and reviewed every possible cause we could think of. One of our talented young mechanics, Dale, all but memorized each plug, screw, connection, and adjustment on the Ford’s carburetor as he repeatedly took it apart and put it back together, trying to determine the problem.

We eventually narrowed the loss of power to either the carburetor or the fuel supply. Finally, at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, we tried a desperate solution. We hooked up a gas can under the hood and, using a spare electric fuel pump, sent gasoline directly to the carburetor. The power problem immediately disappeared.

It turned out that the electric fuel pump on the Ford had been slowly failing over time. We quickly removed it from where the previous owner had installed it in the engine compartment and reinstalled it back near the gas tank, because that kind of pump had been designed to push gas, not to pull it the length of the bus as it had been doing. After plaguing us for over 800 miles, the power problem had now vanished. The repair came just in time.

Dinner on the run

We had come to the conclusion our troubles were finally over. In fact, we were more than a little encouraged. Fuel was minutes away, and best of all, we were very close to Crater Lake! Let’s fuel up just ahead, and by tonight we’ll be camping at one of the most beautiful places in the world!

The sun was low in the sky as Greenie, the Ford, and our heavily loaded sound truck entered a tiny town and pulled into a gas station. The quiet, non-descript settlement was populated by no more than one or two hundred people, an unlikely setting for the creation of memories that still chill me. Wanting to double check our route, we asked the attendants about the quickest way to reach Crater Lake. But the “short cut” they suggested sounded suspiciously like it would lead us up a dead-end hunting road on a lonely mountain pass. We just smiled and nodded politely. What was going on?

Pulling a short distance up a side street, we stopped alongside an empty field. A convenient lonely street light would help us illuminate a camp stove while we heated some beef and vegetable soup. That soup was later to pose a serious problem, but for now it was time to relax and be thankful that we had finally moved beyond our trials in the wilderness—or so we thought.

Well over a hundred yards away, cowboys were gathering at the local watering hole. They were drinking heavily and watching us closely. As the minutes passed, we began to hear catcalls directed at our girls and loud derogatory comments about hippies.

It wasn’t long before several more trucks started arriving from nowhere. I'm sure the cowboys were bothered by visitors from California being on their turf, and someone must have put out the word that there were strangers in town.

Then they sent over a couple of young girls to check us out. We were friendly to them, but that didn't matter. The girls were clearly sent as scouts, and they were simply trying to see how many guys we had. To make matters worse, they started flirting with our guys, and that clearly agitated the cowboys. I quietly suggested to the cooks that they hurry dinner along.

We moved all our guys out in the open where it could be seen that we had plenty of force. As more cowboys gathered off in the distance, I made a foolish decision to demonstrate our ability to protect ourselves. A member of our karate club and I did a few moments of kumite, which is a form of practice sparring, just so the cowboys would know that we wouldn’t be pushovers if they came over to bother us. Such ill-thought strategies can backfire, and this one was a serious adrenaline-pumping mistake.

Without warning one of the trucks roared from its parking place in front of the bar, almost crashing into another cowboy’s truck. Racing away, it came down the road where we were gathered, narrowly missing two of our girls as they jumped out of its path. It was harrowingly close.

“Hurry up dinner!” I urged the cooks. “We may need to get out of here.” Patty, busy at the tiny camp stove, was quite unaware of any danger. Looking down at the stove’s tiny flame, she became a little frustrated with my repeated requests to speed things up. What am I supposed to do? she thought as she continued to stir patiently. I can’t possibly make the soup hurry.

Uncomfortable minutes passed when suddenly the truck that had almost hit the girls came flying back down the road and pulled into the group of cowboys. The driver jumped out and began handing out pistols and rifles.

In that moment we decided that since discretion is supposed to be the better part of valor, it would also be the better part of wisdom to head toward a populated area. There probably wasn’t a sheriff within fifty miles, and in any case the only payphone was surrounded by guns.

We quickly began loading everything on the buses: stove, hot soup, utensils, and any loose items. In those few moments we devised a plan. Most of the guys would go on the Ford in back of the convoy, and we would put all of the girls on Greenie with a few guys to defend them. And if something went wrong with the Ford again, perhaps Greenie, running lead, could get the girls to safety and find help.

Not every young person knew why they were being hurried aboard, and we certainly didn’t have time to explain. Any questions or protests about the sudden departure without taking time for dinner were met by the leaders with a quiet but terse, “Get on the buses—now!” Anything and everything was piled in the buses within a few moments. John and Louie, with their usual instinct to help out, gingerly hurried the pot of hot soup on board Greenie, and we started down the road with the discomforting knowledge that civilization was hours away.

One lone girl ended up riding with the guys. Our very independent and often feisty Johanna had jumped back on the Ford to grab something she had left behind, and the bus was rolling before she could jump off to run to Greenie.

As we headed west out of town, we shut down the clearance lights to help conceal our location. At first I was riding the Ford, making sure everyone had a game plan. Then we radioed Frank, who was behind the wheel of Greenie, to slow down. While the buses reduced their speed to a crawl, I hopped off and sprinted up to Frank’s bus to get its passengers prepared as well. Greenie never stopped.

Frank, who found his easy-going nature being pushed to the limit, put the throttle on the floor, accelerating the engine as fast as he possibly dared without inviting a disastrous mechanical failure. Heading downhill, it was tempting to gain higher speed, but that could also threaten the engine. Frank and I debated just how fast we could go without destroying it. Would God protect the engine if we pushed it too hard? What should we do? Thankfully, the recently re-installed fuel pump on the little Ford bus was clearly doing everything it was supposed to, and it easily kept pace with Greenie.

We had gone just a few miles out of town, still hoping the gathering storm would simply fade away, when sure enough we caught the glimmer of a stream of headlights approaching rapidly through the curves behind us, like a menacing serpent in the encroaching dusk. We kept the inside of the bus blacked out. Everything was quiet and tense, and though the pea-green ceiling seemed darker than usual, at least we knew the Shepherd was still with us.

All the way in the back of the bus, hanging about ten feet behind the rear axle, the rear seat was the bounciest place you could ride—and there sat Miriam and Mary holding the big pot of soup between them. The hot liquid was now splashing all over and creating a dangerous situation for anyone in the back. Just to ease the problem, Miriam busied herself passing out cups of soup, but nobody had an appetite. People were more interested in staying low and presenting the smallest target possible. We knew trouble was coming our way, but given the options open to us, we could do nothing but keep rolling and praying.

Meanwhile, I moved around Greenie to find heavy tools from the tool boxes to pass out to the guys. I was also on the radio, telling the riders on the Ford to arm themselves as well. Next I helped position the guys on the bus at the emergency exit and the front door. Should I use a tool or fight with my hands? I questioned myself.

Over the radio it was hard to know how well-prepared the Ford actually was, and I wondered if the guys were taking this threat seriously. But inside the Ford the guys were indeed getting ready, arming themselves with all of the steel tools they could find. We knew we had to at least mount the best defense we could. Aside from all of our preparation, it was quiet—and there was a lot of prayer.

Deep inside I knew many of our guys were thinking it would be fun to take on the cowboys. The reality was we had no guns on the buses, so a hand-to-hand standoff would have been a foolish strategy; and besides, we were supposed to be out on the road doing ministry, not serving our egos.

The first pursuers to close in on our caravan were loaded into their fastest vehicle, a dark Plymouth Road Runner—a high-performance car built in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. Catching up with us, it immediately began to menace our sound truck, which was running some distance behind the buses.

Pulling up alongside the truck, a rifle came out the window aimed right in Pete’s face. “Get down!” he yelled to the girls riding with him as they dove for the floorboards.

“They’ve got a gun on me!” hollered Pete over the sound truck radio, quickly ducking his head away from the window. Pete’s usual quiet personality was nowhere to be found. His passengers stayed hunkered down as Pete pushed the pedal to the metal in an all-out road race to pull ahead and put some distance between them and the menacing Plymouth. The Road Runner and the sound truck had the same brand of engine, but our truck had the high-performance version and was indeed able to stay ahead and reach the safety of the buses first.

Jeff, an extremely talented young man who rarely had much to say, was driving the Ford bus. When he saw Pete racing up behind him he began shouting into the radio, “Get between us!” Some of the riders on Greenie had been watching the road race out its back window and praying fervently for that very thing to happen.

“I’m in,” called Pete as the two buses immediately closed rank in front and back of the sound truck.

“Stay close!” I hollered.

“They’re trying to cut us off,” Pete returned.

Even peering through the high rear window of Greenie, it was hard to keep track of what was happening behind us, and I couldn’t get a response from Jeff. He was totally focused on keeping the Ford right on the tailgate of the sound truck while, at the same time, holding back the vehicles trying to force him off the road. Focused on his high-pressure task, someone else had to worry about the radio.

“Don’t let ‘em in!” I hollered again from Greenie. “Stay tight. Get on our bumper!”

A moment later I again yelled into the microphone, to make sure they heard me: “Are you copying?”

“We’re not letting them in!” came the gentle but determined voice of Johanna, now committed to the guys on Yellowbird.

“What are they doing now? What’s happening?”

“They’re still trying to cut us off!”

David, our young drummer, peered out his window as a black pickup filled with cowboys, bristling with guns at the ready, tried to take on Greenie next, attempting to force it to the side of the road. Meanwhile, hunkering over the steering wheel, Frank moved toward the center line to get them to back off.  He was not going to yield a square inch of real estate if he could help it. Greenie, with its bulk, ended up owning the center line, making it harder for the cowboys to follow us into the blind curves. Then they switched tactics and worked at cutting off the Ford.

Jeff continued to tightly grip the wheel of the Ford while a pickup now tried to crowd him to the side of the road.

“Try to hit me!” he challenged the driver through clenched teeth.

As we sped down the highway, the pursuers continued their attempts to cut off our buses, get between our vehicles, or push us to the side of the road. This unrelenting dueling and stalking went on for the better part of an hour as we crawled up hills, rode wide on the curves, and gained speed on downgrades. We kept our vehicles jammed together like a rolling steel fortress, and as it turned out, there was no cowboy willing to pull directly in front of our giant sixteen-wheel, twenty-ton juggernaut, with Greenie in the lead.

Frank and I pondered what move to make if they sped ahead of us and tried to block the road before we got there. Should we plow through them? For some strange reason we worried for a moment that such a crash could destroy Greenie’s rebuilt engine even if our high speed didn’t! We decided that Greenie would be able to bust through, but beyond damaging the bus would that make the crisis even worse? No matter what, I knew Frank was not going to stop.

But my worst concerns never came to fruition. Finally, after many nail-biting miles—still unable to cut us off—the cowboys gave up and the serpent departed, leaving a faint trail of red tail lights as it slithered back into the dark wilderness. We didn’t even think of stopping until it was late at night and we were near a major city.

Our dreams of seeing Crater Lake that year were gone, but the disappointment was certainly worth it. Three or more bus riders came to know the Good Shepherd personally that night, and their lives were forever changed. There was no spiritual slump to be found on the rest of the ride home.

Arriving the next evening in the town of Lakeport, California we had a wonderful concert at the church there, and then the pastor, who was a prison chaplain, invited us to go sing at Konocti, a state prison camp. That new experience awakened us to an area of ministry we had not yet investigated. Little did we know our next trip to Konocti would also follow difficult circumstances, and even involve Crater Lake. But that story will come later.

The serpent’s bite

Exhausted from the ordeal of the journey, we were grateful to finally be out of harm’s way; and while it appeared we had escaped the serpent unharmed, that was not to be the case. As usual God had a greater plan, and we were to discover later on that our encounter with the serpent had a purpose we were not at all ready to understand at the time it happened.

The drama-on-the-highway incident in Oregon did not sell well to our opponents back home in the church, and it provided them with a wonderful excuse for fresh criticism. The way they saw it, we should never have been out there on the highways in the first place. That was to say nothing of the discomfort felt by many parents at the tales their kids brought home. So it was that our encounter with the serpent contributed heavily to both the end and the beginning of our street ministry as we knew it at that church. But the rest of that story must also be told later.

I have often thought about what might have happened if God had not given us the repair solution to the fuel problem exactly when he did. We most certainly would have been once more disassembling the carburetor during that never-to-be-eaten dinner. We wouldn’t have been able to get away from that place. Then again, couldn’t God have kept the incident from happening at all?

Our encounter with the serpent made us extra cautious about how we appeared to the locals whenever we arrived in a town. Not everybody plays nice.

We were also reminded that it is always wisdom to travel with the Shepherd, for in the end our crude weapons and strategies weren’t what got us safely home. Jesus alone was our fortress against an enemy far more dangerous than the drunken cowboys and their guns. He alone would have to protect our ministry against an enemy that would continually try to destroy whatever we might attempt to do to serve God’s kingdom.

While we did not always understand why God took us to the hard side of the road, we eventually learned even simple events like mechanical difficulties or our encounter with the serpent in the wilderness all had a purpose—even the fact that we couldn’t go to Crater Lake.

He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us.

2 Corinthians 1:10

CHAPTER FIVE

Greenie Gets Sick for the Last Time:

The Pit Stop

The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.

Deuteronomy 31:8

Not until we are across the Jordan River should we even think about rest from trials. Not until our feet grip the soil of the Promised Land should we concern ourselves with anything but our need to follow the Shepherd.

The Shepherd leads us where he will. Along the paths he chooses, there are places so difficult to walk that trusting him leans more towards necessity than choice. When Greenie got sick, really sick, it was just such a time, and not until years later did we begin to have any clear idea of why that predicament had ever been allowed to happen.

For some reason I have never thought of Greenie’s critical illness as one of the special miracles that defined our ministry, but then maybe I missed something. It certainly shaped our destiny, but was it a miracle?

Greenie falls ill

It's not what you think. When Greenie got “sick” for the last time, it was by no means the end of the road. It's just that Greenie never really got sick again—no major problems of any kind—like it did that day in Oregon on its very first out-of-state trip. Of all our buses, Greenie was the most reliable, except for that single desperate time when God directed one world-class pit stop.

We had planned a week-long outreach in Seattle to help a local church with music and neighborhood evangelism. Everything had been carefully planned out because we wanted to avoid any kind of a breakdown or other mishap. As far as Greenie’s critics at our home church were concerned, the old bus was still not proven, and after the incident on Big Moody Curve we were made acutely aware of the havoc that would be caused by any mechanical breakdown so far from home. We made sure to build a little flexibility into our schedule just in case there were any problems, and we made plans to arrive back in Santa Cruz on a Saturday morning, with plenty of time to prepare for church services on Sunday. We would be expected to report on our trip to the congregation.

Before leaving home, the young people had taped a big, colorful sign to the side of the bus announcing “Santa Cruz to Seattle,” but everyone knew there were no guarantees we would make it. Still, we really needed to get at least one successful extended trip under our belt to demonstrate that our outreaches were serious and viable. But would God make this first long trip work out? Would he bring us through? We only knew it would have to be a journey by faith.

The drive north was delightful. Although it rained every day, the week in Seattle turned out wonderfully, with great music and ministry and more than a little fellowship (especially when the host church surprised us with a trip to a famous ice cream parlor). Finally it was time to turn south and head home.

Trouble brewing

By now the wonderful pastor who had hired me and had welcomed the many young people to our church had moved on to another pastorate. Before leaving he had been facing serious opposition from a few influential church members whose lifestyles, he noted, were outside accepted norms commonly associated with Christian living. People do go to church for many different reasons. As my former pastor told me, those were dark days for him, and it pains me to know that we were an additional problem. A few people complained to him, "Pastor, these kids can’t pay the bills to keep the church going."

He responded, “What in the world are we here for?” reminding them that the real purpose of the church was to share the gospel.

We rightly assumed that without the pastor who had helped and protected us, our growing youth ministry was on thin ice, and we were constantly challenged by opponents in our church who were certain we would never succeed with our outreaches. In any case, some folks simply didn’t like the kind of street ministry we were doing and liked the enthusiasm of the young people even less.

They had envisioned a small youth-group meeting once a week for quiet activities and perhaps a Bible study. What they got was anything but tame and routine. The youth group was now growing larger than the church, and there was hardly an evening the church premises weren’t a beehive of activity. By now our detractors were just waiting for us to make the right mistake so they could justify clipping our wings.

Of course there were still many supportive people in our church, including my parents, who tried to protect the growing youth ministry against its adversaries. Then there was dear old Mrs. Bailey, who was constantly praying for us. Although in her late eighties, she would invite kids into her nearby home or occasionally climb on the bus and travel to outreaches herself. But even with her kind attempts to demonstrate to other church members how easily they could get involved with the young people, there always seemed to be an uneasy calm between the two camps. There just weren’t enough people like her.

In my youthful ignorance and enthusiasm, I failed to understand that as the Spirit of God began to blow strong among the young people, opposition and trials would be certain to follow.

Despite the warning signs of adversity, I had confidence in our brand new engine to get us to Seattle and back again. Obviously that is the wrong place to put your confidence, for I was soon to be reminded that it was not only the Shepherd who always brought us home, it was the same Shepherd who would sometimes lead us by waters that were very deep.

Homeward bound

After a busy week, the Seattle part of our outreach was over. It was a Friday afternoon in August of 1970, and we had already passed through Eugene, Oregon, headed home on Interstate 5.

The pea-green ceiling was once again home to its usual fellowship, thanksgiving, and praise. Mile after mile continued to roll easily by. The fact that we were making good time was very encouraging, and it appeared that we were finally going to complete our first mechanically successful long trip. I was resting in back and thinking, Is this trip actually going to work out smoothly? Are we really going to make it?

Greenie was humming along at a very aggressive sixty-five-plus miles an hour. Although the driver at the time had some mechanical knowledge, he wanted to get back home to California, and he was pushing the engine way too hard. You might have to be a mechanic to understand that an old school bus that was geared low and powered by an old-style low-rpm truck engine was never built to sustain excessive highway speed, even if the engine was brand new. (The engine “redlined” at a lethargic 3,500 rpm—the highest safe rpm.) The fast pace it was now rotating at was setting the stage for the same kind of mechanical disaster that had destroyed Greenie’s engine on our very first ride.

Sure enough, a worried frown suddenly appeared on the driver’s face as he squinted repeatedly at the instrument panel. He called me forward and alerted me to the fact that we were losing oil pressure, and then he had me listen to an ominous rattle developing in the engine whenever he eased off the throttle. An all-too-familiar sick feeling awakened inside. It was obvious to me that our new engine was losing a crankshaft bearing and that we were clearly on borrowed time. We eased our way onto the next exit ramp and pulled into the outer parking lot of an isolated filling station on a hillside, right in the middle of nowhere.

Now what

At least we’re at a service station, we thought. But when we went inside to inquire about tools, the attendant pointed apologetically at a screwdriver and a pair of pliers and told us that they were all he had.

It was time to regroup. Being stuck at the side of the road was always a problem, but this predicament didn’t seem to have any exit doors. Clearly God was blessing us with a trial, and we needed to trust him—but how would he get us out of this mess? We were hundreds of miles from home, we had a lot of passengers who needed to return to Santa Cruz on time, and we had to make some very quick decisions. No matter what we decided to do, I cringed at the thought of phone calls to the parents of our younger kids, letting them know of our uncertain delay.

I wasn’t ready to tell anyone back home about the long-shot solution we were already beginning to discuss—fixing the bus right where we were. We were taking a hard look at doing just that; but what if we couldn’t get it repaired in a reasonable amount of time and we simply made a bad situation worse? What about the kids that had to be back by Sunday?

The memory of the first time the engine blew up was still fresh in the minds of those at the church—the very ones who opposed any travel ministry at all. No matter what happened, no matter if this mechanical mess somehow turned out well, we were going to pay a steep political price. Any failure to return on time, and we were looking at a perfect “I told you so” argument for stopping the ministry outreaches altogether. Should we, somehow, commit to getting back on our own without asking anyone from the church to drive north to rescue us? But even if we came up with a creative plan, how in the world could we make it fail-safe?

Several possible solutions were already rehearsing themselves in the back of my mind, but none of them were very encouraging. The only thing I was certain of was that if we gave up and a rescue party was sent out from the church—in fact if Greenie didn’t make it home on time for any reason—we were on our last trip. Our days of outreach ministry would certainly be over.

Despite our dire circumstances, we all believed there was a purpose, even in this mountain God had just given us to climb. It was time to turn to him, and we struggled to do just that. Had God not intervened, we certainly would never have survived as a ministry, and we would never have gone on to see the miracles on the road that would teach us to trust him, no matter what.

There are times to surrender to the circumstances God places us in and let whatever happens happen. There are also times to turn to him for the strength to do what needs to be done. The decision we faced was spelled out for us: throw in the towel or get busy in a hurry. Either way we would have to listen to the Shepherd and be careful to trust him.

Back to fixing the bus—could it actually be done? We would really need to hustle. The floorboards would have to be lifted, the firewall bent back again, the engine had to be pried out and then disassembled again. Machine work would have to be done and parts ordered and shipped, all on a weekend when these services were essentially unavailable. After overcoming those mighty obstacles, the engine would have to be reassembled and then reinstalled, without any of the glitches that normally accompany an engine rebuild. Finally, we would face the long trip home, and we would still be expected to show up on time to give a report to the church congregation.

I would have had some cautious optimism about compressing a several-day project into two long days of labor if we were parked at a shop in a major city, where services and supplies were immediately available. But to do a rebuild out on an empty lot in essentially one day while working from a small hand-carried toolbox? That would be impossible.

However, the persistent and overwhelming awareness of our powerlessness, of our deep and total need for God’s help, was becoming a familiar part of our experience of faith and would remain so through the years to come. Despite our circumstances, faith came knocking. God gave us the green light, and the clock began to run.

The Pit Stop

We jumped into Pete’s VW van, which was accompanying Greenie, and sped back to the last town we had passed on the interstate to get what we needed. Since the engine had to come out, our guys found an engine lift to rent and began pulling it out of the bus. Meanwhile, I hunted around for a place that would do the machine work on the damaged parts. But God had not derailed us in a major city with all of its repair resources. That alone would never have solved our problem. It might even have lessened our faith. Instead, God had let us break down where “the next small town down the highway” had one very special little auto parts store with a machine shop such as I will probably never see again.

The machine shop we “just happened into” was very small and, to all outward appearances, quite non-descript; but the machinist who owned it was a complete surprise. This elderly man was dying of cancer and was spending his final days and his last bit of strength closing up his business.

A soft-spoken Catholic, he quickly opened his heart to all of us traveling Jesus People. He shared with us that he was getting ready to meet God, and he let us know he was convinced that it was God’s purpose that he should be there to help us. That was when we saw our predicament begin to change, and it started to make sense why we had broken down in such a remote place.

The old gentleman was determined to get us back on the road. He didn’t care that parts weren’t available at that time of the day—he made his suppliers perform. His other customers could wait. He reviewed every option at his disposal and somehow got the bearings and gaskets we needed delivered in record time. The necessary machine work he did himself after hours, and this old, dying machinist had the reground crankshaft and reconditioned rods out the door with astonishing speed.

Like a baton in a relay race, boxes of parts were soon headed south to the highway exit where we were stranded. In the meantime, a local rancher opened up his home to the young people to provide them a place to relax, and then opened his own well equipped shop and equipment to help speed the rebuild. We worked non-stop. In spite of our exhaustion and the precious time it took to pry and wedge the engine back into place, the re-installation was relatively quick. Even as the last bolts were being tightened, people and equipment were loaded and ready to go. Holding our breath, we turned the key and the engine coughed to life. The oil pressure gauge instantly swung well to the right and now became to us an instrument of fascinating beauty.

We had just one more obstacle to overcome. Dale, one of our hard-working mechanics, had been working in cutoffs without a shirt on and was still covered head to toe in grease. As desperate as we were to get rolling he was just too much of a mess to climb on board. We had to take a little more time to wipe him down with gas-soaked rags so he could get on board the bus.

Still waiting to breathe, we hit the highway entrance and rolled south, taking more precious but necessary time to run easy for a hundred miles in order to allow the new bearings to break in. Greenie’s “new” brand-new engine was back, and it purred through the night.

Sunday morning we made it home, tired beyond words. I had so wanted to pull into the church parking lot in time to make a dignified and casual arrival before church started, shrug off our ordeal and talk about our trip in positive terms. But God did not make it so easy. We were a little late—just late enough for our arrival to be awkward. Thankfully, at least we were home, and our opponents at the church would not be able to shut the ministry down with the argument that we could not complete a long trip north. The worst they could argue was that we had arrived a little late for church, and then continue to point out what could have gone wrong.

The handprints

I doubt our adversaries ever knew how much of a jam we had been in. How could I have explained it to them anyway? I tried to play it cool at church, but my parents laughed when they saw Greenie sitting in the church parking lot after services that Sunday morning. Something wasn’t right. All over the front of the bus was an array of greasy black handprints highlighted against the Big Bad Green paint.

Now my father was a very wise and sensitive man, but to my dismay he drew the attention of all the church folks to those handprints that chronicled our ordeal. Every time someone had reached out to pull themself from under the bus or braced as they leaned down under the hood, they had left their identification behind. It was clear we had been all over that bus.

Of course my Dad knew that every handprint was proof to our critics that we could take care of ourselves. We could get back home without them ever needing to worry. But my father was not only a skilled mechanic, he was also a man of faith. He and our other faithful supporters knew those very same handprints were greasy proof we hadn’t made it back by ourselves at all.

We were to travel for many more miles in that green machine, but never again was it covered with greasy handprints. Greenie had been sick for the last time. To this day I am so grateful for what the man with terminal cancer did for us. Greenie was never allowed to go over sixty again, and except for minor problems that bus was faithful through many years of service. In fact, it was only when we needed to travel in a faster bus that we reluctantly sold it to another church.

After our arrival home, I again pondered the hand of God. Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to have just prevented the breakdown in the first place? Why did he allow us to experience engine problems in the way he did? Shouldn’t I have been grateful we had accomplished the outreach and were on our way home when it happened instead of outbound, the way we were on our very first trip? How interesting that within a period of only months God had already allowed us to lose an engine, given us a brand-new engine, then taken it away before providing another one again! Apparently I was simply not in control of this ministry.

So it is I have often relearned that every strategy I managed to put together could be undone, especially when God wanted me to learn to trust in him. As a result of our breakdowns on the road, I was to face a recurring quandary with which I would struggle for years to come: where does preparation stop and presumption begin? The more we traveled, the more we prepared by taking tow bars, portable repair equipment, and spare parts. Who doesn’t travel with a spare tire? But should you also take a flashlight, a pair of pliers, a credit card, and a cell phone?

I really believe I was supposed to carefully prepare for our long trips, and God put that preparation to good use many times as we crossed America. But as we shall see, he would often demonstrate to us in ways that would leave us astonished and humbled that neither our efforts nor our preparations for ministry ever controlled the final outcome.

God was always teaching us to trust him and, especially, to listen. But I have come to learn that I am deeply flawed. I do not listen to God very well, and my head and heart often get distracted. I am far too compulsive in my effort to minister and solve problems. I now believe, even as the Scripture teaches, that the Father must use tests and trials to make my faith strong. Such testing serves to keep my knees bent, my ears open, and my eyes on the Rescuer spoken of by Hagar as the one who “sees me:”

She [Hagar] gave this name to the LORD who spoke to her: "You are the God who sees me," for she said, "I have now seen the One who sees me."

Genesis 16:13

CHAPTER SIX

Yellow: Off to the Wilderness

I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. John 12:24

“Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?" In all this, Job did not sin in what he said. Job 2:10

It is not our place to understand everything the Shepherd does. It is our place to follow.

Since the youth group’s beginnings, God had clearly been with us. Again and again he had encouraged us and made a way for us, often when there seemed to be no way. But in 1971 something about our journey of faith noticeably changed. Without any presumption or sense of entitlement whatsoever, we had almost come to expect the supernatural to happen—and when we least expected it.

That new awakening to the presence of miracles began in the hours before dawn while traveling through the Oregon wilderness on a concert tour to Idaho. At the time we were quite unaware that upon our return to Santa Cruz we would encounter another crisis of faith, one which would become one of the greatest challenges of our ministry. So, looking back on the darkness of that summer night in Oregon, learning to trust God more deeply was exactly what we needed to do.

Although this chapter will reveal exactly how our world began to change when we returned home and how we were tested, you will have to wait until much later in this book for the actual details of our unforgettable journey of faith late that August night.

Grief

This next part of our story, when our world turned “upside down,” is very hard to tell, for we were about to lose something unimaginably precious.

With the youth group continuing to grow at an astonishing rate, we determined that we needed another bus, one that could increase our ability to do outreach ministry. We began looking for a road coach—a bus built for the highway—that was much bigger and faster than Greenie.

Every young person began to scrape and save whatever money they could, and a few committed themselves to taking on shares of the monthly payments in order to meet our goal. We found the perfect coach, a used school bus from the Gillig bus factory in nearby Hayward. Mr. Gillig had made sure we got a good vehicle. The engine was in excellent condition, and all the systems worked well. It was wintertime, and we were very grateful we didn't have to break out our toolboxes.

Our new coach was destined to remain yellow because we never had the bus long enough to paint it. In fact, we were able to use it on only one short trip. I can still almost taste that machine and all of our dreams of using it for ministry, but in the end that particular pea-green ceiling was not ours to keep.

For years and years I have pondered what happened next. Even though warning signs had been evident for a long time, it still seemed to come out of nowhere.

The end game

In a year’s time the circumstances at our church had changed radically. I was away at seminary during much of the week, and I no longer worked for the church as the youth pastor. My sister had replaced me, and the ministry continued to thrive. I helped as much as I could. The pastor who had hired me, the man who had such love for the young people, had now been gone for nearly a year, and after several months with a delightful interim preacher, the church found a new pastor. He was a man with very different goals from our previous pastors, and the opponents of the youth ministry knew they had found an ally.

We were busier than ever doing street ministry, but there was new resistance from those church members who simply were not comfortable with the growing young crowds filling the walkways with youthful excitement. Too many comfort zones were violated by the newly converted street people and recovering addicts hanging around in the church.

Some saw no apparent value in the street and outreach ministry as it existed, and they wanted it all to go away. Looking back, it is easy for me to see what a threat we were in those days. By then some 130 young people showed up each Sunday, and their numbers increased with each passing week. It was a collision of two worlds. One world was a culture of quiet tradition, and the other was a world intent on engaging a society in turmoil.

I am not at all critical of those in the church who were so unhappy with the young people, or of those who wondered why we should spend time out on the streets and highways doing evangelism. I wasn’t willing to judge them then, and I’m certainly not willing to do so now. But beyond shutting down the outward-looking ministry of the young people, I still don’t know what we could have done to make the conflict go away. It’s not that we didn’t try.

And it is not that we didn’t pray. But of course prayer doesn’t oblige trouble to leave us or good to come our way. What it does do is to provide a wonderful and blessed way to seek the will of God. So that is exactly what we did.

The curtain call

As the end game developed, a final squeeze was put on the youth group. A formal demand was made requiring change in the ministry’s basic identity. “Too Christ-centered,” some critics said. Others voiced their opinions as well: “Too much time doing worship and devotions, and not enough recreation.” “Too much use of the Bible and not enough use of denominational material.” “Too much time together.” “There’s a problem with undesirables.”

Having been unable to jettison the flood of young people that were arriving for help and fellowship, the new church board decided to let us know with final clarity that the youth ministry as it then existed was not wanted.

It would have been possible to compromise. The documents of the church meeting spelled out the issues we would have to address to satisfy the board. There would be no more welcoming of newcomers during our road trips. Many of the outreach trips would have to be replaced with recreational events. All the youth would need to limit their time spent in Bible study and devotion, as well as their time at the church. Young people fresh off the street would need to become formal, contributing members of the church congregation before they could travel with us. Some of the more “undesirable” street people would have to be told they were just not welcome. There were also many other difficult changes that were clearly outlined for us.

As the youth group’s leaders, we could not bring ourselves to ask brand-new Christians and newcomers off the street to immediately meet requirements for formal church membership, even if they showed a willingness to do so. In some cases, parents were already letting us know they would never consider allowing their children to formally join any church.

When all was said and done, we felt incapable of persuading anyone to join a church that did not love them upon arrival. In the end we could not tell the many young people that so much of the ministry they had grown to love was now forbidden. With their deep commitment to doing street ministry, asking them to stand down would have been like tethering a race horse to a merry-go-round.

The suggestion was made by the pastor that it was time for us to go, and we responded that we would be willing to leave quietly and respectfully, without dissension or ill will. We would not take anyone away with us, and we would graciously hand the youth group over to the church’s leadership.

Even though everyone wanted to stay together, and even though the young people would have wanted to leave together, they were not invited away, because the youth group “belonged” to the church.

The parking lot

On the night of the church board’s final meeting to decide the fate of the youth ministry, a large group of young people came and waited patiently in the darkness outside. Standing in the parking lot of the church where they had come to know Jesus, they prayed and struggled to understand what was going on.

The decision of the board was finally passed on to those outside, and when the group heard the news that they were not wanted, they stood and wept. Their tears were not of rejection but of loss, for they deeply loved that church.

The youth group leaders knew the time had come to leave. We longed to tell each young person that no one wanted to abandon them, but in an effort to be ethical, we did not send any message at all that could be construed as disrespectful or as an invitation to leave with us. God would have to handle any fallout the separation might bring. We quietly left the huge, exciting ministry that had now all but disintegrated in a single weekend. In its wake scores of hearts had been broken, and many kids felt the sting of abandonment. That part of our journey, as exciting and painful as it was, was over.

One of those wild young people who were hanging out at the church subsequently became a career foreign missionary with Wycliffe Bible Translators. Years later he talked about his experience during that difficult time:

I had come to the church to pick up girls, but I was not there long before I met Jesus. The night I became a Christian, I went home and found myself alone, singing to God in a richness I could never explain. My life was completely changed. Two weeks later I was no longer in the church! I did not want to be at a church that didn’t want me.

Sorting it out

From our humble and limited perspective, the painful loss of the street ministry that God had blessed so much just didn’t make sense. Why would God let this ministry to young people, many excited in their newfound faith, just disintegrate?

It took us a long while to understand that God was teaching us one more time how little we comprehend of either his kingdom or his eternal purposes. His kingdom is not about what we consider success, nor even what we believe to be failure; it is about his purpose and will. Looking back on the rest of the story with a certain wonder, we have slowly begun to understand why he allowed the separation.

Going overnight from what was probably the fastest-growing youth ministry in California to empty hands meant there was little alternative but to turn completely to the Lord for his direction. The wonderful yellow coach that we were still paying for was gone; so was the church we had known and loved. In time both the church and the bus would become an example of something the prophet Job said long ago: “The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised” (Job 1:21). But the Good Shepherd still had our lives and, of course, God knew exactly what he was doing.

We had to learn the giving-and-taking-away lesson over and over. No pea-green ceiling belonged to us, just as there was no church building, ministry, or program that was ours. Indeed, our lives, the kingdom, and everything in it belonged to the Lord. “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness’” (2 Corinthians 12:9); for in our weakness, he is made strong.

Now what?

One week we had been planning outreaches, and the next week everything had come to a grinding halt. It was time to find out what God was planning to do with our planning!

It was late on a Saturday night when the exhausted youth ministry leaders met again for the first time following that sudden turn of events. We gathered with no intentions other than to determine what we were supposed to do. But exactly what might that be? Should we just go on our separate ways? What did God want from us? Wouldn’t God’s kingdom have been better served if we had been able to continue on with what we had been doing?

Our first thought was that we could become part of another church. Perhaps there was a fellowship that wanted a youth ministry that was effective on the streets. The one thing we did not want to do was start another church ourselves. There were about 120 churches in our area, and we saw no point in adding to that number.

We had just spent several years trying to integrate street people into a traditional church. That task had been difficult at best, and although we had never quit trying, the effort had yielded limited results. In fact, we were now looking at a very fresh result of our efforts, and that was clearly a disaster.

That night we began to worry that if we did join up with another church, we could create the same dilemma all over again. After all, who would want the undesirables we loved so much right in the middle of their church?

It took some serious praying before we finally came to believe that despite our reluctance to continue on, our ministry was not finished. In that moment we knew that God was indeed directing us to begin a church—one where the poorest of the poor, the hurting, and the addicted would always be made welcome.

Deciding to press ahead was a sobering moment. Who were we going to be? How would we be known? Larry, one of our leaders who has since pastored a church for many years said, “Why not call it New Life Center?” The name immediately stuck. It goes without saying that getting a name was the easy part. With the beginning of New Life Center, the seeds of an international ministry were planted, but it would be a long time before God would reveal his plan for that. The question remained, where could we start?

The wilderness

Right away a small, friendly church opened its doors to us, allowing us to use their fellowship hall as a rendezvous. There we boarded Greenie and headed out for our Sunday evening worship, street ministry, and outreach—a precious time that had long since become our tradition. Gratefully, we had been allowed to buy Greenie for “a dollar” from our old church. The pea-green chapel continued to be filled with purpose and praise.

Our most pressing need was a place where we could bring homeless and addicted people to help them. We had been working with such needs as best we could while at the old church. It had been hard enough to serve needy people there, and it was even harder now.

Seeking a home, we began to take a creative look at “this old building,” “that old house,” and offices here and there—anything at all around our community we could make a home. We tried to be open to any solution, but God did not give us either a go-ahead or the means to buy anything. So we kept looking and waiting.

It was evident that we were going to spend more time wandering in the wilderness. Our ministry on the street and our outreaches never stopped, and slowly new faces and stories began to merge with the remnant of the former youth group. God was moving us on and reshaping us. During this time we began to encounter a series of roadside miracles you will soon begin to read about. But now, to our surprise, the more we traveled the more we seemed destined to do ministry at home. Somehow we couldn’t avoid responding to the flood of drug addiction festering in Santa Cruz.

But housing remained the big problem. Where could we take all the folks who needed shelter, detox, and long-term care? Several wonderful Christian families opened their homes for housing, and some even gave us space for bus storage and repair; but even such gracious hospitality had a limit.

Greenie journeys on

While we were looking for any place at all we could turn into a base of operations, we had noticed an abandoned church building on the west side of Santa Cruz. The property was quite derelict and had long since become a neighborhood eyesore. The windows were boarded up, it was filled with trash, burglars were storing stolen goods inside, and the outside was a disaster. It was clearly too much money for such a great liability. We did not see it as a serious option, so we passed it by. Besides, we were still far more oriented towards street ministry than taking on a derelict church building.

Not only did we keep Greenie on the road, we would soon buy two more buses to transport young people to our traditional DU’s, worshipping on Sunday evenings wherever a home was open to us. We had seen so many miracles and instances of God’s provision on the road that our minds went more to pea-green ceilings than stationary buildings anyway. No way were we going to quit traveling! That was where our ministry was formed. That was who we were.

In simple terms, we continued on with what was familiar. So much for our sense of vision! We thought we knew who we were, but we had no idea what God intended for us to be. Once more the Shepherd would have to get our attention in order to lead us where we needed to go.

God continued to direct our path by locking us out of every attempt to buy any residence as an outreach center. Nothing worked, and with our limited financial resources we never came close to closing any deal.

Looking back at our time in the wilderness is quite sobering. We tried to make many turns in the road where the Shepherd was not leading us. We had many presumptions about what our next step should be. Had we committed to any of those wrong turns, as we are so often prone to do, had we stopped and planted our flag in the wrong place, had the Shepherd not watched over us, we would certainly have missed what he had in store for us in his good time.

The right time

Without our ever expecting it, the right time finally did come for us to leave our wanderings. That time was when God did what he had done so often in the past—he got our attention. It happened when one desperate family broke the proverbial camel’s back.

We had been doing the best we could to help the homeless. By now the city had taken notice of our efforts and had become very supportive of us. We even tried a strategy of placing needy people in willing homes in the community where there was an open bed, but that was hard to manage and potentially too dangerous a solution.

Then one day, when all our backup beds were full, we tried to help one family too many. It happened when a mentally unstable mother—homeless, agitated, and disheveled—showed up on our doorstep. She had two delightful young children in tow, but they were like deer in the headlights not knowing which way to turn. The children were clearly frightened and almost begging us to take them in. We knew we had to do something to help, but where would we actually put them?

Finally our eyes were opened and we realized it wasn’t just a matter of helping one more family: there were so many more in need. Suddenly that old abandoned church building we had disregarded looked pretty good, and we felt certain that was the place God had set aside for us. “Why didn’t we see it before?” “Is there a way that we could get it?”

But our renewed interest left us deeply disappointed when we discovered the run-down facility had recently been purchased by another church. We felt a little foolish to be paying attention to the property so late in the game, for while we had been scouring Santa Cruz for a tiny church home, the other group had purchased the old church building and had begun a massive renovation. What was God saying?

By this time the new owners had invested a great deal of time and money on the inside of the building. It was completely torn up, but the new floor plan they were following would have been perfect for both a church and a residential program for addiction. Now our failure to move on that property earlier only made us feel more humbled. If only we were the ones that owned it. Once again we were faced with a problem only God could handle.

But we were unaware that after starting the rebuild project, the other group had found another property, a brand-new building in the heart of town. It was much smaller, but it was in beautiful condition and they had purchased it too. An unforeseen internal issue now changed the other group's plans midstream, and they suddenly decided they could keep only one of their two properties.

Now that God had grabbed our attention, now that the floor plan was changed, and now that the group was selling one of their properties, the stage was set. First, the other church contacted us and asked if we still had an interest in the once-abandoned building. Then right away, a kind Christian realtor stepped in and donated his services to help us. He responded to the other church group, and they gave us a choice: for the same amount of money we could have either their new building or the derelict but larger property on the edge of town.

Even though we had been thinking of buying small all this time, God gave us the vision to go for it. We no longer thought twice about how beat-up the older building was and all the work it would need. The decision was easy, for God had already put the abandoned church in our hearts.

We had no means to buy the building, but of course God had that covered too. A generous friend made a large down payment, and as abruptly as we had found ourselves on the street, we now found ourselves in a new home. To us, that old building was like buying Greenie. Even though it was a “disaster,” more than a little trouble to repair, and even a most improbable vehicle for ministry, God had a plan. My cousin, an attorney, put together incorporation papers for New Life Center in 1972, and our ministry was ready to roll—off road.

Out of the wilderness

With our new home, we finally seemed to be out of the wilderness. We had a place to help people around the clock, which was something we had dreamed of for years. We still went out on the highways, but now our responsibilities began to change as we provided care for some very needy people. New Life Center was becoming alive with human drama.

Street ministry is by nature an edgy, faith-building experience, and it rarely shows itself to the world with a pretty face. New Life was to be no exception. What a flood of memories were created in our new facility! We had rows of bunks where before there would have been church classrooms and offices. We had countless guests with severe mental illness, and many unstable and difficult visitors. Too many times there were police cars and ambulances in the parking lot.

There were countless social worker visits, and we had a constant stream of children sent to us under court mandate to attempt reunification with addicted parents. When treatment was successful, there was great joy; and when it was not, we had to watch children say good-bye to their parents for the last time.

Of course there were probation and parole officers, state inspectors, abused women looking for a place to hide, legal predators strategizing grounds for a lawsuit, and con artists trying their best moves on our staff. There were many tragic relapses. Sometimes an exhausted family would pull into the parking lot with a mattress tied to the roof of their car, and we would struggle to find a little more space.

The desperate phone calls were continual. There were crises at all hours of the night and all-too-frequent funerals for people whose bodies had been ravaged by prolonged drug abuse.

We helped broken women who had lived for years in abuse, and we welcomed ex-cons trying to put their lives back together. We were to encounter every kind of lonely, hurting person you could imagine. There was an unending line of people hungry for truth, love, and renewed hope. There were more people in need of a helping hand than we could ever respond to.

From the day we found our new home we were up to our ears in work, but we never lost our thankfulness for the opportunity to serve God. A home for street ministry was just what we had always wanted, and even though we could never figure out how to get there by ourselves, the Shepherd of Israel knew the way all along.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 3:11

PART II

Highways & Byways

CHAPTER SEVEN

Greenie at the Caves: A Change of Plans

He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

Isaiah 40:11

My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.

John 10:27

Where he leads me I will follow.

I have learned—at least on a good day—to depend on the voice of the Good Shepherd. I cannot begin to explain how it is that God speaks to any of us any more than I can explain how he takes up residence in our lives when he is invited to do so; it’s just something he does. I’m certain he does not speak to everyone the same way, nor do I suppose he always speaks to us individually the same way each time; but when he speaks to us, when we hear the Shepherd's voice, there is the greatest certainty that it is him and no other.

Much has been said and written about hearing God, and I am little inclined to add to that discussion. Yes, there are some important things to understand about hearing God’s voice, but I have come to believe that the same God who speaks to us is also able to not only capture our attention, but speak to us in any way and at any time he wants—despite our willingness or lack thereof. Our first responsibility is to love and seek God, and for the bus riders that included listening. And doesn’t God have to help us do even that?

Provision

Occasionally, on our shorter runs, we were surprised by a crisis-free road trip, during which our antique buses would somehow reach a destination and then return home without a single mechanical problem. Because we were so accustomed to seeing God’s provision during times of difficulty, we came to believe that even when our machinery ran flawlessly, we were still being shepherded. Just how that might be happening we did not presume to know. We expected God to provide for us, whether or not that might be seen, or even whether or not it was in a manner that we might prefer.

Then there was the unexpected. What amazed us about special miracles was how little they surprised us. They were certainly startling and most often caught us completely off guard, yet were they not one of the many ways God had always revealed his kingdom? In that sense the supernatural often struck us as being, well, surprisingly natural. Humbled with gratitude at what God had just done, we would be reminded that indeed, we were being constantly cared for.

One memorable trip was marked by one of those quiet miracles that would take us totally by surprise, deeply challenge and change us, yet leave us with the sense that it could only have happened just the way it did.

Following

That next remarkable event occurred soon after New Life was born. We were of course just starting out again, meeting at our borrowed gathering point to board Greenie and go out to do ministry. Although fewer in number and struggling financially, we still had Jesus and the faithful old bus he had first let us ride. The toughest part for us was that most of our concert tour contacts were lost when we left our old church. We were singers without enough places to sing.

Nevertheless, we began our very first tour in the northeastern corner of California near the town of Susanville. From there we planned to head south and then west towards the coast and the town of Lakeport where we had a friend who was a local pastor. This large-hearted man, whose home was full of foster kids, also worked as a prison chaplain. He is the one who had invited us to sing at the Konocti prison camp the year before—our first such concert. We did all right at the time, but our music and presentation were not geared for that type of crowd. This year would be different, for we would be prepared.

Our heart’s desire was always to sing in as many places as we could. We were grateful for the Susanville concert we had just done, and nothing would have delighted us more than spending that empty day between concerts doing another one somewhere. But pulling an invitation for one out of a hat in the wilderness of northern California with no advance arrangements—well, that was quite unimaginable. We just didn’t know of any church that wanted or needed us.

Given an extra day to work with, and given the possibility that if everything went smoothly we might even get our long-sought chance to visit Crater Lake, we decided to take the scenic way-out-of-the-way route across the desolate southern part of Oregon toward Interstate 5. We had been prevented from going there once before when we had the encounter with the cowboys, so wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to finally visit that beautiful landmark? Riding along with no other place to sing, we filled Greenie with music instead, enjoying the fact that after all we had been through, God had been merciful in even allowing us to continue serving him on the road. We would simply have to be thankful for the two concerts he had already given us.

Greenie was running smoothly, packed as usual with young people, luggage, and sleeping bags. The fellowship was wonderful, and we were all enjoying the panorama of God’s creation as it passed by our windows. But we were also busy doing a little problem solving, for we had not even determined where we would spend the night.

As we bounced along, we were studying a large foldout map in the front of the bus to make sure we were within reasonable driving distance of Crater Lake. We soon concluded that visiting the scenic wonder would work out perfectly if we were able to stay on schedule. It looked like we would be able to relax a little and enjoy the spectacular views, and the cost would be within reason. Perhaps we could even camp there.

But as we began to pick out our route for that side trip, God spoke to us and let us know that Crater Lake was not to be on our itinerary. We struggled with that directive because by that time we were really looking forward to seeing this scenic wonder. Why weren’t we supposed to go?

As we continued to pray, God clearly let us know that we were to go instead to the Oregon Caves. We were taken aback, because we knew little about the Caves. Besides, they were much further off our route, and we would have to press hard just to get there by evening. We couldn’t even stop to buy food or eat. Once we left the main highway to reach the Caves, we would be in country where there were no camping facilities and would have to backtrack many miles to find a place to spend the night. Even if we did make it in time, we worried that we wouldn’t be able to afford the tour.

Heading there just didn't make sense, but as we prayed, we could not escape the Lord’s clear directive. We reluctantly gave up on Crater Lake and headed west to the Oregon Caves. We would need to hurry.

The Caves

The sky was big, blue, and beautiful on that warm day in July when we all understood with absolute certainty that we were supposed to continue west. Later we learned that to the north in the mountains around Crater Lake, an unusual summer storm had hit the park and snowed it in. Had we gone there, we would have had a very difficult time of it, but I don’t believe that the snowstorm was the reason God told us not to go there. Not at all.

We ran hard all day in an effort to reach Cave Junction, where we turned off for the final nineteen-mile stretch to the Caves. By our estimates, we were almost there. Maybe thirty minutes more would do it!

After several miles of fairly easy road, so close to our journey’s end, we suddenly began climbing the steep, eight-mile ascent that stood between us and the Oregon Caves. We still had to crawl 2,500 feet up Mt. Elijah on a twisting road with many hairpin curves—a long, hard pull for the bus. Greenie was up for it, but at its own slow pace of ten to fifteen miles per hour. The clock was ticking, but there was no way Dale could make the bus go any faster. How are we going to make it before the park closes? we thought. Are these curves ever going to end? Aren’t we supposed to be coming here? Well it doesn’t matter what happens; we’re doing what we are supposed to do.

It was early evening and more than an hour after we left Cave Junction when Greenie finally managed to climb the last of the mountain and find its way into the cave’s outer parking lot. With the day ending, it certainly appeared our hurried trip across Oregon had been in vain. Even if the caves were still open, it was possible, if not likely, that we couldn’t afford the tour. It wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing had happened. When we came upon a tourist attraction, we first had to think about where the bus could be parked, and then we had to look at cost. We had long since learned to appreciate seeing what was free. Now that we were arriving at the Caves, we suspected we might just be visiting a gift shop and enjoying the scenery at the entrance.

Dale swung Greenie into an outlying part of the parking area and we began to disembark. There were still quite a few folks around, and the last tour group was just gathering several hundred feet away near the entrance to the caves. It was a little awkward arriving at such an interesting destination when we were so clueless as to our next move. Since we had been driving nonstop, my first thought was to make sure the maintenance crew was checking the engine-fluid levels, especially given the assumption that we might soon have to be on our way again. Of course, all the riders were more than a little hungry because we hadn’t taken time to stop for supplies since early morning. Maybe there was a snack bar.

The first weary group of singers soon made their way over towards the restrooms and outer kiosk. Marcella, one of our staff with a wonderful servant’s heart, was in the lead when the unexpected happened. In Marcella’s words:

We were nearing the entrance when a man and two women walked out to greet us as though we were family returning from a trip. They acted as though they knew us personally.

“We’re glad you’re finally here!” they said excitedly.

“You’re exactly who we’ve been waiting for!”

They quickly explained that they had been expecting our arrival and ministry. We were just in time, they said.

How did they know us? How could they know us? What were we just in time for?

I was excited but in a state of shock as we talked to one another. They weren’t just being friendly, they were expecting us to do a concert! And it was almost closing time. We all realized that we had better hurry to set up before the tourists left, and someone rushed back to the parking lot to tell Steve what had just happened.

Until a few hours earlier, we had not known ourselves that we would be at the Caves. We kept thinking, How did they know who we were? How did they know we were coming? We were astonished but certainly appreciative of their welcome, given that our unannounced journey to the Caves had been as intentional as their greeting to us. “Of course,” we told them, “we would be happy to do a concert.”

What a turnaround! Moments before, we had been filled with uncertainty; now we had a concert to do. Yes, God had given us a concert to do!

Later, when we had a chance to talk at length, our hosts explained that the park staff at this national monument were Christians, and that they had been praying together, asking God to send Christians to the park to do ministry. That very day they were expecting us to arrive. When they saw Greenie pull in, they already knew why we were there! We shared our story about how we had been pressing hard for many miles to get there that very day. That was one interesting conversation!

We decided to set up in front of the entrance to the caves and get electricity from across the street at the old Chateau Lodge. In record time we got everything ready and performed for a group of delighted tourists in what I am sure was the first-ever gospel concert at the Oregon Caves. When the music was over the park was officially closed, and we visited with the tourists for quite a while before they went on their way.

The staff stayed late and graciously took all the young people through the caves for free. At one point our guide cautioned us: “When we come to a low spot in the ceiling, say to the person behind you either low bridge or duck!” However, Marcella was still so rattled when the first warning reached her that she dutifully warned the puzzled person behind, “Low duck!”—much to everyone’s amusement.

Deep in the earth, everyone had a great time of worship and thanksgiving. When, as planned, the cave lights were briefly shut down, we were plunged into penetrating, absolute darkness. That total absence of light only gave us thanksgiving for the Light we had inside us.

When we emerged from the caves, the staff invited us to spend the night. Even though the park had no camping space available for us, they kindly offered us a place to park in a private wooded spot that was part of the staff residential area.

We were still moved by our experience of following the Shepherd across southern Oregon and we continued to enjoy hearing from the park staff about their side of the story. There were no words to explain our gratitude for God’s provision of a place to sleep for a whole busload of people. We cooked and ate our dinner and then prepared to bed down for the night. It was beginning to look like we had been given a little reminder that following the Shepherd and doing ministry was sort of fun. Miracles were great!

But God was not about to let us begin chasing miracles when we were called to become servants to a suffering world. It was not to be the night we expected. That lot in the woods is exactly where God taught us one of the most important lessons of our lives.

The baptism

Before we bedded down, a storm that had been moving through Oregon struck our campsite with a vengeance, producing torrential rainfall. All the guys immediately went to work digging a ditch around Greenie to divert the water cascading through our site, and then they crawled under the bus and into their sleeping bags to spend the night as best they could. The girls were packed into the interior of the bus, sleeping on the floor and seats—anywhere they could find room. They got the pea-green ceiling; the guys got the black-grease ceiling. Now and then the girls could hear the noise of some of the guys trying to roll over and bumping the exhaust pipes which then banged noisily beneath the floor.

Our wonderful hosts did not come to rescue us from the rain, for they had no way of knowing of the baptism we were experiencing. We didn’t want to knock on their doors seeking refuge, and God chose not to reveal our distress to them. They assumed that we could just squeeze everyone inside the bus and settle down for the night. Of course we could fit into the bus and the other vehicles, but not lying down.

When everyone was finally in place and out of the rain, I grabbed my sleeping bag and headed for shelter under Greenie, but there was none—not a single square foot of space was left. As I stood in the deluge, I thought I could perhaps squeeze inside a door to get out of the rain. Someone was already sleeping in the entry stairwell, so I pursued my last option, the emergency exit. There was a girl sleeping on the back seat with her feet towards the emergency door. I slowly climbed in and huddled at the very end of the seat to keep dry, but it was no use. The girl, still sound asleep, began to push at the foreign object on the end of the bench seat with her feet. Not wanting to wake her or anyone else, I hopped back out into the rain. To this day, I do not remember where or how I spent the night—but I do remember my exhaustion at dawn's early light.

I also remember lights appearing in the nearby residential trailer houses just as daylight approached. Knowing we had to leave early, the staff was getting up early to prepare a surprise breakfast for everyone. After a splendid meal and some great fellowship we hit the road again, rushing off to northern California and our next concert.

The hot breakfast was a real boost to the cold and tired singers, making it much easier to endure the next few hours inhaling the smell of wet sleeping bags and trying to stay warm. As we watched condensed water drip from the pea-green ceiling, we were not a picture of comfort, but we were so grateful for being where we were supposed to be. There were over three hundred miles yet to travel, but they passed quickly as we looked forward to the next concert.

Lessons we learned

By the time we performed our concert that night in Lake County, we had been deeply changed.

We had started out this trip searching for churches in which we could sing and continue this traveling ministry we had grown to love.

Then we experienced God’s miraculous provision of a concert at the Caves, and the sobering ordeal of a ferocious storm. For us that scenario was the perfect reminder of how God leads us where we would not normally go, and then helps us through the hard places; a perfect lesson for the difficult prison concert we were about to do.

Prison concerts were vulnerable to lockdowns, fire calls, horrendous acoustics, record-clearance issues, inclement weather, tension in the yards, the volatile response of the inmates, and the attitude of the shift commander. You never knew what to expect, and there always seemed to be a challenge to overcome. There was one time we were given only five minutes to set up sound equipment in a prison yard. With no chance to test a single mike, we had to hit the switches and play. Very scary stuff for musicians, but that one-and-only time every electronic setting was absolutely right on.

When we reached the prison camp near Lakeport, we once again experienced the Shepherd’s help in putting together a wonderful concert with a difficult audience. By the end of the evening the prisoners had really warmed to the gospel, and we knew this night had been a welcome gift to some weary travelers.

That night, after two days of following the Shepherd where we had not thought to go, we clearly heard a new direction for our ministry. After struggling to find enough churches to sing at, after all those miles in the heat, after the baptism in the rain and missing Crater Lake yet another time, God spoke to us again and we knew exactly what we were supposed to be doing—prison concerts!

Yesterday we had been sent across Oregon to an audience of travelers: today to those who couldn’t travel at all. Behind bars there would always be an invitation for the message we would bring. For us, music ministry now became synonymous with prison ministry, and we turned our attention to prisons across the United States.

The other lesson we were still learning on that trip to the Oregon Caves has continued with us for these many years: walking with God has nothing to do with being led on a delightful, easy path. God leads us where he wants to for his purposes. Sometimes the path is by still waters, sometimes in green grass. Sometimes it is in a warm and secure place, and sometimes it is in the cold and pouring rain. Whether we are in times of testing or times of refreshment, to simply be in the Shepherd’s care is all we could ever hope for. He will test us, but he will never leave us or forsake us.

May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you a spirit of unity among yourselves as you follow Christ Jesus. Romans 15:5

CHAPTER EIGHT

Greenie and Redbird on the Mountain:

Miracle at Dawn

Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain.

Isaiah 40:4

No matter what our circumstances, God’s help is closer than we think.

The story of Greenie at Mount Shasta represents a very minor role for the old gospel bus. But when I ponder that early morning near Mount Shasta City, I still think of Greenie’s pea-green ceiling and our difficult lesson in trust.

Faith

Faith may be challenging, but it is, at the same time, simple. Faith is not about making ourselves believe, nor is it a matter of focusing our attention on what we may desire to have happen. Faith should certainly not be blind. Above all, faith turns on trusting God’s counsel, just as we do his promises, and it is wise to base such trust on solid evidence.

The primary evidence underlying our trust is our personal experience of God’s presence and provision. Having been faithfully cared for by him even in the most difficult and painful circumstances, what else can we conclude but that he will never abandon us? He is not shepherding from a distance—he is carrying us. He must carry us, for on our eternal journey we cannot carry ourselves.

You yourselves have seen what I did to Egypt, and how I carried you on eagles' wings and brought you to myself.

Exodus 19:4

There [in the desert] you saw how the LORD your God carried you, as a father carries his son, all the way you went until you reached this place.

Deuteronomy 1:31

We may be carried through pleasant meadows or through deep and dark valleys. Though we may tremble in fear even while the Shepherd carries us, and though we may forget that we are in his arms, still he comforts us. To borrow from King David’s heartfelt meditation in Psalm 23, there is nothing we should want besides him.

God does not abandon us to the trials he brings into our lives. There are times during trials when the Good Shepherd may suddenly remove an uncomfortable obstacle or circumstance from our path, and there are times when he places such obstacles there. Yet he still comforts us. We are never abandoned. When trials come and we don’t know what we need to ask for or even how to ask, God continues to show us the way. Such a time occurred in northern California under a pea-green ceiling, high in the southern Cascade Mountains.

Redbird

We needed another bus to replace that delightful coach we had to leave behind when our ministry at our former church came to an end, but we didn’t have much money to go shopping for one. I don’t remember how, but we became aware of an old school bus, a big 1949 Gillig that was stored in a ravine on some private property. It too was a coach, meaning the engine was in the rear, but it didn't run and hadn’t been on the road in years. It was one of those “I’m going to build a camper” projects that had never come to be. The owners were very happy to get rid of that hulk for a song.

I hired a heavy-duty tow truck to bring the bus to a garage belonging to one of the church members. My goal was to try to bring it back to life. The big wrecker winched the bus out onto the road that ran down into the ravine and then was barely able to haul it up the steep hill. The coach was a horrible mess, and in the rear compartment sat an obsolete engine for which few parts were available.

We removed the old engine and transmission, and then we went to a truck wrecking yard and bought an overdrive transmission and a re-buildable International Red Diamond 450-cubic-inch engine out of a retired cement truck. After doing a rebuild, we positioned the replacement engine in the rear compartment and began fabricating new motor mounts to make everything fit. After many hours of welding, wiring, plumbing, and other adaptations, the bus was finally running again, and it was most rewarding to drive it for the first time.

We continued the restoration by repairing dents and repainting the bus a deep burgundy color with white trim. The word burgundy was too awkward to use on the CB radio, so we started using Redbird as our radio identifier. The inside was of course repainted dark forest green, with the exception of the ceiling. Never with any bus did we paint a ceiling. By now we had learned to simply accept the pea green for what it was. It was even growing on us. And my nausea? It had been gone from the day we got Greenie!

Our goal was to equip this particular bus to meet every possible need for outreach ministry on the road. Our difficulties on the road had by now taught us a few things about traveling with a lot of people. We painted the roof a heat-reflecting white, tinted the windows, added curtains for night-time travel, built luggage racks and head rests, and then installed a bathroom and a tiny kitchen. Underneath we added storage compartments and two extra forty-gallon fuel tanks.

We also added foam padding to the stiff bench seats and made them adjustable to create options for sleeping during long nights of travel.

Along with the seats and the highly preferred sleeping area on the floor, we had green plywood boards stowed beside each seat that could be taken out at night and secured over the tops of the seat backs, providing a third level for people to stretch out and sleep in the Redbird Hotel.

By cooking on board and running all night, we would no longer have to worry about a safe place to sleep or finding fuel; and without needing to stop on the road, we could essentially triple the number of destinations we could reach on any given trip.

We tried to make everything about our travel as close to non-stop as possible. Now we are not talking about traveling in comfort here, but with a little determination or exhaustion or both, we could survive an entire night on the road. Perhaps Louie best described crossing America in Redbird with this comment: “Three days in the belly of the whale.”

We were finally ready to tour, and Redbird was set to crisscross the United States, visiting prisons and other ministry venues to share the gospel.

On the mountain

On this particular adventure, we weren't crossing the United States. Instead, we were headed to a remote town deep in the mountains between Interstate 5 and the northern California coast. We were scheduled to rendezvous with an evangelist who sometimes called upon us to help with outreaches in towns where he was speaking.

We left Santa Cruz on a Saturday morning with plenty of time allotted for travel. Greenie was leading the way because it was slower, and Redbird followed close behind. As we left the city of Redding on I-5 we headed up into the Siskiyou Mountains, finally nearing Mt. Shasta City over sixty miles north. It had been a long, slow climb, and it was just starting to get dark when, to my alarm, the needle on Redbird’s temperature gauge abruptly swung all the way to the right. I quickly radioed ahead to Greenie, and we pulled off to the side of the highway to assess our situation.

When I opened the engine compartment doors, the problem was immediately apparent; the fan belt was broken. This was not just any fan belt in just any location, and it was not something we could do without. The engine itself rested in the center of the engine compartment, facing towards the rear of the bus. Off to the driver’s side of that compartment was a radiator compartment with a pulley and a big cooling fan. Stretching between the engine and the cooling fan was a large industrial-sized fan belt—not the kind you could buy in a normal parts store.

The truth is, I had never gotten around to finding a spare belt to bring with us, and that made our predicament personally embarrassing. I had everything else we could conceivably need, but no belt. Never before or after did an apparently good belt break on any of our buses, but that didn’t count now! I learned once again that I could never prepare enough to control any outcome. When God wanted my attention, he was simply going to get it.

We were about two hours away from any city that would possibly have a warehouse with such a belt in stock. Even if we knew where to go, a trip for parts would be pointless because it was Saturday night, and no warehouse would be open until the following Monday morning.

There we were with about eighty people at the side of the highway and no way to move. We had apparently been checkmated, and none of us could see any solution that wasn’t well beyond our financial resources. Only sixty miles from our goal, this particular outreach was beginning to look like it was down the tubes.

We took a quick exploratory visit to Mt. Shasta City on Greenie, where I peered in the lobby of the first church I happened to notice. Maybe I could find the number of someone who could help, and the church would open its doors to provide some refuge. No one was around, but there on the bulletin board was an advertisement for the next church meeting, with a special guest, a Hindu guru, intending to share some form of enlightenment. Oops, this won’t work, I thought. Even if I can find someone to answer the church phone it would be hard to explain the ministry trip we are on. It was getting late, and after further exploration we could find no options for an overnight refuge. It was time to focus on trying to get some rest.

Now you might wonder why we didn't pray and ask for a miracle. We really didn’t think about it at the time. We knew the Shepherd of Israel was with us; he had brought us to where we were, and he had let the bus break down. Our best move could be nothing better than to continue to follow him and listen to him carefully. He knew our situation, and for the time being it was clear that we were to follow him quietly into the approaching darkness.

Traffic continued rumbling by as we struggled to sleep, the noise finally decreasing in the wee hours of the night. It had to have been obvious to passers-by that we were stranded, but no one stopped to help, which was no great surprise. Why would they? What in the world could you possibly do to help a big bus full of singers? I’m sure we drew more than a few laughs—and perhaps a little sympathy as well.

Inside Redbird we were all bundled up and hunkered down, resting as best we could. Outside there was snow. Sleeping fitfully in the front stairwell, I was already awake at dawn’s early light. As I looked around, the feeling of powerlessness returned, and sure enough, the problem I had gone to sleep with was still there. Something needed to be done, but I had no real plan beyond trying to find some church that would be willing to offer us shelter and then begin to ferry everyone back home on Greenie. How I wished I was standing in a parts warehouse. Even then, with all of the measuring or comparing parts numbers, it would be a major challenge to find a matching belt.

With the engine off, the air controls for the bus exit doors had long since lost their pressure, so I easily pushed the doors open and made my way outside. Up ahead of me Greenie was waiting, almost like it was eager to get going. I still remember the stress weighing on me as I climbed in and sat in the driver’s seat. Perhaps, I thought, I should drive up the road and check out Mt. Shasta City in the daylight. There would not yet be any stores or churches open, but at the time, doing at least something made more sense than just sitting there on the side of the road. At least I could try to get some kind of plan going if I knew our options. Besides, it seemed like the right thing to do.

As we started moving, I could hear shifting and movement behind me as a few people began to stir and sit up. Within a quarter mile or so there was an exit, and I took it. No sooner had we left the highway than I felt I was supposed to immediately pull over. As I stopped, I looked across the road and saw a great empty field and, beyond that, a couple of abandoned buildings in the distance where there had once been a lumber mill. I knew I was supposed to walk into that field.

I stopped Greenie and jumped off with Dale. Shirley, a prayer warrior who was now wide awake on Greenie, told me many years later that she thought I had just lost it and was, so to speak, “walking into the sunset.” She felt there was real reason to pray—for me.

Dale and I crossed the road and walked out in the field. Sure enough, there was nothing there, just weeds and bare ground. I knew I was supposed to be out there, and I even felt some anticipation as I kept randomly walking. It would have been wonderful to see a big black belt, but I wasn’t seeing anything. Suddenly, something that wasn’t black caught my attention, and I headed toward it. Lying out in the open was a belt—a large tan-colored industrial belt—and it was in excellent condition!

Now the fan belt needed for Redbird had to be the exact size within an inch—to say nothing of thickness and angle of fit—so I hesitated to get too excited at the find. I looked down at the belt and wondered, What if?  But deep inside I knew that God must have been involved, so I picked it up and walked back towards Greenie. When we stepped back on board a short time later, Shirley now saw me returning with the large belt in my hand. She remembered that she knew better than to ask if a miracle had taken place.

I was eager to get back to Redbird to see if our problems had just disappeared, but to get there I had to first negotiate a number of back roads and then re-enter the freeway quite a distance south before I could return. There were no cell phones in those days, and Redbird’s radio was off; so all of us on Greenie would have to wait to tell everyone on the other bus that there had been a miracle—or had there? It was simply too early for all of us on Greenie to do any celebrating.

I continued to struggle with the question that still loomed in our minds: What if the belt doesn’t fit? Too short or too long a belt and we would all be right back where we started from. Was my instinct about the belt size right? Only when Redbird was driving down the road would we know for certain if God had just done something very special.

We would have to wait, and despite the way I was holding my breath, God did not tell me what the conclusion would be. I only remember my sense of helplessness, knowing that God would do exactly what he wanted to do. I could not control his purposes, his timing, or any of the circumstances that had now left us so cautiously hopeful. In those moments it was so very clear to me that miracles are not about us; they are simply not our domain.

Arriving back at Redbird, we went to work. It was cold, but we were more than eager. Would it work? The belt went on, the engine roared to life and in moments we were on the road as though nothing had ever happened! We were some very humbled souls who now hurried down the highway to get on with our outreach.

Even though we were ready to work all day Sunday, we were sad to lose the whole Saturday evening outreach we had planned. But I am absolutely certain God had a reason it never happened.

More trouble

The remainder of the outreach was successful after all, although it certainly did not prove easy. While all of us were doing a concert in the church sanctuary, a thief went into the room where the girls were staying and cleaned out all their belongings. The girls lost everything of value, and then some. We were reminded once again that ministry is about serving and sacrifice, and exactly how God wants to do that is his business alone.

So it wasn't just God’s provision of a fan belt that “took us to school”: we were relearning the same lesson God had shown us so many times before. While he was leading us and teaching us to trust him, he was not about to pave our path with roses.

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

John 16:33

Now that God had clearly intervened to once again help us on the road, the old familiar Monday-morning-quarterback questions came to mind: What if God had just not let the fan belt break or at least have the fan belt break in the daytime so we didn't have to sleep in such a cold place? After all, the belt we needed was lying so close by us. Was he making sure we understood that we had no choice but to rely on him?

What if we had broken down past the next intersection where the belt was waiting? How did it get there? What if the belt had been the wrong size? How long had the belt been in the field? Why hadn’t there been a church ready to help us? Was I really listening to his instructions during that trip, and was he wanting us to do something other than what we were doing? Why weren't the girls protected from the thieves? What had God done for us that we never even noticed and for which we had given no thanks?

All those questions went through my mind, mixed with the memory of God faithfully shepherding us while he delivered us in Greenie to find that belt. His miracles are not designed in the way that we might ever think to put them together. They are not always designed for us to understand. They are designed to teach us to trust him, and to accomplish his will.

God also testified to it by signs, wonders and various miracles, and gifts of the Holy Spirit distributed according to his will.

Hebrews 2:4

CHAPTER NINE

Redbird in the Desert: The Shepherd’s Voice

The bows of the warriors are broken, but those who stumbled are armed with strength. I Samuel 2:4

Sometimes trouble sits on our doorstep, and sometimes it hides in the bowels of a bus. Sometimes trouble is served up cold, and sometimes it rolls hot. Sometimes trouble never seems to stop.

Testing

Times of testing offer faith its most fertile ground. We know testing must happen; we know it causes our faith to grow. We may even be thankful when it happens. Yet the sooner it ends, the better we like it. Indeed, most of us have learned that it is far easier to reflect gratefully on what we have been through than to actually live through it.

The years of difficulties and trials that our ministry faced while on the road pale in comparison to those experienced by many believers around the world, so we have no cause for complaint, and none is being offered here. But the truth is, when our humbling trials came along we usually wanted to get on the other side of them as quickly as possible. Our first concert trip to the eastern United States became such a time of testing, for try as we might we just couldn’t seem to get beyond our troubles. The experience didn’t threaten our faith, but it used up just about every last bit of hope we had.

No, that invaluable lesson did not teach us to never give up, for indeed there are times when quitting is our very best move. It did, however, teach us to listen to the Shepherd, who knew exactly what we should do in every circumstance.

Heading east

We had a full itinerary of concerts waiting for us in Nashville, Tennessee, and given our very tight schedule, our immediate goal was to make our first performance on time. As usual we would be driving around the clock. After careful preparation, full of fuel, supplies, equipment, and singers, Redbird pulled out of Santa Cruz about 8 o'clock on a warm summer night. Our plan was to be well across the Southern California desert before the heat of the following day.

The first two or three hundred miles of the trip passed without incident, and as we rolled through the night everyone found the least-uncomfortable positions they could and tried to drift off to sleep. If you listened carefully you could just hear the International Red Diamond engine purring quietly in the back as it hurried Redbird down the road.

Our smooth progress began to falter as we entered the rolling desert hills of southeastern California. Pete L. was behind the wheel. Now Pete struggled with insomnia and therefore was the perfect graveyard driver. Years later he would recall, “I wanted God to take away the insomnia, but he never did. I believe he wanted to keep me humble so I would stay close to him.”

It was in the wee hours of the night when Pete woke me to report the first hint of a mechanical problem. That was to be one of those nights Redbird wasn’t about to let me sleep. When we would near the summit of a long rolling hill, Redbird would slow down and hesitate a little as it labored to make it over the top. The symptoms were reminiscent of several years before when we had struggled to get the old Ford bus over the Sierras on a failing fuel pump. Whatever the cause, it was slowly growing worse.

More than once we pulled to the side of the road, but our urgent inspections of the engine revealed nothing. There in the dark at the side of the highway with our heads deep in the roar of the engine compartment, our hair blown back by the hot air from the radiator and shaking sleep from our eyes, we struggled to think through a solution—but there was only uncertainty. Could we make it until morning? We needed to press on.

As the sun came up we were still making some progress, but every summit was more difficult to crest. We scratched our heads for an hour or two, trying to figure out what was going wrong. To make matters worse, the inefficient performance on the hills made our heavily loaded bus begin to overheat in the desert sun.

So much for our carefully developed plans to be through the desert in the cool of the night! The engine problem was making us lose precious time, and we seemed destined to be trapped in the heat of the desert. What was going wrong? Was God somehow trying to get our attention?

We began to prioritize our problems. Above all, we knew we could not allow the engine to overheat. Out of desperation we stopped at a small-town hardware store to try the first remedy we could think of. After buying sheet metal and some metal strap, we created a scoop to divert air into the radiator compartment to help cool the engine. The scoop made a difference but it wasn't enough, and what was worse, more time had been lost.

In a desperate bid to escape the grip of the desert, we decided to try cooling the engine by pumping cold water over the outside of the radiator. The plan copied the emergency cooling systems which were once used on wild-land fire trucks. To make the cooling device, we took a two-foot length of one-inch copper tube and attached a hose to one end. We then squeezed off the other end to make it watertight. Next we drilled a row of holes in the tube, allowing a sheet of cool water to wash down over the radiator. For our water supply we ran the hose from the pipe up to the faucet on the kitchen sink inside Redbird. The biggest flaw in our plan’s execution happened when we drilled a hole from the kitchen down to the radiator compartment and the drill bit damaged the radiator. We now had to spend more precious time to solder the radiator and make sure the repair would hold.

Finally we were back on the road again, eager to try our new device, but we were also hoping that our most recent roadside tune-up and tinkering with the engine had somehow corrected our power problem. The cooling device worked as designed, and whenever we came to a summit the driver, carefully watching the heat gauge, would order several pumps on the kitchen sink faucet. The longer the hill, the more pumps the driver ordered.

We were still moving, and at least we weren’t dangerously overheating. Unfortunately, we hadn’t yet figured out what was wrong with the engine, we were still deep in the scorching desert, and we were almost hopelessly behind schedule. By this time we had developed several theories about the cause of the engine’s ailment and what the best repair strategy might be. But of course we did not have the luxury of spending hours in a shop disassembling and replacing parts to see what was really wrong. We simply had to keep shooting in the dark.

Trials come in different shapes and sizes. This trip was not being distinguished by a dramatic breakdown—it was being defined by attrition, and we appeared to be on the losing end.

After eliminating all the possible causes we could, we finally determined that a fuel-supply problem must be causing our loss of power. But when we stopped to check, the fuel pressure seemed to be fine, and even the fuel filters appeared to be functioning correctly. In desperation we determined to go over the whole system once again with a fine-tooth comb.

We climbed and crawled through every accessible part of the bus, and finally, deep underneath, we found the hidden culprit. For reasons that still escape me, some school mechanic had installed a tiny in-line fuel filter on the main fuel line many years before. Such a filter belonged on a small economy car, not on a ten-ton bus. Not only should it never have been installed, it was hidden in a place where no one with experience would ever have put one. That little filter was nearly plugged, and when we removed it the engine almost seemed to roar in celebration of its newfound freedom. Indeed, if our old bus had been a stallion, I could easily describe that moment in a saying of the Old South denoting the spirited prancing of a horse about to travel: Redbird was journey proud.

The last ray of hope

We were finally on our way again, but by now we were acutely aware of how hard we would have to push ourselves to make up for lost time. There could be no stopping for a break of any kind. We would have to make every mile and every shift of the gears count. We calculated that if we kept moving, if nothing more went wrong, we could still salvage almost all of the concerts.

As we began the last few miles of the long descent into the border town of Needles, California, we were beginning to indulge in a real sense of encouragement. Not only was Redbird running the way it was supposed to, we were going downhill and we could have almost coasted into Arizona. It appeared certain that no matter what, if we hurried we were actually going to make it out of California within twenty-four hours after all!

What could go wrong now? We had been taken through a trial in the desert, and we were on our way out. We were a mess—exhausted, sweaty, greasy and dirty—but we were beginning to smile a little and even starting to celebrate.

I still remember the radio call from our equipment van, a blue ’64 Ford that doubled as a service vehicle.

"Breaker, Redbird. Bluebird here…You're not going to believe this," sighed Pete, who had just started his shift in the van.

"Go Blue, this is Red," I said. "What's the problem?"

"I hear a rod noise in the engine."

I almost shouted into the CB, "That can't be! That's a rebuilt engine. Are you sure?"

"You'd better listen to it, Steve. I'm pulling over now. Blue out."

As we coasted to a disappointing stop, I could hardly believe what I had just heard. Bearing problems were unheard of in that particular type of engine, and there was no conceivable reason anything should be wrong. I walked back to check, and sure enough the rod was indeed knocking badly and the van's oil pressure was dropping. The sudden arrival of this most improbable predicament seemed almost surrealistic. Well, that does it, I thought. This trip is finished. At any moment the bad rod would go through the side of the block just like it had on Greenie’s engine on our very first bus trip.

We couldn’t afford to lose even a single hour by the side of the road fixing another engine, to say nothing of the two days it would realistically take to replace it. Was God going to do a miracle and help us make another lightning-fast repair under impossible circumstances? How could that be done? We still had most of the outbound trip to go, much less getting back home, and, realistically, we had just enough money for fuel and food. We didn’t have the money for an engine rebuild even if we had all the time in the world—which we certainly didn’t.

What was going on with this ministry trip? What did God want? History seemed to be repeating itself. First an elusive fuel problem, and now a repeat of a rod problem, but this time all on the same trip—and it was so hot! Was God telling us to stop? Were we even supposed to be on this trip? How could we ever get to Tennessee in time to save this outreach when we were still on the wrong side of the country?

With traffic whizzing past as I stared at the wounded van engine, I tried to make a reasonable decision. My experience as a mechanic told me that the engine needed to be shut down permanently so there would be something left to rebuild. Stopping the engine was easy enough, but that wasn’t going to solve our problem. We could put a tow bar on the van and pull it to the next town, but that was no real solution either. Now I would need to face some tough questions.

Was it possible to go on without our equipment van? Could we load up the bus with all that repair equipment?

I couldn’t bring myself to ask God if we should continue on without our precious parts and equipment. I didn’t have enough faith to pray that prayer. No solution seemed to make sense, and I was simply too tired for good theology. It surely seemed that enough was enough. Now more than twenty-four hours after leaving Santa Cruz, we were still in California with a lot of hot and tired people when we should have been well into New Mexico or beyond!

We towed the van into Needles and parked in a vacant gravel lot. Everyone was very relieved to pile off the bus. It was so hot on board that day you couldn’t even touch the metal fixtures in the bathroom. A thermometer fastened near the front of the bus had been pinned at the 130 degree limit all afternoon. By now it was near midnight, but the outside temperature was still at 111 degrees. We circled together in the stifling heat and began to pray. "What do you want us to do, Lord?" we asked. "How shall we deal with this crisis?" I will never forget the conclusion God simultaneously brought each of us to: “I never told you to stop.”

At first we were astonished, for we had been certain there was no point in pressing on, especially considering our additional loss of time, and Bluebird’s ominous symptoms. But the encouragement of the Lord was so strong it could not be ignored. These were wonderful people I was traveling with, and I did not want to presume upon them; so I tried to make sure everyone was in accord and that they had heard the same thing.

“Everyone who thinks we are supposed to go on, raise your hand,” I requested.

Johanna remembers that night very well. A little older and more mature, she was the same independent young lady who had ended up on the boys’ bus when we had the standoff with the cowboys in southern Oregon.

She wasn’t happy with our current situation in the desert, and was more than a little bothered by the desert heat. So it was that, just as on our flight from the serpent through the night in Oregon, Johanna was once more on a ride she was reluctant to take. She recalls:

By the time we stopped in Needles, I was absolutely committed to going home. My mother was taking care of my young child for the week, and I already missed her. As far as I was concerned, there was absolutely no way I was going on. I was going home.

When Steve asked for our decision, I clenched my hands together to make sure I did not respond with a yes. To my astonishment I discovered my right hand seemed to be rising by itself! I had never had an experience like that in my life. And then God spoke audibly to me. It was the first time I had ever heard God’s voice, and he gently told me, “It’s OK. I’ll make it cooler tomorrow.” I was so confident in what I had heard that I let everyone know how God had told me that tomorrow it was not going to be as hot.

Immediately after our prayer and unanimous vote, everyone reboarded Redbird and we began our nonstop run to Tennessee with Bluebird running behind, now freed from the tow bar. Once again people struggled to find a comfortable position to make it through the heat of the night, but somehow the pea-green ceiling was now a refuge of amazing peace and rest. We were being led again by still waters, but where were the cool meadows?

Thoughts

I wish I could listen better and trust more. A thought sometimes occurs to me: Maybe if I listened better I wouldn’t have to encounter such hard trials. But no, that strategy certainly won’t work either. Trials are promised to us, and they cannot be avoided. Indeed, I constantly have to be reminded that struggle and failure are exactly what makes me depend on God. Trials are his way of getting and keeping my attention, to say nothing of keeping me humble.

We were to learn yet again that ministry is not about us, and God’s plans do not depend on us. Even if our trip had ended right there in Needles, that would have been fine. If that had been what God wanted for us, we would have received an equally valuable lesson in faith.

______________

What about the van? Incredibly, the sick engine with the bad rod made the rest of the trip back east without a single problem. Do not ask me how.

And what about God’s promise to Johanna that he would make the next day cooler? We had quite a surprise when the sun came up. That day and the next it gently rained. We traveled with gratitude in cool comfort under the pea-green ceiling as we joyfully watched spectacular lightning display itself across God’s astonishing creation.

______________

The fiery trial was finally over.

In town

God did not promise that the weather for the entire trip would be cool, and when we arrived in Nashville, the heat and humidity revealed just how much sweat we had accumulated over the last three days.

Normally we would have found a place to bathe or freshen up along the way, but we had stopped for almost nothing in order to get to our destination on time. The restroom holding tank was full and defying us to use it one more time. We clearly needed to find a place where everyone could shower (or get hosed off) so we would be presentable. Also we needed a place to swap engines in the van. Thankfully, while we were still enroute to Nashville, a donor stepped in to help us, and we had a rebuilt engine block waiting when we arrived.

Our nighttime lodging was provided at a downtown church where we had to post a guard to watch Redbird through the night. We spent our free time however at a big church at the edge of town. They even offered us their parking area to rebuild Bluebird’s engine, so that was the very first place we stopped. After thousands of miles, hot, tired, and caked with dried perspiration which had now been reinvigorated with southern humidity, we staggered from the bus in the parking lot of the beautiful park-like church grounds.

No one could believe what was awaiting us. It was almost the stuff of dreams, for the church had a large swimming pool! As soon as we arrived, our hosts encouraged everyone to head for the water. Now we were in no condition to jump in anybody’s pool, but the church staff, representing the very best of Southern hospitality, graciously told us to go for it anyway. That was all the encouragement we needed. The pool filters were put to their test, and we joked about being able to walk on water after we had been in there. What a treat that day was!

While everyone was either swimming or doing an engine swap on Bluebird, I was busy spending time with various hosts and finalizing concert arrangements. Following a concert at the state penitentiary we had a pending concert at a women’s prison for which we had just received the go-ahead. Traveling to that concert filled the last remaining day in our schedule.

One of our wonderful hosts, however, had been insisting that we spend that very same day at a major amusement park nearby. He was eager to cover all the costs, including food and entry. It was a generous and gracious gift, but I was in the awkward position of declining as politely as I possibly could, indicating that we now had a prison concert invitation. “If we had had spare time we would have loved to spend a day at the park,” I told him—but he wasn’t accepting no for an answer. However, we had just fought our way across a desert to do ministry, and I certainly did not want to lose an opportunity to serve the One who brought us safely from the other side of America.

Nothing I could say seemed to sway the host, who was convinced that, despite my insistence, all the young people would certainly prefer to go to the park. I was ready to concede to courtesy, when a way of escape suddenly appeared.

“You have to let them vote on this,” he said. “I’m sure they will all want to go!”

“All right,” I agreed, “Let’s let them vote.”

Back at the church I had to wait outside while the host asked all our performers, “Would you rather travel a long way and sing one more prison concert or spend a fully paid day in a theme park?”

Our singers were unhesitant. “We want to go to the prison!” they exclaimed. The case was finally dismissed.

Off we went to the women’s prison. That concert became the highlight of our trip because several prisoners there had their own encounter with the same Shepherd that had brought us all the way across America to visit. In those moments we were so grateful we were not taking thrill rides in a theme park. For those prisoners’ lives alone, our recently endured thrill ride across the desert was worth every drop of sweat.

Oh yes! For many miles the girls laughed at our guys who had just left the women’s prison compound. “Now you know what it feels like to be ogled,” they teased. What could the guys say to that?

It would be natural to assume that with a beginning like this trip had, the rest of our epic trek across the country would have been one disaster after another. But just as God had a reason for the difficulty getting out of California, he also had his reason for seeing to it that from then on we had one of our smoothest trips ever—a great encouragement to some tired travelers. And sure enough, it would not be long before the lesson in the desert became counsel for just as difficult a trial we would face when we returned home. But that story is for another chapter where you will read about our irrepressible Laurie.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

James 1:2

CHAPTER TEN

Big Blue and the House of Concorde:

The Shepherd’s Path

He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young.

Isaiah 40:11

The essence of futility is demonstrated in our poor efforts to avoid testing.

When Redbird crossed the United States, we always arrived where we intended to go; and we made it home again, for God saw to that. But surviving on the road often involved a tension between faith and self-reliance. The more trips we made, the more we prepared, but paradoxically, the more we found ourselves depending on God. Try as I may, I have never been able to sort it all out.

My human tendency is to plan, prepare, problem-solve, and generally avoid any kind of testing I can. The mechanics in our ministry did everything possible to escape being stranded on the side of the road, and careful thought went into contingency planning. When we did encounter a difficulty on the road, we would immediately develop a backup plan to prevent it from happening again.

Redbird’s engine compartment was loaded with spare parts. We carried an extra of just about every critical item needed to keep a bus rolling except for the engine itself, and that had been carefully rebuilt. The old Ford equipment van was packed with small parts and repair equipment, and it too had a rebuilt engine. We could change tires on the road, pull an engine, or even fabricate simple parts – not that we wanted to.

I don’t believe there is anything wrong with planning; planning can be an essential part of ministry. Even Jesus’ disciples took along provisions for most of their journeys. There is, however, according to the scripture, something wrong with presumption, and presumption comes all too easily. Our plans are worth nothing if they do not fit with God’s will; and there is no point in planning at all unless God allows us a tomorrow.

Getting started

It was the summer of 1972, and we were just about to leave on another tour to the Northwest when the first sign of trouble appeared.

It all began when Big Blue’s starter failed. Big Blue, our other bus, was Redbird's twin. Big Blue was all but identical to Redbird except that it was not equipped with a restroom, and of course it was painted Big Bad Blue. This trip we weren’t taking Big Blue along, but it was encouraging to know it was ready to hit the road if we ever needed a backup. Now, just before we were to leave, its starter had failed.

I had a decision to make about a repair. I had no time to find a used starter for Big Blue, we didn't have enough money to indulge in a new one, and in the back of my mind I kept thinking it would be a good idea to have Big Blue running before we left on tour. Just in case Redbird got stranded, I thought, someone could go back and get Big Blue and bring everybody home. For a fleeting moment the terrible thought arose, And what if Big Blue got stranded out on the highway too? Was pondering that dilemma worrying just a little too much? When did overthinking itself, become lack of faith?

There I was, trying to anticipate what trouble God might allow on our next trip and how I could get out of that trouble, all the while knowing deep in my heart that Big Blue could never really be our ace in the hole. God had always gotten us home before, but once again I was trying to make sure I could find a way home too. I’m not saying I shouldn’t have done that, but looking back I do feel a little foolish.

I just couldn’t escape my old dilemma: Do I prepare, or trust God to take care of everything? I’m not sure I have ever had a good answer to that question. In the end I only know that he is merciful and I need to follow him as best I can. By faith we know that if God chooses to test us, he tests us, and if he chooses to deliver us from that same testing, he delivers us. Faith is that way; it is not about how spiritual we can be. It is not even about figuring out how to do everything right, or getting God to do anything for us, or having to know what he intends to do. It is certainly not about anticipating and solving all of life’s difficulties. Faith is about trusting and following Jesus.

After investing in some more inconclusive deliberation I took the spare starter out of Redbird’s storage compartment and used it to fix Big Blue. Now Big Blue would be ready to roll on a moment’s notice if we needed a rescue. However, I couldn’t stop wondering if I had made a smart move. What are the chances, I pondered just before we left, that Redbird’s starter would quit in the next ten days? That would be two starter failures in two weeks! Not likely. Yes, my best bet would still be to have Big Blue ready to go.

My rationalizations continued, and so did the vague discomfort I felt about my decision. Starters don't fail often, and they don’t tend to fail you on the open road; they usually quit when you're parked and getting ready to go. At least if we were parked on the rare occasion when one happened to quit working we could count on being someplace safe, and if it came down to it we could always take one of our other vehicles to go buy a new starter.

I continued to feel uneasy about leaving our spare starter behind. I should have remembered that with God, nothing is by chance; but in the end, I was so busy preparing to leave I never finished praying about what I should do. By default we left home without a backup starter. When it was time to go, we boarded and prayed as we always did before leaving. The driver pushed the chrome button to the right of the steering wheel, and Redbird’s starter responded beautifully. We were on our way.

How naïve it was to strategize ways to avoid the testing. Testing would come whenever God wanted it to, and there was no way to prevent it. Thinking I might avoid testing was as silly as the prayers I had prayed asking God to be with me when he had clearly told me that he would never leave me in the first place.

Following the Shepherd

The tour had gone well, and we had just finished a performance in Seattle. Due to a cancellation we found ourselves between concerts without any destination for the night. There in Seattle, with nowhere to go, we came to believe with great certainty that we were now supposed to cross the border into Canada. We had wanted to travel the extra one hundred-plus miles anyway, so having the free time and sensing God’s leading we made the decision to go. Wandering into unfamiliar territory did seem a little risky to us, especially with a bus full of singers and band members; but then God had always taken care of us before. Remembering the decision that had led us to the Oregon Caves and a miraculous ministry opportunity, we just knew things would turn out the way they were supposed to.

It was late afternoon when we turned north, and all went smoothly as we crossed into Canada. The bus glided into the border patrol inspection station and eased to a stop in the transition-area parking lot. We went through the usual entrance processing, and when the last straggler was finally out of the restroom, I rejoined everyone under the pea-green ceiling.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, and as I had done countless times, fastened my belt, tested the gear shift for neutral, turned the key, and pressed the small chrome button, sending an electrical signal thirty feet back to the engine-starter solenoid. There was no response. Many things could have caused the problem, but there was no doubt in my mind what had gone wrong. Right in that crowded border transition area, about as far from home as we would be on this trip, Redbird’s starter had failed. It had lasted only three days after leaving home.

Immediately, a sick feeling took me right back to my decision to run without a spare. Given the mistake I had made, it was little comfort to remember that some eleven hundred miles away, Big Blue was sitting at home, ready to go, with a fresh and shiny new starter. I certainly felt a little foolish.

A failed starter is a bit of a problem with a ten-ton bus—and the whole predicament was extremely amusing to the border guards, who were now laughing at our expense. We were quite eager to get out of that situation, but we couldn’t move because the emergency air brakes were on and couldn’t be released without repressurizing the air tank. The tank, in turn, could not be filled unless the engine was running or air pressure was supplied from an outside source. Rather than taking time to start up the air compressor in our service van, we stretched out an air hose and “borrowed” compressed air from a passing big rig. Once we had enough pressure to release the air brakes, everybody piled out and pushed Redbird down the road, I “popped” the clutch, and the bus started.

We were on our way, but to where? Where could a whole busload of people sleep? Wherever we were going, we would have to stop our engine sooner or later, and after that we would have to figure out how to get it started again.

Given our dilemma, we were all determined to pay careful attention to God’s plan for us. I hadn't listened very carefully when we left without the starter, but I was certainly listening now. I was not interested in making another huge mistake.

We soon arrived at a split in the highway, and we all agreed that God told us to take the first road to the right—so we did. Just down the road, we came upon a major twenty-four hour International truck dealer and repair shop—just the ticket for Redbird’s 450-cubic-inch International power plant. Of course! we thought. This is where God wanted us to go all along.

Now it was the first time we had ever taken one of our vehicles to an actual dealer repair shop and we thought we had just found the safest place in the world to turn the engine off. So that was it! we thought. God had just given us an interesting test of faith and was now showing us how quickly he could help us. How wrong we were!

We decided to just fix the bus right there and move on. After pulling in and parking amongst several trucks we went into the parts department and asked for the starter we needed. But there was a problem we never could have anticipated with all our reasoning: “That’s a Yankee starter,” they told us to our dismay. “We don’t use that up here.” Now we wondered why God had sent us to the shop in the first place when we could have been driving anywhere else.

The repair shop management was very kind, and to our delight they invited us to stay the night in the service area. They even had a tractor that they offered to use for a push-start in the morning. So now we concluded that God had only meant to provide a place for us to sleep. We were wrong again!

As we prepared to return to the bus to settle in for the night, the shop owner initiated an uninvited act of kindness by opening the yellow pages of the phone book to suggest some places where we could perform. He pointed randomly through the church section, but many of the locations he suggested weren't even Christian. We knew there was little chance we would be welcomed to do a gospel concert in some of those places, even if it had been planned in advance. Not wanting to make an awkward phone call to an unknown church, I just stalled and kept trying to be polite to our hosts.

My relief was overwhelming when Terry, one of our very ministry-oriented staff who was looking over my shoulder, suddenly exclaimed, “Look!” A familiar name had just jumped out at him from the phone book. It was his former pastor from back home in California. A brief phone call later and we were at home for the night in a friendly church less than five miles down the road.

We were amazed and grateful at not only the provision of a wonderful place to sleep so far from home, but also a place in which to perform as well. Now that God had set us up, we began to assume that he had finally revealed his purpose in our breaking down. However, it was going to take a little while longer for us to discover that our visit to this friendly church still wasn't what God ultimately had in mind.

The House of Concorde

Early the next morning, Jeff—another mechanic—and I hopped in the sound truck to search for a junkyard.

It was a weekday, and our performance at the church was scheduled for that evening, so we were really hoping we could find a good used starter and have Redbird ready to go for the return trip south. As we drove, I kept thinking how much easier it would have been to have brought a starter with us from California.

During our hunt we happened to pass by a large Salvation Army youth home named the House of Concorde (meaning house of peace). Well, we thought in passing, wouldn’t that be a great place to do a concert?

Finally, after a lot of searching, God helped us find a tiny junkyard that actually had the right engine, and we were soon heading back to Redbird with our replacement Yankee starter. Once again, off to our right, there was the House of Concorde, and immediately we felt we were supposed to pay them a visit. Sure enough, they were eager for us to do a concert that very day.

That Salvation Army concert turned out to be one of the best and most memorable concerts in the history of our band. It wasn’t that the music was better; it was because the Shepherd of Israel was there with a depth of amazing grace that could never be explained. It’s not that God neglected us at other concerts, but somehow this one was burnt into our memories. The outpouring of joy and excitement by the young people at the House of Concorde told us they had experienced the very same thing.

When the concert was finished we finally understood why, despite our best planning, a backup starter had never made it into our parts supply. Now we knew why Big Blue’s starter had failed in the first place. God had found a way to bring us nearly a thousand miles from home and Big Blue to a ministry we could never have found by ourselves. To our delight that one concert soon opened the door to others in Canada. We were to visit the House of Concorde again, but since we already knew how to get there (and yes, we were carrying a spare starter that time!), it just wasn't the same as our first journey of faith.

The usual questions about our difficulties rolled through my mind. Couldn't God have just told us to go to the House of Concorde and allowed us to skip the starter problem? Yes, but that was not at all the point of his plan. He could also have taken the Israelites straight from Egypt to the Promised Land and had them skip the wilderness, but he didn’t. He wanted them to learn to walk in faith. I’m sure he wanted us to do the same.

There was one particular question that bothered me: Had I been hard of hearing? But mulling over that question only brought others to mind: Should I have prayed more before we left home? If I had taken a starter along, what might have happened then? Had God been asking us to do something that we had missed?

When all is said and done and every question has been asked, the best we can ever do is follow the Shepherd of Israel, with or without answers.

Again Jesus said, “Peace be with you! As the Father has sent me, I am sending you.” John 20:21

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Redbird on Interstate 5: A Time to Listen

But for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. Malachi 4:2

The moon will shine like the sun, and the sunlight will be seven times brighter, like the light of seven full days, when the LORD binds up the bruises of his people and heals the wounds he inflicted. Isaiah 30:26

For he wounds, but he also binds up; he injures, but his hands also heal. Job 5:18

In terms of our spiritual condition, there is nothing healthier than to be made sick by the hands of the Great Physician.

A mechanical breakdown is not the only thing that can threaten a road trip. Everything from fuel costs to scheduling problems, accidents, prison lockdowns, illnesses, sound equipment failure, or the loss of a musician can be a game changer. Countless times God intervened to help us, and in truth none of our trips would ever have been successful without his mercy and provision. It was obvious the Shepherd was watching over us.

But what is the difference between the constant “minor” provisions we receive from the Father’s hand and those astonishing events which most of us would label as miraculous? Don’t some supernatural gifts also come in very small packages? Is it not possible that most miracles are never seen at all?

At the very least, defining the miraculous is a matter of personal opinion. There are those who believe that nothing exists outside natural law, and so are quick to assume that what most people would believe to be a miracle is nothing more than startling coincidence. At the other extreme, some read the miraculous into any unusual event.

In the end, what we believe about miracles may be far less important than what we learn. And it is difficult to learn from any miracle without looking first to the One from whom they come, the One who has an eternal purpose for this world. After all, what is more important than loving God and doing his will? Such a pursuit is far more important than simply desiring to see the supernatural.

So while we did not as such, seek miracles—and they certainly occurred without warning—they would always arrive at just the right time. They were a humbling and unexplainable part of our journey. Sometimes they arrived to stop us in our tracks, sometimes to compel us to listen, sometimes to assist us; but they always revealed the presence of the Shepherd, and they turned our hearts towards him.

On Interstate 5

Of all the surprising events I have seen which have turned my heart towards God, none has impacted my life and faith in quite the same way as the one that occurred late one hot August afternoon in 1977. Redbird was rolling north on Interstate 5, somewhere south of Eugene, Oregon, and we were on a collision course with an event I never expected and one that I would never be able to forget.

Given that most of us were young and healthy, it was usually the buses that needed a helping hand, and it is no surprise that to this point in our ministry few of the special miracles that we had seen on the road were related to physical healing. Of course now and again there was a cold or flu and sometimes a little motion sickness—like the memorable time a girl new to the youth group managed to throw up all over me.

The delightful absence of serious physical ailments, however, was about to change, for unknown to us a dangerous disease had already taken a seat in our pea-green chapel. But before telling you how that unique situation unfolded, I want to set the stage by sharing a few thoughts about healing and miracles.

Healing

My initial encounter with a personal and obvious physical healing occurred during my last year as an undergraduate. I had been working out while on the university wrestling team when I sustained a bad knee injury.

It was months before I could run without pain, and a year later cartilage damage still prevented my right leg from fully extending. By then I could walk or run well enough, but I simply couldn't straighten that leg normally. I finally ended up seeing a surgeon, and he told me that the problem could only be repaired by surgery. So I made plans to get the damage fixed.

About that time my church choir had been asked to sing for a service in a large public auditorium, but I knew nothing about the setting or the visiting evangelist who was scheduled to speak. As a choir member, I was only going there to sing. When the day of the service came I went to the auditorium, entered through a back door, quietly took my place on a riser at the back of a large stage, and waited.

To my surprise, I discovered that I was at a healing service. I listened thoughtfully as the soft-spoken evangelist announced various healings as they took place in the audience. Without a look back or even a moment’s pause, the evangelist mentioned as though in passing that someone behind her (in the choir) was being healed in the right leg. That comment got my attention. As I stood there, I felt my right leg straighten under my choir robe. Had I just been healed? A little inconspicuous wiggling of my leg told me everything seemed to be functioning properly, but there was no way to be sure. I had to stand there politely for another hour before I could discreetly get a chance to look under the choir robe at my leg and see if anything really did happen.

When I was finally able to check my leg, I discovered it was absolutely perfect. I wasn’t sure what to think. For an entire month I would look at my leg several times a day to see if I could still straighten it, and I finally decided that it would be the most honorable and honest thing to concede that I had, indeed, been healed.

My purpose in telling this story is not to suggest that the healing of my knee was either remarkable or unremarkable. My intention is to demonstrate how cautious I am about physical healings. I have seen many “healings” that were more testimony to stagecraft than the supernatural, or more a reflection of human drama than reality. If someone tells me, for instance, how God has healed them from the flu even while they continue coughing, I fear that I may be witnessing more imagination than faith.

I have heard many prayers for healing offered “in Jesus’ name” that were followed by no apparent results. I can only conclude that such prayers, however well-intentioned—and unless God was delaying his answer—were not actually prayed in Jesus’ name and by his direction. Except for those few times when he was demonstrating a greater truth, when Jesus directed a healing, it happened without delay: “For no word from God will ever fail” (Luke 1:37).

Whenever I pray for a healing or any other supernatural event, I want to know, Is it God’s will? Is the prayer I want to pray what he desires me to pray, and is the outcome I am seeking the one he truly wants? Am I praying with his authorization for the answer I seek? Am I therefore truly praying in his name? Given that I do not listen well, I am often obliged to pray before I pray simply to keep the meditations of my heart in order!

If we look at the example of how Jesus prayed, it is straightforward, drama-free, and honoring of God. His prayer was always clearly “in God’s name,” and therefore the results of his requests were certain.

“So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”

Isaiah 55:11

Seeking miracles

Riding under the pea-green ceiling we learned to be respectful, even cautious, about miracles, for they may bring great responsibility.

Many people desire to witness miracles or even to see angels. However, while we may deeply value such manifestations of God's intervention, there are real reasons we should not pursue them unless we are supposed to. The greatest danger in seeking miracles for our own interest is that we become intrigued by miracles themselves and thereby disregard the One who did the miracle in the first place.

Another danger arises in seeking miracles that are simply outside of God’s purpose. God knows what we need before we do, and he likewise knows when we need a miraculous intervention in our lives. Our first responsibility is to seek God’s will—nothing more, nothing less.

We may also begin to look for miracles where they do not exist, or even try to discover strategies for making them happen. I am convinced that strategies or formulas are no more needed for persuading God to do miracles than we would need strategies for persuading a best friend to do something on our behalf. Far from contriving or imagining miracles, faith that honors God is built on simple trust.

Knowing God’s faithful care for us is sufficient reason for gratitude, whether we ever see a special miracle or not. God is already watching over us, and he is already providing for us in countless ways we do not see. If the Shepherd never leaves us and never fails to give us our daily bread to eat, and if he always provides us with the Water of life to drink so that our thirst is forever gone, why should we ask for more? “I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst” (John 6:35 KJV).

Although I do not intentionally seek special miracles, I am confident I have never missed out on one because I wasn’t paying attention or because I was disinterested, or even because I didn’t happen to know what God wanted me to do. I have learned that God will command my attention whenever it is time to ask for a miracle or even when it simply is time to learn from one. Such a time occurred that August afternoon as we traveled north on Interstate 5 in central Oregon. I was about to encounter a resolution to a problem I did not know existed and a final outcome that was very difficult to accept.

The sign

We were on a prison concert tour in the Northwest, and Redbird was packed with singers and band members as it rolled steadily north on Interstate 5. Late one afternoon I was sitting about two or three seats in back of the driver. Several rows farther back on the passenger side sat Kathy, one of our female singers, and beside her was her twelve-year-old daughter, Michelle.

Up until then the trip had been uneventful, but suddenly the young girl began to cry out. Something was causing terrible pain in her abdomen, and it was obvious that she was very ill. My first thought was to rush to the next hospital up the highway, but that was at least half an hour away. I wondered if I should radio ahead to the next city and try to get some help.

I was still in my usual problem-solving mode and busily consulting with other staff when suddenly I heard a distinct directive. Jesus told me to pray for Michelle in his name. I was deeply impacted by that instruction, but my first reaction was that I should not be presumptuous. Even after he told me to pray in his name, I hesitated because I did not want to fail to hear exactly what God wanted from me, and I did not want to end up praying for something he had not directed.

If I was going to pray for a healing, the girl was either going to get well or I could only conclude I was playing the fool. My first thought was to take a few more moments to pray to make certain I had heard correctly, but the instruction had been so clear I simply could not deny it. In obedience I stood and turned around in the aisle. I knew I had to go back to Michelle and pray for her, but I continued to ask myself, was I doing exactly what God wanted?

As soon as I stood and turned, my attention was drawn to the window. I was stunned at that very moment to see the huge metal roof of a large barn alongside the highway to my right. As it flashed by, it revealed a message just for me. Across the entire roof in gigantic letters were the words, HIS NAME. I suppose the barn was related to a local ministry, and I would still love to know who put that sign there.

Much encouraged by the “sign,” I could hesitate no more, and I went straight to the suffering girl. I quietly prayed that she be healed in Jesus’ name. Immediately, her discomfort was gone and she was without observable symptoms of any kind. With the crisis behind us, there was nothing left to do but sit down and continue traveling. The whole incident was over within a minute or so.

The rest of the story

That prayer in his name turned out to be just the tip of the iceberg. After nearly two weeks on the road, we returned home and everyone returned to their lives and ministry—except for me. I became sick with what seemed at first to be a simple case of the flu. The illness persisted, and day after day I just scraped by with no energy. When about two weeks had passed and I did not improve, I came to believe that I needed to see a doctor.

The consultation was predictable: “Get bed rest, drink plenty of fluids, and take aspirin.” I remember how frustrated I was at that response because I was convinced that what I had was no common flu.

I returned home, and that night at about two a.m. I woke up with terrible intestinal pain. My father drove me to the hospital, where I lay in the emergency room for hours before the pain subsided.

Again I returned home with no diagnosis, but when I got up the next morning and looked in the mirror, my skin was a sickly yellow and my eyes looked like lemon drops. Back to the doctor I went. I remember sitting in the exam room as the same doctor that I had seen less than twenty-four hours before walked through the door. In one quick moment he said “Oh! You've got hepatitis.” I remember thinking, So now you can diagnose me!

I returned home, destined to lie in my bed for many weeks while I recuperated. I was as weak as a kitten, and it was a chore just to roll over. Gratefully, my sick time did not turn out to be time lost, because for six weeks I fellowshipped with God.

Praying in Jesus’ name

It took me a while to understand just what had happened on Interstate 5 when the sick girl I had prayed for had been healed. When we returned from our trip, her mother took her to see a doctor to try to determine what had caused her pain. A blood test revealed that she had had hepatitis, but she was now without symptoms. I had spent two weeks on Redbird in close quarters with a girl who had hepatitis! Even though I probably had less contact with her than anyone else on the entire trip, not one other passenger on Redbird became ill.

As I lay in bed recuperating, I had a lot of time to ponder the facts. I knew very well that God had made me sick for a reason, and I believe it was for me to have a quiet season of fellowship with him.

I remember God’s counsel to Moses in Exodus 4:11: “Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the LORD?” God is the one who brings suffering into our lives; indeed he is the one who makes us sick.

Since God is the one who brings sickness and other trials and tests, it is certainly good news that he is also the one who is able to help us trust him through it all.

While I lay in bed, some local ministers were determined to come over and pray for my healing. As politely as I could, I declined. I didn't feel well enough to have guests in my house, and I certainly did not want prayer for healing unless I was actually going to be healed. I had no desire to face the ordeal of dialoguing with a group of ministers gathered around praying for me and then having nothing happen as a result.

I could not forget what I had seen so clearly out on the highway. Until God gave me another “sign” saying that I too was to be healed in his name, I wanted no special prayer. Besides, I thought, can’t God heal me from a distance? Couldn't I have already been healed if Jesus wanted? Couldn’t he have prevented the illness in the first place? I concluded that since God had singled me out to make me sick, I also had no reason to believe that he wanted me to be well, at least not at that particular time.

I knew full well that God could heal me immediately, but I absolutely believed that he did not want to do so. At that time he wanted me to fellowship with him, and I was certain he had put his signature on that choice. I knew it because I had seen the great “sign” by the highway.

And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Isaiah 9:6

CHAPTER TWELVE

Laurie: Feeding the Hungry

Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.

Psalm 17:8

Before we belong to each other, we belong to the Lord.

When I think of Greenie on the open highway, or when I think about how God gave us our current facility, my heart often goes back to the story of Laurie. But in relating that story I cannot avoid telling you how I lost my friend. It is so very hard to do.

The infiltrator

Laurie Stewart was a well-educated young woman who came from a prominent family in the Deep South. As sole heiress to a large estate that included nearly twenty newspapers, she came from a world very different from the counterculture of Santa Cruz. Growing up in a beautiful southern mansion, her roots were in the old American aristocracy. I remember admiring a great oil portrait of one of her ancestors hanging in the entranceway to her childhood home. The center of the portrait was marred by the slash of a Union officer’s sword.

Somehow during Laurie’s education, she had become politically involved with the revolutionaries of the 1960s and was deeply driven to see society completely changed. After graduating from college she arrived in Santa Cruz with the purpose of helping the revolutionary front on the West Coast, and she was soon established in the leadership of a local commune.

Laurie had known some Christians who were hard workers, and it occurred to her that she might find some recruits from a local church to radicalize and help with street protests. She began looking for an active youth group in Santa Cruz with the intention of infiltrating it and radicalizing the young people.

When Laurie first arrived at our church in 1970, she began by going after individual kids, all the while trying to inch our entire ministry toward political activism.

She lived her radicalism, but she was not prepared for how radical we were. We were living our own commitment to both the physical and spiritual needs of people on the street. Laurie was living by political rage, but she had never experienced the power of God that gently changes the human heart and compels it to serve others in love.

Laurie had not been around our church long when she encountered Jesus, and that's when her world turned upside down. Everything about Laurie immediately began to change. Overnight her countenance transformed from bitter to sweet, and she quickly retired her riot gear for a Bible. While angry intensity left her face and a ready smile took its place, she never did get over her camera shyness. She was always worrying about a random picture being matched with an old FBI file photo and creating a problem for her.

When Laurie found Jesus, big trouble followed, for we immediately drew fire from the revolutionary community. The word was out that a hit had been put out on my life, and that it would remain in effect unless she dropped the “Jesus thing.” In response she let the revolutionary leaders know that nothing would cause her to leave Jesus. That response solved her problem but certainly not mine. I personally knew the players who had made the threat and even the weapons they possessed, and it gave me good reason to keep my theology sorted out. I watched over my shoulder for a long time.

Before long Laurie had become one of the youth group leaders. To help tell the story, let me borrow my sister Meggie’s words:

She started out as quite a handful, but within weeks Jesus had spoken to her heart and she had turned her life over to him. Where she had once spent her money on revolution, she began to use it to help those in need.

Laurie would often talk about her faith experience, and I will always remember what she said about the crisis she faced as she worked in the church while trying to maintain dialogue with her radical friends or infiltrate a demonstration with compassion and peace. Even with the pressure they put on her, she never quit caring about her old comrades. “After all,” she said, “they need Jesus too.”

Laurie was ultimately confronted with the practical necessity to choose between Jesus and the “revolution.” That was when she made her final choice and became a revolutionary—for Jesus. There was to be no stopping her.

For years Laurie served the Lord faithfully with a most gentle spirit, full of wisdom and compassion. She indulged only in the humblest of foods to save her resources for those who had nothing. I would discover her up at all hours praying, and every day she looked for the opportunity to do ministry.

Laurie especially loved all the young people who came in off the street, and when she traveled on Greenie she often sat in front where she could turn and watch over her little flock. Her smile became a part of the pea-green ceiling. I have never known anyone quite like her.

Sharing

Truth be told, on some rare occasions you might still have heard Laurie’s “fiery” side. Those would only happen when Laurie was trying to protect the most vulnerable or perhaps the youngest travelers.

One of the bus memories I most value is how everyone shared their resources. Some of the young people had almost nothing to their names, while a few had at least a few dollars earned from part-time employment. But those with a little shared with those who had nothing. We didn’t just share resources, we shared our lives. Everyone was to be important and everyone was to be included. If anyone ever forgot that principle, Laurie was quick to remind them.

One very hot day on a long trip, we were approaching a town where we would be able to stop, stretch, and perhaps buy a snack. Meanwhile John and Louie were riding along in the very back of Greenie, where there was the least ventilation. Just for fun, in an effort to cope with the heat, they began discussing how nice it would be to have a large amount of ice cream sherbet at that very moment. Overhearing bits of the conversation from farther up front, Laurie immediately took the two older guys to task.

“How can you be talking about buying yourselves ice cream when all these other kids can’t afford anything?” she questioned them. Even through her smile they knew her objection was more than serious.

Now lest you think that Laurie was being uncaring to John and Louie, you have to understand that being given a verbal ration by the sweetest eighty-five-pound “revolutionary” in the world, who loved you as her own, was anything but a humiliating experience. It only made you love her more.

“Oh no,” John protested, “We were just talking about sherbet for fun!”

Red and green

I had a deep friendship with Laurie, and in the midst of that God gave me a little glimpse of his love for her before he took her home.

I had been going to graduate school for nearly three years, and that meant that at least twice a week I would drive the eighty miles from our ministry in Santa Cruz to the lecture halls of the seminary in Berkeley. I always left the freeway at the same intersection in Hayward in order to cross town to another freeway to get there.

Over several months I began to notice that each time I arrived at the Hayward intersection, I would invariably encounter a red light. The fact that I had to stop didn't annoy me, but I began to be intrigued as to why it might be that when I came to that intersection the light simply was never green—not ever. I began to wonder if the Lord had a purpose in the red light, but he said nothing to me about it. I just began to pay attention.

For nearly three years without fail that light was red. I knew before I got there that I would be met by a red signal and that I would have to wait before I could cross the intersection. I would watch other vehicles get a green light, but never me. I accepted the fact, but I continued to wonder why it happened that way.

Only one day was ever different—almost. For some reason, Laurie was riding with me to the seminary in my old Ford pickup. As we neared the exit with the red light she became very quiet, for she was deep in prayer. I was later to learn that she was asking God for a sign for help with a critical decision in her life, and she had been asking him to show her his answer by a green or a red light at the next intersection we came to. All this was unknown to me at the time, and she knew nothing of my past experience with the persistent red light. I had never shared my experience regarding that intersection with anyone. Now, out of eighty miles of driving, Laurie had chosen that very intersection to bring her case before God!

That day I approached the intersection as usual, moving along with traffic, and I was anticipating the red light—but to my astonishment the light was green. I was dumbfounded, and I hit the gas to celebrate going through for the first time without stopping. That was when my old truck suddenly stalled. While I sat there trying to restart it the light then turned red, and once again I was stuck behind that light. How could that have happened? I thought. When the light finally turned green, I drove on.

As we left the intersection Laurie turned to me and said, “You wouldn't believe what just happened! God showed me something at that light.” I was thinking the same thing! Now we both had a story to share. As I related my experience, it reinforced for her the answer God had given with the sudden appearance of an unanticipated red light.

What her specific prayer had been I never asked. I still had a few months of seminary classes left, and whenever I returned to that light I would remember why he had made it red. And yes, from that day on at that intersection the light was always red whenever I arrived.

When God steps in

To this day the pain returns when I talk about how we lost Laurie, for she was such a precious friend. I will nevertheless share what happened because she is part of our story, and it gives great comfort to know that God used her life to bring honor to himself.

Laurie had been with us for more than five years when her mother became terminally ill with cancer, and Laurie returned to the South to care for her. After her mother’s passing, we were counting the days until she could return.

But now, early in February of 1976, a sobering sequence of events began that would challenge us to the core. When those events were completed, our ability to serve those in need would increase, as would our faith; but we would be reminded once again that this world is neither our home nor a refuge from pain.

The incoming season of troubles began with a winter storm. That February brought an unusual cold snap that left the low mountains between Santa Cruz and San Jose covered with snow. My wife, Nancy, was studying at the time to be a nurse, and because we were having car problems she was using Laurie's car (which Laurie had left with us) to go to school. On Thursday, February 5th, she started her drive over Highway 17 not far from the same stretch where Greenie had first broken down on Big Moody Curve. There was snow on the road and as she approached the summit, anticipating the wintery view, a new Chrysler sedan went out of control, came across the highway from the other direction, and hit her head on.

Thankfully, God allowed Nancy to survive the accident without serious long-term damage, although she suffered head and other injuries. After first visiting my wife in the hospital, I called Laurie to let her know about her now-demolished car and my wife's near demise.

By the weekend my wife was able to speak to Laurie. Nancy told her that one moment she was enjoying the beauty of God’s creation, and the next thing she remembers, still in the wreckage, is a brief moment of partial consciousness and realizing she was still alive. In that moment Nancy could faintly hear the frantic worrying of the other driver who thought she was watching someone die. Nancy, unable to speak, only wanted to respond, “That’s ok, I’m a Christian.” She also recalled thinking at that time how quickly and mercifully God could have brought her into his presence if he had desired. Laurie was now moved as she listened to the story, especially since the accident had happened in her car, and she began considering eternity as well.

My sister recalls what happened next:

The following Thursday Laurie called me for a long talk. She shared how God had spoken to her through her conversation with Nancy regarding the wreck and the fragile nature of life. I remember being startled when Laurie stated peacefully, but with a clear sense of urgency, “The Lord told me to get my affairs in order.” Since Laurie was never one to mince words, I took what she said to heart, but it certainly was not something I wanted to talk about. I really didn’t even want to think about it either; I just wanted her to come home. Surely Laurie’s life was not coming to an end?

Then she moved on to share about the ministry she was doing and how she was looking forward to her return to Santa Cruz. She also updated me on a guy she had long known who was becoming obsessive towards her. She had steered him toward people and ministries who could help him and then told him he needed to leave her alone until he got his life straightened out.

Our driver and mechanic, Dale, had moved to New Jersey, and at the time of these events he got a chance to visit with Laurie for a few days. Dale recalls, in his own words . . .

I was able to go and visit Laurie while she was taking care of her mother. One day I went with her to the downtown mission where she was helping with addicts and alcoholics. That’s when I noticed Clarence, a boxer, who was clearly a troubled young man. He was obviously stalking Laurie, and here she was, trying to help him. Something about Clarence’s instability bothered me, and I told Laurie, “You can’t afford to put yourself in a situation where you are working with that guy.”

“I cannot stop,” responded Laurie. “I need to be helping people with God’s love. I have to give, and I know God will take care of me.”

Going home

That Thursday following the snow storm and the terrible accident, the same day she spoke to Meggie of hearing from God, Laurie was busy helping her father and packing to come back home, even while she continued to do ministry. But given God’s directive to put her affairs in order, she had immediately called to make an appointment with an attorney to work on her will. To her surprise the busy lawyer said he would see her Friday, the very next morning.

When she awoke on Friday Laurie wrote in her diary, This is going to be a wonderful day. She then went to see her attorney and spent the day writing down her final wishes. Early that evening she returned home.

Meggie continues her memories:

Now, two days after Laurie had talked to me of putting her affairs in order, I was getting ready to go to New Life Center for a Saturday meeting when my brother called: “Laurie has been murdered.”

As it turned out, Clarence, the obsessive man that Laurie had been trying to help, did not want Laurie to return to Santa Cruz as had been her intention. He entered Laurie’s bedroom window late on Friday night, hours after her visit with the lawyer, and beat her to death with repeated blows to the head. He then shoved a large dresser in front of the door, cut off her clothes, and fled.

The following morning Clarence, in an attempt to cover his tracks, called the Stewart’s house and asked to speak to Laurie. Mr. Stewart was accustomed to Laurie praying in her room for long periods of time and was not concerned that he hadn’t seen her yet that day. But because she was wanted on the phone, he went to her room and called for her. There was no answer. He knocked, but there was still no answer. Finally he tried to open the door, but the dresser kept him from opening it more than a crack. What he saw told him that something was very wrong, and he returned to the phone to tell Clarence, “She isn’t here right now.” Mr. Stewart then called friends who in turn called the police. When they found her, Laurie had been dead for several hours.

Troubled and in fear of being discovered, Clarence then went to see a lawyer-friend of his who, ironically, turned out to be Edward—the same kind Christian attorney who only the day before had helped Laurie put her final affairs in order. Clarence, in an attempt to cover his tracks, now made a bold move. Playing the role of an innocent friend passing along bad news, Clarence abruptly told his lawyer-friend, “Laurie’s been killed.”

Edward was stunned at hearing that information, and immediately called the Stewart home. A police lieutenant answered, and Edward asked if Laurie Stewart had indeed been killed. The lieutenant was taken aback, since the police had just started to investigate the crime scene and no information had yet been released to the public. Beyond the detectives who had just arrived, no one should have known Laurie was dead—especially not Clarence, not unless he was the murderer. Edward finished his conversation with the lieutenant and then confronted Clarence with the facts. When Clarence realized he had been found out, he quickly confessed to the murder and a short time later was placed under arrest.

Sunday morning, with very heavy hearts, my husband and I went to New Life Center. My brother Steve met me at the door and said, “Meggie, I just found out that Laurie’s funeral is tomorrow. You and I are headed back east in half an hour.” I had no time to go home for clothes, so my sister-in-law packed some stuff for me in a suitcase, and we headed for the airport.

Late that afternoon Mr. Stewart picked us up when we arrived and took us to the fine old home of some friends of his family where he was visiting. We sat, sharing our loss, and we were served “ice cream and gravy.” That was an awkward experience in southern courtesy. Here I was, a visiting drug and alcohol counselor, and the “gravy” turned out to be brandy. It is far easier to be completely accepting of someone else’s preferences than to have to explain that acceptance without imbibing.

We spent that night in a motel, and due to our grief neither Steve nor I slept very well. In the morning we got up and went for breakfast in a nearby restaurant. While waiting for our meal, Steve decided to see what was happening on that side of the United States and went outside to buy a newspaper. When he returned he showed me the headline that told of Laurie’s tragic death and reported that all the different papers in the racks were displaying the same thing. I went out on the porch and studied the headlines in shock. Every one was about Laurie. As I gazed intently at the papers, trying to understand what it all meant, a couple of young men began to admonish me.

“Yeah, go ahead and buy the news, the big sensational murder. Feast your mind on the gore!” they scolded.

I turned toward them, but by then tears were already beginning to flow. “She was one of my dearest friends,” I told them. They apologized profusely, and I suspect they followed the story with different eyes after that.

Reporters soon hunted us down and sought all of the information they could about Laurie. The newspapers probably reached over five million readers in the days before the Internet, so our stories about Laurie’s love and service to Jesus spoke openly to the entire region.

Headlines announced, “If They Were Hungry, She Fed Them.”

Day after day following her death the papers shared of Laurie’s love of Jesus. By the time the story had run its course, countless more people ended up hearing the gospel because of her death than she was ever able to touch in her life.

On Monday morning, the day of the funeral, Steve and I arrived at the Stewart home to find Laurie’s room completely cleaned, with new carpeting already installed. We spent the morning helping Mr. Stewart make preparations for the funeral, and he wanted us to go through her things and take what we wanted. What a bitter-sweet experience. I will always remember going through her closet and finding cut-apart pieces of a shirt I had made her.

It was that very shirt she had been wearing when she was killed. Mr. Stewart also requested that we spend the night at his home. He didn’t want to be alone.

The afternoon funeral was brief, and then we went to the graveside service. After returning to Mr. Stewart’s, we settled down to sleep in the bedrooms at the front of the house. Steve and I left the doors to the connecting bathroom open, but it was still eerie. Cars drove by and slowed down to see the site of the infamous murder, car after car after car.

After several sleepless hours of spectators, my brother began telling me that he was experiencing terrible pain. That was too much for me, and I ran into his room and announced I was sleeping the rest of the night in there. Well, his pain got worse, and in the wee hours of the morning, Steve woke me: “Meggie, get Mr. Stewart. Something is really wrong with me. I need to go to the hospital.” Mr. Stewart got up quickly, and we headed off.

As it turned out, Steve was admitted and diagnosed with a large kidney stone. I slept in a chair by the side of his bed the rest of the night. He spent one more night in the hospital and I stayed at the Stewart home, visiting with Mr. Stewart and some of Laurie’s other relatives.

After Steve’s release Wednesday morning, we headed back to spend our few remaining hours with Mr. Stewart, although Steve was still groggy from all the pain medication he had taken. That evening as we boarded the plane that would carry us home—eager to get back and see how Nancy was recuperating, grieving over the loss of Laurie, exhausted, and dealing with Steve’s illness—all we could do was turn to Jesus for strength and comfort.

It was time for brokenness.

Saying goodbye

The Sunday evening of our arrival Meg and I visited the mortuary, and I entered the viewing room with a growing apprehension, knowing I had to do some tough business with God. All day on the flight out from Santa Cruz God had been speaking to me of Lazarus and his resurrection from the dead. I asked, “Father, what are you saying to me? What do you want me to do?” I knew that when I got to the viewing room, I was going to have to talk with God about the possibility of the impossible.

I remember struggling within myself: Is this returning thought of Lazarus just because I am in grief, or am I really supposed to pray for the impossible? But the message of Lazarus would not go away, so by the time I arrived at the funeral home, I knew I had to resolve what God was saying to me, and I knew he wanted me to pay attention. I knew I needed to listen very carefully.

Now please be patient with me. I am not wild-eyed about asking for miracles of any sort. In fact, folks know I’m really gun-shy of drama and “carrying on” when it comes to prayer. Straight talk, along with asking for wisdom, works best for me when I am conversing with God. I know good and well that God doesn’t choose to do resurrections very often. In fact, I truly believe God is saving the abundance of resurrections for when he returns.

I know that there is no reason to think I would ever be responsible enough to even begin to represent God’s kingdom to the newspaper reporters, who would want to do an interview after a resurrection. Millions were already reading every word I struggled to say to honor God in telling about Laurie’s life, but how could I explain a resurrection? What kind of additional miracle would it take to prevent a flawed person like me from compromising something special that God did? No, I couldn’t be the right candidate. I just didn’t see why God kept the story of Lazarus on my heart. Was I missing something, or was all this because I was simply tired and hurting?

I had no desire to play the fool, yet there was still a little bit of childlike faith very much alive in me. The one thing I knew with certainty was that I really needed to hear from God. I knew God expected me to ask if it would be all right to ask about resurrection, and I was hurting enough to do just that. Besides, I had seen enough miracles that I did not want to be presumptuous in assuming that God did not want to do yet one more.

Finally I was alone in the room with her casket, and I had to know what God would say.

“What do you want?” I prayed.

Then the Father quietly told me words I have never forgotten: “I want her.” That statement made all the sense in the world to me, and the conversation was over. Through all these years that conversation has remained over. Just the memory and tears remain. So it is that in my life, miracles tend not to have been about what I wanted—they are always about the kingdom. So it was with Laurie.

As a pastor I have conducted scores of funerals, and I have lost my many loved ones; but that funeral was one of the hardest experiences of my life. As a guest in a big church filled with an overflow crowd of spectators, I tried to maintain my dignity, but I could only weep.

The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised. Job 1:21

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. 2 Corinthians 1:3

The comfort of the Lord

No human other than Laurie’s killer knows exactly what happened the night of her death. My heart recoils at the idea of her suffering, but God has comforted me for a long time with a promise he had once given to Laurie. After she became a Christian, Laurie had often said that God promised that he would take care of her at night. She never worried about the darkness or the many threats that often accompany it. She was fearless after the sun went down. Why then did she lose her life at night, especially in the way she did?

All of us are going to have to cross the Jordan River at the end of our days. None of the many events that may end our lives on earth, whether disease, accidents, suffering, or violence, are at all attractive. But God has appointed that something terminal will certainly come our way. Something will cause our bodies to fail. When that day comes, God himself will intervene with mercy to shepherd us across the river Jordan, just as he did for his children so long ago. He will part the water for us as well, and he will take us across on dry ground. He will protect us as the apple of his eye (Psalm 17:8).

Despite the few details I do know of Laurie’s death, I am still assured that God protected her as only he can do. I know he brought her quickly home with the greatest gentleness and compassion. How can I be assured of that when faced with the circumstances of her death? I know because I have always found him faithful to his children, and those who knew Laurie best were assured of the same thing.

Nancy’s accident in Laurie’s car not only impacted Laurie, but also spoke deeply to my wife.

Only days later, now torn by the loss of her dear friend, God spoke to Nancy to let her know that regardless of the horrific circumstances of Laurie’s death, he had been there with her just as he had been there for my wife during her own time of helplessness in the terrible highway accident. Through it all the Shepherd was most certainly there, for God loves us more than anyone does.

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants. Psalm 116:15

After the graveside service, my sister and I were stopped by Laurie’s attorney, Edward, who said, “I need to talk with you two. How about coming to dinner tonight?”

Soon we were at his home, and as the evening progressed, Edward told us the story of his involvement in the arrest. Then he informed us that the day of her death Laurie had left part of her inheritance to our ministry. The will had not been completed, but he had legal letters of her intent. Meggie and her husband, Pierre, were headed to the mission field with Wycliffe, and Laurie specifically wanted them to be supported there. The attorney then talked with Mr. Stewart who agreed that Laurie’s desire should be followed. Ultimately her personal estate was directed to New Life Center. That estate purchased a ministry house, which has served people in need for decades. Thus in death the result of her timely obedience to God provided hope for countless street people.

Epilogue

Following her death, the testimony of her life spoke truth to millions. One newspaper spoke to a friend of Laurie’s who said this:

When she became a Christian, she went one hundred percent for the Lord. She did everything she could with her resources and time. If people were hungry, she fed them. If they needed clothes, she got them. She counseled people around the clock. I recall so many times her staying up with people with mental problems or a drug problem. She was always so compassionate. To say she will be missed is an understatement, but let me say this: If she were here, she’d be praying for Clarence like we are.

Edward, the very man who had also befriended Clarence, said he now struggled with the problem of trying to help people like Clarence. He said Christians who do such ministering are “vulnerable and face risks.” “Christians must be careful,” he continued, “but still be able to love people in need regardless of who they are or what their problems are.”

The stark and gruesome reality of what happened to Laurie speaks truth about our broken and desperate world. Wishing the world were a kinder and gentler place does not make it so. Despite pronouncements by optimists, we will certainly face trouble and loss until Jesus comes again.

Uncertainty and danger are always issues that accompany street ministry, and certain kinds of ministry can be more dangerous than others. In spite of those facts, after years of such ministry most of us at New Life still feel far more comfortable working with addicts, convicts, and people with mental illness than we do functioning in formal church settings. Going back to the days of Greenie, we have seen so many problems, threats, and varied forms of violence that we are just not surprised by those things any more. They are a part of life.

Our experience with street ministry has often been hard, and the loss of Laurie has left a ragged edge on my soul. The memory of her tragic death and the fact that such a thing may happen again sobers us to this day. It reminds us that the uncertainty which comes with serving others is offset by the certainty that this world is not our home, and there is never a moment we do not need the Shepherd. Yet despite all we have experienced, I still encourage people to get involved in street ministry.

“But is it safe?” people ask. “Don’t you have to have special training?” I say, where does safety lie? Yes, you should get training and education as you are able. More importantly, depend heavily on wisdom, and God’s direction. And of course try to be careful where you can. The majority of people in need on the street are not a threat to your life or well-being when they are respected and loved; rather they are a blessing and a means of serving Jesus.

Then the King will say to those on his right, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.”

Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?” The King will reply, “I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:34–40

The truth is we have seen scores of children raised in the environs of New Life, surrounded by street-wise people who are more than protective of them. Here with convicts and drug addicts is the safest place any child could be.

But aren’t there dangerous people you must watch out for? There are dangerous people everywhere you go, but they do not carry signs announcing their presence. You have met them in malls, on street corners, and in parks without ever knowing their true identity. Never assume you are safe just because you see a smile. Sadly, in our world there are rare occasions when interacting with anybody you don’t know can be dangerous; and yes, by reaching out to more people you will statistically be exposed to more danger. But the important thing in doing any ministry is not seeking safety—it is to make certain you are doing what you are supposed to do. And above all, you need to listen to the Shepherd. Never go where he does not lead, and never fail to go where he does lead.

Who is going to harm you if you are eager to do good? But even if you should suffer for what is right, you are blessed. “Do not fear what they fear; do not be frightened.” But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord.

1 Peter 3:13–15

When all is said and done, I don’t think it is wise to ever be frightened of street ministry, for our personal safety is not maintained by hiding from the street and trying to keep ourselves in familiar places. Our safety is determined by the Good Shepherd, not by our own efforts to be secure. There is nothing we can do to avoid the limits God has set upon our lives. Trouble will come when it comes. We only need to trust him and press on.

Laurie simply listened to the Shepherd and followed him. “My food,” said Jesus, “is to do the will of him who sent me and to finish his work… I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest” (John 4:34–35). When Laurie looked at street people, she took Jesus at his word.

If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? Matthew 5:46

Laurie’s own heartfelt words painted a beautiful portrait of her life. Those words still speak to me:

“After all, they need Jesus too.”

“I cannot stop. I need to be helping people with God’s love. I have to give, and I know God will take care of me.”

And after all, who doesn’t need Jesus?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New Life Center: The Rescue

The LORD is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation. He is my God, and I will praise him, my father's God, and I will exalt him.

Exodus 15:2

When all is said and done, there is no sanctuary, there is no refuge, there is no fortress—except Him.

It was a cool fall day in 1972 when we were first handed the keys to the abandoned church building we had once so casually dismissed. We were full of anticipation and wasted no time going to work cleaning, painting, repairing the facility, and hauling away truckloads of trash. But if you had pulled us aside from our work and told us where our next experience of testing would be coming from, we would hardly have believed it.

We were about to discover that street ministry can threaten a church from either the inside or the outside with equal ease. Just as God had helped us when we were out on the open highway, now he would need to rescue us right there in our new home.

Rescue from ourselves

With our own roof over our heads, we had assumed our struggle in the wilderness was well behind us. We had been experiencing the joy of having the physical resources to provide shelter and help to those who needed it. Now it was easy to have worship services and Bible studies whenever we wanted. There was no one telling us we either couldn’t or shouldn’t do street ministry. Things were starting to look up for our young and growing church.

Our identity crisis emerged slowly, and at first no one noticed what was happening to us. Although our congregation was growing, it was also changing. With each passing month we looked a little more like an average church. Were we becoming mainstream, or were we still a mission? We certainly wanted to be a church the average person felt welcome attending, but at the same time our roots had been based for years in street ministry.

Several of the new families began to realize that much of our facility they felt was needed for normal church activities was increasingly dedicated to bed and counseling space. They also noticed we had quite a few people around who really didn’t fit in well with “regular folks.” To make matters worse, the homeless families and kids with problems sometimes created a chaotic atmosphere. As time passed, the awkward presence of clients engaged in treatment inside the church building was becoming harder to ignore. The newer families finally let us know that what we were doing was no way to build a church.

Perhaps they were right. But how do you go about making both groups feel welcomed? We are still working on that to this day. The “us and them” dilemma was all too reminiscent of the early days of our ministry. Visitors arriving fresh off the street were beginning to receive an uncertain reception from some of our very own church members. Unfortunately, the dissatisfaction felt by some grew until it was obvious the whole church would have to make a fresh decision about our very purpose for existing. What would “our” church become?

In the end the majority of the church, unwilling to turn their backs on the needs of broken people, maintained a commitment to street ministry. Thankfully, there were many wonderful congregations in our area that were already available to serve those traditional populations that would not come to our street church. That left us to serve people who wouldn’t feel comfortable in more formal settings. From experience we knew that our decision to remain focused on street ministry would come with a steep price, and it was truly sad to watch many of our new families migrate to more respectable mainstream churches.

The mission of our church remained the same—to share the gospel with those in the greatest need, especially those who felt alienated from Christianity. In our church there could be no off putting formality, no fees or offerings taken, no sense of coercion, and no hidden expectations—just sharing the love of God and truth from his Word.

The beautiful people

We slowly came to grips with the fact that we could never be a church full of successful people, when the reality was that most of our church was made up of unsuccessful street people. The sobering truth is that not all shattered lives are easily fixed, and just because some have a life-changing encounter with God doesn’t mean their temporal conditions will improve. Many wonderful new believers will never have either the skill set or education necessary for a competitive job. Many people on the street will never be able to start a family of their own, become healthy, buy a house, experience mental health, or even have a driver’s license. For most street people around the world, becoming a Christian is not a doorway to earthly success.

Our calling to walk with the broken people of our world was highlighted by a man who stopped by New Life Center because he needed a temporary place to stay. Adorned in fashionable clothing and more than a little gold jewelry, he told us he had arrived in town to start a new ministry—to “the beautiful people.” I never questioned whether his calling was true or not, for that is none of my business, but I noted that the man had clearly spoken to the differences between types of ministries. I also noted with chagrin that his comments clearly revealed he did not see us as being among the beautiful people he wanted to serve!

Even if our ministry would have ever become successful in the world's eyes, that success would not reflect anything we had done. In the past the Lord had kept Greenie and Redbird going, and now he was keeping food in the walk-in refrigerator. He was faithfully sending us volunteers with a heart to minister. Back then, he had helped us to travel to the broken; now he was helping the broken travel to us.

Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain.

Psalm 127:1

Rescue from our ministry

God had been teaching us since our Greenie days to be cautious with our assumptions, and those lessons never abated. Just as we had never expected to need to be rescued from ourselves, we did not anticipate that the next major threat we would face would be the result of simply doing as much street ministry as we possibly could. Our problem didn't turn out to be the ever-present potential of violence from an unstable client or a threatened lawsuit by a guest looking for easy money; neither was it a crime committed on our premises or even a protest from a neighbor who wanted only the best people in their neighborhood. We were used to dealing with those kinds of problems.

The crisis came when we found ourselves trying to fund an ever-increasing demand for treatment, shelter, and counseling. Twenty-four-hour programming requires a lot of competent staff and solid financial resources to hold it all together. For a long time we had been surviving financially because our church had so many committed volunteers. Most of our workers even continued to hold outside jobs in order to be able to do ministry. But with a continually growing client load, our need for additional staff seemed to remain leaps and bounds ahead of our ability to raise funds to keep the facility safe and functioning. During all this time, state regulations for providing treatment were increasing as fast as the number of people who needed our services. We had no choice but to find more staff and more funding.

Throughout the 1980s we barely managed to keep our doors open, but instead of our situation improving, we slowly lost ground. By the end of the decade we were so underfunded we had become convinced our doors would finally have to be closed for good.

We simply couldn't keep up with our bills, and our deficit was only growing. It appeared it would be wise to face the facts, be responsible, and close our treatment program gracefully while we still could.

To make matters worse, our building was in trouble. The daily wear and tear from clients and their children, along with the ravages of weather, left us in desperate need of a major facility overhaul. The roof leaked—not just here and there, but seemingly everywhere—and every effort to patch one giant portion of it was proving quite futile. Supporting walls needed to be reinforced and the roof itself redesigned and then rebuilt—in short, that whole section of the church needed to be replaced. The most conservative estimate spelled out what was for us a fortune in materials, even if volunteers could do all the labor. Our tired facility seemed to be teetering at the breaking point, and our deferred maintenance list was growing like the national debt.

The roof was only one problem with the building. Next the heating system gave up. Could it get worse? Yes. The fire department wanted our entire facility equipped with sprinklers and new fire doors installed in every room.

We could see no way out. We began to look at different strategies for closing down, not out of frustration but out of an attempt to be responsible. Even the local paper ran an article suggesting that the oldest homeless shelter in the county would have to close.

We did not assume God was going to intervene and make things better, although we absolutely knew that he could do so at any moment; not that he would, but that he could. God had never, ever told us we would survive as a ministry, and he has not to this day. But when the time came that we were faced with pulling the plug, we found ourselves as though we were back in the hot California desert that night when we had piled off Redbird and gathered in an empty lot to pray.

That was the moment of desperation when we could see no way forward, and we had asked God what we were supposed to do. But no matter how hopeless things appeared that night, God had not given us permission to stop—and he did not do so now. The lesson of the desert night was still alive in us, and we simply continued on.

How we managed to survive to the end of the ‘80s is beyond human understanding. Had we quit, the rest of the story, the impossible part, would certainly never have happened.

Shaking our foundations

Our troubles turned from turmoil to chaos on Tuesday afternoon, October 17, 1989, when the clock hit 5:04 and fifteen seconds Pacific Standard Time. That was the day our world changed, along with thousands of others in the greater San Francisco Bay area and a hundred miles south. The great Loma Prieta/Santa Cruz earthquake of 1989 was upon us, and for fifteen seconds we lived in total helplessness. The quake hit during a church leadership meeting at my home, and the agenda was abruptly dismissed by unspoken consensus as hot tea splattered everywhere and everyone ran out of the house.

Outside, the ground was rolling and large cracks shot through the driveway. There was a terrifying sound as the interior of the house echoed with a powerful hammering noise, while the frame flexed wildly and shook as though it were about to collapse. Jolted by Nancy’s screams, I raced to a back room to rescue our two-year-old son from his crib and then bolted for the door. When the shaking stopped, there was no electricity, communications were down, aftershocks continued to rumble, and sirens blared for hours as dozens of fire trucks from around the state came to support our city. We were all more than a little jumpy.

The deadly quake with its nearby epicenter registered 7.1 on the Richter scale, tearing up Santa Cruz along with extensively damaging many neighboring cities. We wondered what it had done to our dilapidated church building. When a few of us got the chance to inspect the facility, we didn't see any damage at all. The earthquake had certainly grabbed our attention, but it concealed what God was about to do on our behalf.

The Sunday following the earthquake I arrived well before the worship service and was surprised to discover our staff trying to cope with the phone, which had been ringing off the hook since early morning. A major San Francisco Bay-area television news network had for some reason decided to announce to millions in the region that we were the people to contact in Santa Cruz to offer donations and/or emergency housing and had broadcast our emergency shelter’s phone number.

Since our shelter was quite full after the quake, the incoming phone calls were a real help in locating hundreds of additional places for people to stay. Our immediate problem, however, was coping with the deluge of calls on our poor office phone. We had enough volunteers to help, but we needed a whole bank of phones to handle the volume. I attempted to call the telephone company, which turned out to be a bit of a challenge because phone lines were down everywhere and repair crews were overwhelmed. When I finally reached an operator, I pleaded my case all the way up to the highest supervisor I could contact. At last I reached someone who was able to help, and a bank of phones was installed the same day. Our volunteers went on to help countless people over the next few weeks.

The crack

No one could have imagined what happened in the wake of the phone crisis. It still boggles my mind.

Our phone clearing center kept New Life on the disaster relief radar screen, and before long federal disaster workers came through our facility to help us with earthquake damage. We certainly needed help, but our immediate dilemma was that the government was there to help with earthquake damage, and we didn’t have any—or did we?

The inspectors offered to examine our facility, and we began to take a very long and careful look around. Now we strangely found ourselves wanting to find damage to our already run-down building, even though we didn’t suspect there was any. After scouring our campus, the inspectors found a tiny crack in the plaster over the fireplace chimney under the worst part of the leaking roof. That crack represented the total extent of the damage, but at least now we were eligible for help.

The crack in the ceiling ended up providing us little consolation however, because it would have been quite easy for us to fix the damage ourselves, even if it had been worth taking the time to do it. When all was said and done, we saw little point in asking the government’s help for a twenty dollar crack in some ceiling plaster.

We would probably have forgotten about the earthquake damage entirely had it not been for another visit from a government team that arrived with an offer to help our now-eligible program. I was away during that visit, which I’m sure was a good thing, for I would certainly have gotten in the way of God’s plan. The government workers looked around, and then for some unknown reason they promised to replace our old furniture on the commitment that we would get rid of the shabby stuff we had. They would have made plans to provide financing to repair the building as well, but because of our limited damage, they only suggested replacing our furniture. It was all they could do for us.

When I returned I discovered that one of our volunteers had already seized an opportunity with an available truck and had the worn-out furniture hauled off to comply with the government’s request. All of our administrative systems couldn’t even hold on to junk furniture!

As it turned out, the government worker had never been authorized to replace the furniture in the first place, and there was no follow-through on his promise. It was no help to us that other programs had a similar scenario with unauthorized and unfulfilled promises for help. Clearly we were facing one of those “what can go wrong now” scenarios.

The flat-out miracle

Our situation had gone from bad to worse, and then some. Even where the roof wasn't leaking, we scarcely had a place to sit down. We were broke and sinking deeper in debt with each passing month, and the grants and funding we were receiving were no match for the amount of ministry we needed to do. Now, to make matters worse, every potential funding resource in the area seemed targeted to earthquake damage, and that left us completely in the lurch.

The loss of the furniture was the final straw, and so I decided to go and ask the mayor for help before we gave up and closed. I wish I could look back and say I did that because God told me to, but I can’t. I believe that I was compelled to do it because it was simply not something I would have normally done. Fortunately, God’s will does not depend on either my ability to listen or upon my wisdom. God clearly had me doing something far beyond my understanding. Nothing new here, miracles from God have never depended upon anything I did anyway. When I went to see the mayor, I thought I was just throwing spaghetti on the wall, hoping something might stick.

When I arrived at the city office, I told the mayor we would need help if we were to continue providing services to our city. Sadly, it turned out there was none available. The city itself was still too overwhelmed with the quake disaster to divert resources to help us.

As I left, the mayor threw some spaghetti on the wall herself by casually mentioning a phone number linked to an inter-governmental legal standoff that addressed federal failures in handling the earthquake damage in our area. The problem was that the court debate was all but over, and we weren’t a part of it.

We faced another problem. New Life was in worse shape than many other buildings in Santa Cruz, but it was not because of the earthquake. Well, yes, technically speaking we did have that crack above the fireplace, but that was all.

In spite of our hesitancy, our administrator made a brief phone call to the legal aid staff, asking if there was any value in a contact from a program such as ours. That was all we did. After taking down our name—without any request or participation on our part—they decided at the eleventh hour to include us in their resolution.

Within days we heard the incredible news. Based upon the number of people we served, the government immediately committed to rebuilding New Life Center from the ground up. It was to be much bigger and much better. The same government that couldn’t help us with our furniture was now going to fix everything! It was a flat-out miracle. We had thought that the earthquake had passed us by, but in one of our darkest hours, the nickel-and-dime crack over the fireplace had turned out to be worth nearly a million dollars!

Our new lease on life—a completely new handicapped-accessible facility—opened in 1990 and came with a commercial fire-sprinkler system, fire doors, and a new commercial kitchen. After all of these years, whenever I walk through the hallways of our facility, the deepest part of my soul is still moved—each and every time. That sense of marvel is just like the experience I felt when we traveled on Greenie. It’s almost as if our whole facility now had a pea-green ceiling and the outside was painted Big Bad Green.

The lesson

So what did we learn from the earthquake miracle? We knew, of course, that our survival depended upon God alone. We knew that once again he had made a way where there was no way. It was clear; if we turned to God and did what he wanted us to do, whatever that might be, then he would make a way.

Yet we had been so close to the brink of closure, we knew that God in his wisdom could choose to close our doors at any time. So, far beyond the wonder of a new facility, we were still humbled that we had any place at all to serve God.

I am the way and the truth and the life.

No one comes to the Father except through me.

John 14:6

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jordan River: A Matter of Timing

Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways!

Romans 11:33

The Father can do anything he wants, anywhere he wants, anytime he wants, in any way he wants. Sometimes he lets us see.

Changes

The 1980s at New Life Center found us scrambling to keep up with the responsibilities of operating a large addiction treatment program. Much to our dismay we found it increasingly difficult to take to the road for concerts and outreaches. Now that we had to put almost all of our resources into sheltering, counseling, and feeding people, we could no longer pull away large groups of workers and send them out on the road. It was all the making of a real identity crisis. Fortunately, the same kinds of “undesirable” and broken people we at one time had served on the highways and byways of America were now coming to us from far and wide in a steady stream of human need.

It was a painful day when we had to say goodbye to Redbird. Once again, someone had plans to build a camper, and so our faithful bus was gone. I keep hoping that maybe someday God will let us have another bus. Is it possible that God would allow a bus in heaven? I know where there are some great singers.

Jordan River

Our one remaining musical outreach was the Jordan River Band. It was made up of singers and musicians from our church and the wider Santa Cruz Christian community. We did a little rhythm and blues, Motown, and gospel rock, and we played in prison camps and other venues all around California. We still used our old sound-equipment van, Greenbird, but in time the band was no longer large enough to justify using a bus. Somehow road ministry was never the same without the pea-green ceiling.

We had a good reputation in the prison camps, which is to say that the prisoners liked us, which in turn meant that the staff would welcome us—a necessary ingredient for prison ministry. Our strategy was simple. We would set up some equipment, play some good licks, inmates would gather around, and the music would roll. We offered straightforward vocals that spoke the truth and honored the gospel without being invasive or confrontational.

The real point of our prison visits lay in what happened after the concerts. When the prisoners discovered that we were non-threatening, easy to talk to, and that we would not assault them with the gospel, they would hurry to visit with us as soon as the music was over. We all looked forward to the post-concert time when we broke down and loaded equipment, for that was when we had a chance to share the gospel on a personal level with whoever might be interested. That was a lot of people.

There was one thing we never failed to do as soon as we left the camps. Finding the first wide spot in the road where we could pull our vehicles over, everyone would pile out and we would stand in a circle and pray. Having just watched God go before us and impact the prisoners, we wanted to be certain that we had no occasion to believe that we had accomplished anything on our own. We had asked God to help us going in; we had seen him help us while we were there; and we did not want to drive off down the road thinking we should take any credit for what had just happened.

The appointment with Rafael

It was early in August of 1986 on one of those prison-concert days—still several hours before that next circle of prayer would convene again by the side of the road—when something occurred that I could never have anticipated in a lifetime.

A whole new area of ministry was about to fall into our laps!

The fall semester at Bethany University (closed in 2011) in Santa Cruz was just around the corner, and within two weeks we were going to launch a brand-new Christian addiction-studies major. The program was designed to train counselors to do addiction treatment nationally and around the world. I had been working hard all summer developing the curriculum.

The day of the concert I had to make a business run a couple of hours north to Sacramento. Then late that afternoon I was scheduled to rendezvous with the Jordan River Band nearly 200 miles away in Fort Bragg, back on the Pacific coast. I finished my business in Sacramento, and as I journeyed west I felt inclined to detour through the countryside where I had grown up riding “Bus Number One.” I assumed I was just entertaining a little nostalgia, but I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

There I was, driving off to do ministry, still very much aware that I would need God’s strength to finish the day and a long night of travel. The winding road, the need for God’s help, and the miles passing by were an invitation for meditation and prayer. The Shepherd was there, just as he always had been under the pea-green ceilings.

The reservation

During my high school years, several of my schoolmates came from the local Indian reservation. The Indians in our community had a reputation for being the best fighters around, and everyone knew you didn’t mess with our town.

In addition, there were terrible alcohol problems on and off the reservation. I saw many brutal fights and took a few lumps myself. It isn’t just the city that has mean streets! Growing up in a rural war zone propelled me into a lifetime of martial arts, which then also became part of our street ministry.

The most notorious street fighter of our day was named Rafael. At the time I was a very small guy, and given that I was respectful to him in a culture of hate and prejudice, and because I was in his class, Rafael took it upon himself to watch out for me. I never ran with him, because he moved in different circles. But when we were at school, he was a sort of bodyguard in the shadows. When a bigger kid would try to use me to climb up the best-fighter pyramid, it only gave Rafael the kind of excuse he wanted. His fights tended to be short—anything over a minute would be a big deal on campus.

Only once did I ever venture onto the reservation, and that was when my mother, who was a teacher, gave Rafael a ride home after a game. I happened to be in the car that dark and foggy night, but I was paying scant attention to where we were. After graduation, I hadn’t seen Rafael again.

It was now twenty-two years later, and without thought of Rafael, I found myself driving along the highway that would eventually wind its way past that same reservation. As I neared the curve just before the entrance, my attention slowly focused on where I was. That was when God spoke to me with a clear message—Go see Rafael. The directive was so strong that I turned off the highway immediately. But where was I supposed to go? Had I really heard God? Didn’t he know how dangerous Rafael was? Besides, could Rafael really still be alive? Would he even remember me? Besides, I had heard rumors over the years from old friends that Rafael had established a long trail of wreckage, mayhem, and imprisonment.

Machine Gun

There I was, driving to a potential encounter with a legend of explosive and unpredictable violence! But God had told me I was to go, and I was soon directed to an area of the reservation that somehow seemed right to me. I stopped my car. Is this near where Rafael's house was? I wondered.

I was feeling quite uncertain about my decision to visit the reservation when I noticed an elderly gentleman standing in front of a simple home. I didn’t know that I had just stumbled across “Machine Gun,” a man whose nickname was earned by his reputation as a quick-punching fighter in the generation before Rafael. In fact, the elderly gentleman was Rafael's uncle. I parked the car, and as I approached Machine Gun in his yard I asked, “Do you know anything about Rafael?”

Machine Gun was cautious, even a little bothered by my question, because it was clear I did not know that Rafael was no longer on the reservation and had been living for years in the San Francisco Bay area. He wanted to know how I knew Rafael, and he continued to check me out until he was assured I was actually Rafael's friend. When he decided that I had reliable credentials as a home boy, he offered a passing comment: “Rafael's a Christian.”

That was one “knock me over with a feather” piece of news! Still, why had God brought me all the way there just to discover that?

“Where could I find him?” I asked almost routinely.

“He lives in San Francisco,” replied Machine Gun.

I was wondering what I should do with the surprising information that Rafael was even still alive when I noticed that even as I was talking, Machine Gun’s response to me seemed to change. He was apparently noticing something going on behind me.

“You might find him at his mother’s house,” he added, pointing the way a short distance down the road.

I only had to drive a few hundred feet before I reached the top of the driveway of Rafael’s old home. I didn’t pull up closer, because I didn’t want to be seen as an intruder. I continued to think, why does God want me here?

Then my uncertainty began to grow. What if I ran into Rafael? I was still operating on adolescent memories, and although I knew I was now certainly far bigger than Rafael, was I big enough? Would he remember me, or would he see me as a threat? Never mind this “Christian” thing I had just heard—I was still on guard. But I decided that since God had told me to visit him, maybe Rafael really was a Christian; and for some reason, perhaps God wanted me to see Rafael right now. But wasn’t he in San Francisco?

Rafael

What I did not know was that while I had been driving west from Sacramento, Rafael had been driving north from San Francisco. In fact, just as Machine Gun and I had been talking, Rafael arrived at the reservation and then passed right behind me. He had come to the reservation to visit his mother only moments after I had arrived.

Stepping out onto the road, I noticed a car in front of the small home only a couple of hundred feet in front of me. A man was climbing out of it. The haircut and profile struck a strong chord in my memory.

“Rafael,” I called, with what I distinctly remember as an awkward and cautious ring.

He was already walking the other way, but when he heard my unfamiliar voice, I saw his powerful shoulders brace, and his stance lower, which in turn prepped my brain for a kokutsu dachi (back stance).

The testosterone response was clearly pretty strong in both of us. We were both ready for anything. As he slowly turned around, I stayed back and spoke again: “Rafael, I’m Steve Stiles.” I was trying to be as non-threatening as possible, but I wasn't at all sure if my approach was working.

After sorting out the now-bearded face that he had not seen since high school, Rafael remembered who I was. A few minutes spent talking about old times, and things began to warm up.

“I thought I was going to have to fight someone,” he told me, certain that I was yet another skeleton emerging from his closet when all he wanted to do was visit his mother!

I was intrigued to hear his story. After graduation and a tour of duty in Viet Nam, he became dangerously homicidal, often running from the law and hunted by enemies. He destroyed his family and his friendships—everything that got in his way. Finally he became suicidal, and his few remaining friends, certain he would become just another statistic, gave up on him.

Late one night, Rafael went on a terrible drinking binge. He crawled into his mother's house where he collapsed. Hiding from the law, he was without medical help, and he almost died from kidney failure. After lying semiconscious for nearly a week, detoxing from alcohol, he finally started to improve. After several more days, Rafael was just strong enough to leave the house and walk along a favorite trail. Having nowhere in particular to go, he just wandered. But this time on the mountain trail, his life was forever changed. The spiritual darkness that had been his companion for so long lost its grip.

Days before, hovering near death, someone had told him about what Jesus had done for him. At the time it had not made any sense. Now, as he walked along the trail, he suddenly grasped its meaning for his broken life. Jesus was for real. For the first time, peace and hope welled up in his heart. He cried out, "God, help me! I want your salvation!" Then a miracle happened. God gave him a new heart in place of his old one, and he began the journey of recovery from his addiction.

The surprise

Before I left Rafael for the concert I still had to do, our conversation somehow turned to the new addiction-training program at Bethany. Two weeks later Rafael was enrolled in the first year of the program. That was over twenty-five years ago, and from that day on he has been doing addiction ministry with American natives.

Many times through the years our church has worked on his home turf doing special projects and supporting their addiction-counseling program. That reservation has now become part of us.

It gives me great pause to think what might not have been if God hadn’t spoken to me by surprise that August afternoon, telling me so clearly, Go see Rafael. Too many times I have not listened well. I am grateful this was not one of them.

For it is God who works in you to will and to act according to his good purpose. Philippians 2:13

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Street: A Few True Stories

So we must not grow weary in doing good, for in due time we will reap, if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9

What is essential for all who care to do ministry on the street is a deep desire to love God and all mankind. Such ministry is built upon the lifelong struggle to love others as much as we love ourselves.

Taking it to the street

As with any form of ministry, working on the street offers unique challenges. Yet the good news is that any of us who are willing can participate just by encouraging the folks we encounter every day.

Jesus makes the matter clear: “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Do not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:43–48).

Taking the time to be kind and caring is ground zero in street ministry. After kindness there are often opportunities to share what God gives us by way of physical resources, for we must never forget some people don’t have enough food, shelter, medicine or sometimes even blankets.

“If one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?” (James 2:16).

But perhaps the most crucial part of street ministry is simply sharing God’s peace. Was not such peace first given to us in order for us to give it again (Luke 10:1–17)? While most of the people we encounter in this world are quite disinterested in anything having to do with God, there are always those who hunger for that perfect peace which comes only from above. So it was that over the years, in so many cities and towns, we discovered countless people who weren’t waiting for Greenie or Redbird to arrive in town—but they were eager to meet the Good Shepherd who led them there.

Oh yes, I suppose street ministry includes the added goal of making disciples (for Jesus rather than ourselves): “Therefore go and make disciples of all nations,” Jesus told us (Matthew 28:19). That can be quite a challenge—not only to do it well but just to do it at all. Why wouldn’t it be? It is hard enough to become good disciples ourselves.

A few stories more

So what does street ministry really look like? At heart it is the hard work of living and sharing the message of salvation with love. To borrow Paul’s words, such love is servant-like. It is patient and humble, and instead of drawing attention to itself, it turns attention to God. It never dishonors or gives up on another person. It offers protection, and it loves truth. It is more important to do than offering hope or even faith itself. (See I Corinthians 13:1-12.)

I am convinced that if I were to write a book based on an average day of bringing God’s healing love to strangers on the street, no one would ever be interested enough to pick it up, much less turn a page. So rather than describe something remarkably routine, I will share a few more stories of the street in the hope that you will want to keep reading. But even these stories of faith should be read with caution in order to avoid unrealistic expectations about how street ministry actually happens. And remember that, even though street ministry is often routine, you still never really know where the Shepherd will take you next.

A time to share

Back in the early days of the Jesus Movement, Jerry, one of our musicians, had a street ministry experience that was to remain etched in his memory for life. Now that I think about it, it stuck with me as well.

Jerry, a new Christian at the time, was hanging out with friends in a coffee shop one day. He had just noticed a young man standing across the room, when he heard God clearly speak: Go talk to that man. Tell him about Jesus.

Struggling with what he heard and feeling more than a little awkward, Jerry hesitated as he tried to figure out exactly what he would say to the man. But he couldn’t come up with a plan, and finally, after a long period of hedging, he just gave up. The directive, however, remained in his heart. Soon another opportunity presented itself, but even then Jerry still couldn’t bring himself to start a conversation with the unknown stranger.

The next day Jerry was all but resigned to keeping to himself when, there at the coffee shop, he saw the man again. Struggling on the inside, he watched the man uncomfortably from a distance as he considered what he was supposed to do. Still he hesitated to approach the stranger. After a while, out of the blue, the man turned and walked right over to Jerry and simply said, “If you had talked to me about Jesus yesterday it would have blown my mind.”

But Jerry’s yesterday was gone, just as surely as the many opportunities all of us have let slip by.

Staying cool

Sensitivity to God’s timing and purpose weighed greatly on us whenever we took the gospel to the street. We knew we were called to serve, and we had a deep desire to share what God had given us.

Yet we quickly learned the constant need for wisdom. It became clear to us that sharing the gospel where it was not wanted, when it was not wanted, or in ways that invaded people’s personal boundaries or threatened to compromise their dignity was often not sharing the gospel at all.

Was it not Jesus of whom the prophet Isaiah said, “He will not shout or cry out, or raise his voice in the streets. A bruised reed he will not break” (Isaiah 42:2–3)?  Was it not this same gentle and non-coercive Jesus with whom the street people of his day felt so comfortable? the same rabbi who punctuated so many of his teachings with the quiet invitation, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear” (Luke 14:35)?

So it was that we committed ourselves first to being considerate and loving to people, trusting God to provide any opportunity to share. We had a simple rule for sharing the gospel: When meeting someone for the first time, strive to care about them honestly and genuinely, without a hidden agenda or any covert attempts to manipulate conversations. Beyond that we would wait for God. Who were we to try to force open a door that God did not choose to open?

Stop to think about it. If a stranger walks up to any of us on the street and strikes up a conversation, how long is it before we figure out if he or she …

               is courteous, pleasant, and interesting to talk to or primarily               self-involved?

               is really interested in us or just trying to prove a point?

               respects our time and space or simply invades it without               thought?

               is humble or presumptuous?

               is genuinely relating to us or manipulating us for an               unknown purpose?

               is talking to us or at us?

               is expressing human thought, or is truly inspired by God?

               is an intruder or a fellow-traveler in our world?

One evening a group of us went out to talk to people on the street and, of course, wait for an opportunity to share God’s love. But everywhere we went people seemed unusually cold and even defensive. What is going on? we thought. We haven’t been insensitive, and we haven’t even had a chance to say a single word to anyone about Jesus. It was then that we discovered that a group of Christians had come through the area ahead of us, invading people’s personal space while talking excitedly about Jesus. It was clear that nobody there wanted anyone else bothering them. It was time for us to go home.

Depending on God

We learned that sharing our faith with strangers required yet more faith, and even when we intended to depend on God there were times he had to get our attention and remind us of who was in charge. One such evening a group of us decided to go downtown to see who we might find to talk with. We were already enroute when the Shepherd spoke to us to let us know we really needed to check in with him. Realizing we had been heading off under our own steam, we parked at the side of a street to pray.

When once again we were listening to him, we felt directed to a location where we had never gone before. Walking inside I noticed a young man who was sitting alone, and I visited with him for a brief time. His name was Bill, and at an appropriate moment I invited him to drop by sometime and see us at New Life, and then I went on my way. To my surprise, the very next Sunday Bill appeared at church.

Bill was quite friendly but obviously unsure of himself as he tried to find words to communicate what had just happened to him. Over and over he tried to express how amazed he was at how he had come to be there. He related how he had hopped on his bike intending to come to church with no idea where he was going. Leaving his home miles away, he had just kept riding along and turning corners wherever he felt he should turn, being led the entire time in a manner he could not comprehend. Suddenly there it was! Bill was so moved by his unintended experience of following the Shepherd that he soon became a believer and went to work as a leader in our church for many years before eventually moving away.

Does that kind of story happen all the time? No, but it was a good reminder for us of how much we need to listen to God.

Another divine appointment took me equally by surprise. One day while busily working in our church sanctuary, I felt specifically directed to go immediately to a major nearby tourist attraction, the Santa Cruz boardwalk. In fact I felt so compelled I went at once, parked, and joined the crowd. I just continued walking until God directed me to approach a specific man. To my astonishment, as soon as I said hi, he asked me to explain to him how he could come to know God. That encounter could not have been quicker or easier.

But sharing the gospel is rarely so easy; it is something I always need to keep working at. Even on a good day I bumble and stumble. Learning to love people is clearly going to take my entire life.

The miracle at the temple

Do you want a little encouragement in sharing your faith? Look back at an event that occurred nearly three thousand years ago, but which still makes a world of difference in doing street ministry.

Solomon had just finished building the first temple in Jerusalem, and at long last it was time for a formal dedication. As he prayed with deep compassion for Israel, Solomon spoke of forgiveness of sin and then contemplated the reality of God dwelling on earth with man. We know the wise king’s prayer was honored by God, for it was followed by fire from heaven. But look at this exciting part of the dedication prayer Solomon raised to God:

As for the foreigner who does not belong to your people Israel but has come from a distant land because of your name—for men will hear of your great name and your mighty hand and your outstretched arm—when he comes and prays toward this temple, then hear from heaven, your dwelling place, and do whatever the foreigner asks of you, so that all the peoples of the earth may know your name and fear you, as do your own people Israel, and may know that this house I have built bears your Name. I Kings 8:41–43

Solomon was asking God to reveal himself to anyone who was interested, and God agreed! This ancient prayer is clear evidence that God is more interested in touching our world than we could ever imagine.

Just as in Solomon’s time or in Jesus’ day, God still responds to the prayers of foreigners and strangers: “All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away” (John 6:37);  and people from around the world still look to the living temple—Jesus (John 2:19).

Stop to think about the promise to Solomon.

When any stranger or foreigner, anyone we talk to, truly wonders whether or not God might really be there for them, we can promise with absolute certainty that God will reveal himself whenever they might choose to honestly ask—always. The Shepherd still answers.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above” (James 1:17).

Trouble in the kingdom

Street ministry is not limited to conversations about God. It also calls us to respond with compassion to people’s many needs, whether to offer housing, medical care, food, do visitation, or simply lend an ear. As believers we are even required to show hospitality.

Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.

I Peter 4:9

But hospitality can happen in some surprising ways. While ministry happened on the road and daily at our church, there was one time God brought a little street ministry and the duty of hospitality right to my front door.

The last light of dusk was showing through the trees as I drove down the long dirt driveway to our home. Going through the front door, I found myself alone in the house. I was just becoming aware that it was time to turn on the lights, when I felt the familiar Wind. Without warning, God had grabbed my attention and was speaking to me so definitively I could think of nothing else but to call out to him. Somehow there was trouble in his kingdom, and it had something to do with me.

So strong was the pull on my heart that I went directly to my bedroom, fell face down on my bed, and began to pray: “God, what is it?” “What is happening?” There in the silence I waited before him.

I had been praying for about a minute when I heard the growing crescendo of approaching sirens, and then the yelling started. The intensity of the shouting was so great that in the confusion of the moment I feared the couple living nearby must have engaged in a deadly fight, resulting in someone calling the police. Soon I heard shouts on public address systems, and through the windows I saw brilliant red and blue flashes everywhere around my house.

I leaped up and dashed to the front of the house, only to see the entire parking area filled with police vehicles and a trail of flashing lights extending all the way up my driveway and out of sight. There must have been at least twenty units: state, county, and local law enforcement. Still confused, I had started out my front door to see what was happening, when it dawned on me I could be walking into a wall of weapons that might be pointed straight at me. Waiting in the shadow of my doorway until the scene had stabilized, I finally ventured out to make contact with the police and find out what was going on. But before I could talk with anyone, things began to make sense.

There, standing near his chopper, a burly biker was being held in custody. I recognized his silhouette immediately. He was a wonderful, gentle, caring Christian man, who had just made a bad mistake. After a minor traffic violation, an old habit prevailed and he had decided to run instead of stopping. After eluding the police for a long time, he realized he really needed to give up. But, afraid that he would be beaten, he thought it best to be arrested at his pastor’s front door. All he wanted was a moment of hospitality from me—and he was welcome to it!

Rest stops, rubbing shoulders, and more street ministry

We were a simple caravan of color as we crossed America. Redbird, filled with performers, led the way followed by Greenbird, the sound van. Then of course along came Bluebird, our equipment van, running caboose. That caravan passed by many cities and beautiful panoramas, but we certainly should not overlook the interesting stops we made along the way. Pulling into service stations, truck stops, parks, rest areas, and scenic overlooks—even those times we stopped to check an engine problem, help a stranded motorist, enjoy the scenery, change drivers, or ask for directions—created more than a few memories and a chance to share God’s love.

Piling off the bus always presented a great opportunity for everyone to stretch their legs, but stopping often meant street ministry was about to happen by surprise. Wherever we happened to be, we always looked for people whom we might be able to serve or encourage in some way. We would be sure to avoid intruding on anyone’s space, but at the same time we would always want to reach out with a little Jesus People love.

During our traveling years we weren’t the only ministry on the road, and there were a few occasions when we rubbed shoulders with other nomads much like ourselves. I remember one such meeting, when Greenie had pulled into a rest stop in British Columbia to give everyone a much-needed break.

As we wandered around, we couldn’t avoid noticing the sleek, shiny new coach that had pulled up right beside Greenie. With its plush interior and soft bucket seats, the beautiful bus was loaded with young people from a church who had leased it for a week-long mission trip to an Indian reservation to do some clean-up work. Those young people and ours met together in the parking area to share stories and great fellowship.

The two buses, however, could hardly have been more of a contrast. Underneath the boldness of the bright white racing stripe and the Big Bad Green paint job, Greenie was still an ungainly old school bus with stiff bench seats. Now I’m not complaining, for I would dearly love to drive Greenie once again. It is just interesting to note the different ways God would keep us humble in order to be approachable by the kinds of people we were called to serve.

Oh yes, there were the occasional hitchhikers who hopped on board—people of all kinds. Some were running from a painful past (“Dude, I’m getting flash backs. Do you have any vitamin C?”); others had clearly been pushed to the road with mental health problems; and there were still others who, like us, had a little traveling blood.

We often had no idea who was it we might have just fed, encouraged, and helped along their way. Once or twice we would for some reason truly wonder who it really was who had stepped on board and later stepped off. We were being sent to people on the street, but had anyone ever been sent to us?

Medical

Along with the many outreaches our ministry was involved in, we provided first aid services for several Jesus festivals in northern California. Three or four of us were emergency medical technicians, and we had extensive supplies on board our equipment van, along with oxygen and a resuscitator.

More than once that equipment was put to use, and there was one dark and particularly scary night that stuck in more than a few memories. In a remote area of Oregon, Greenbird and Bluebird were cautiously following Pete L. (our “night driver”) in Redbird as  he worked his way through bad patches of fog. Suddenly we encountered debris all over the road, and Pete slammed on the brakes. People were instantly pressed forward against the seats ahead of them, and Redbird’s nose dove down heavily towards the highway as tons of steel and humanity came to a quick halt. In the few moments it took to stop, everyone was wide awake.

We had come upon a serious single-car accident. What was left of a vehicle was smashed into the guardrail at the side of the highway. The driver was breathing but barely responsive, and worse, he was pinned inside.

Everyone jumped out immediately and went to work. Flares were set and people went up and down the road to wave off any potential traffic. Given that those were the days before cell phones, Greenbird raced up the road to seek help, while others worked the CB radio to see if there were any “ears on” to speed help our way.

Our biggest challenge was doing an extrication so we could fully assess and treat the driver. That’s when Redbird came to the rescue. Pete carefully maneuvered the thirty-three-foot bus up near the driver’s door. Removing a small front panel below the windshield that concealed a tow pin, we hooked up a powerful winch-like device, and using porta-power hydraulic equipment and saws, we were able to free the victim. The man’s condition had been evaluated, and he had been immobilized as well as treated for shock long before the ambulance was finally able to get there.

Our work was finished as suddenly as it had started. It had been different than our usual ministry, but it was definitely done on the street! We reloaded our equipment, located Greenbird on the CB radio, rendezvoused, and drove off into the night.

Dealing with reality

Humility fits well with street work because such ministry is a calling for service, not for glory. It is often stressful and difficult. In decades of doing street ministry, we have encountered every kind of addiction, mental health problem, and criminal lifestyle you can imagine. We have also learned that the kinds of miracles people on the street need are usually far different than what most believers expect. I will tell you about Derrald.

When Derrald arrived on our doorstep, he was a very troubled young man. Unable to cope with him, his parents had pushed him to the street. When I first met him he was passing his days standing on garage roofs preparing to accomplish a great miracle. Some folks dream of walking on water, but Derrald was intent on walking on air. In his own oft-repeated words, his preparation for his upcoming feat involved “reconditioning” his mind “to find his true potential as a catalyst for the new world revolution of love.”

When he wasn’t standing frozen on a roof he would wander into people’s yards in a daze. So disturbed was he, and so difficult even to talk to that staff at New Life fought the idea of letting him stay. Just how would we keep him off of our own roof? We didn’t dare offend our neighbors, and anyway, didn’t he just need medication and a locked gate?

With well-reasoned trepidation we did let Derrald stay, pending further assessment. However, with God’s mercy and a new-found faith, together with months of patient counseling, he became whole again. He finished graduate school and began a family, then went on to a successful career in teaching.

But Derrald’s story is not everybody’s story. Some people not only need medication, they need hospitalization. Not everyone gets better.

There is a sobering truth about people with shattered lives: just because they become believers and have a life-changing encounter with God does not mean they will necessarily become successful in life in a worldly sense. Many of these wonderful believers will never have a decent job, a family of their own, a house, good health—either physical or mental—or even a valid driver’s license. God may do a miracle to change their hearts, but that does not mean the circumstances of their lives will improve. The thief on the cross at Jesus’ side received the promise of eternal life, but his earthly situation only became worse.

For many street people, becoming a Christian is not a doorway to worldly success. They will have Jesus, they will have fellowship, they too will be called to serve—and that will be enough.

The sea

At New Life Center we constantly have to relearn what Christian workers, street ministries, and missions around the world have come to know so intimately: our problems aren't all fixed by miracles, and ministry was never designed to be easy. Indeed, it is often overwhelming and subject to failure, for ministry will remain a struggle as long as human nature remains broken.

To Adam [God] said, “Because you listened to your wife and ate from the tree about which I commanded you, 'You must not eat of it,' cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you, and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food.”

Genesis 3:17–19

Daily and painful toil are limits placed on all mankind—even on every believer. Such limits provide good reason to depend upon God. What else makes sense to do?

Until creation is no longer fallen, we have no hope of fulfilling even our desire to serve, for there is always more need than we will ever be able to respond to. At New Life we have now served millions of meals and hosted hundreds of thousands of nights of sleep, but all of that effort amounts to so little in the sea of need around us.

The traditional Celtic fisherman’s prayer states the problem of street ministry so very well:

Oh Lord, the sea is so wide, and my boat is so small!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Crossing America:

Living with the Unexpected

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.

2 Corinthians 4:7–10

One of the benefits of faith is knowing that even though testing must come, God has good planned for us. We never know what he will bring into our lives, nor if what he brings us will be difficult. We do know that what he brings will be for good because he is Good.

Backup plan

Out on the highway, thousands of miles from home, a mechanical breakdown can ruin your whole day—that is unless you remember that hardships and trials do not come by accident, and God’s purpose never ruins anything that wasn’t supposed to be undone in the first place. Mechanical problems on the road provided us with some memorable challenges, but even on the hardest days those troubles were offset by the peace of knowing we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Whatever trial God might choose for us was certainly better than any alternative we could ever think of.

We learned to be vigilant, not only in maintaining our equipment, but in making certain that we traveled close to the Shepherd. We prayed before and during each trip for God’s will to be done, and at the same time we constantly checked fluid levels, gauges, and did careful inspections of the engine, driveline, and suspension. We tried not to take anything for granted. Our vigilance was a matter of being responsible, but we also knew we could never control the outcome of any journey.

While our faith was to grow in many ways, our early testing most often seemed to be defined by pistons, gears, wiring, and bearings. Mechanical problems made us so thoroughly aware of our need of God that during those delightful times when nothing major malfunctioned and we didn’t have to spend hours hunched over in the engine compartment, we were only more aware that the Good Shepherd was providing for us. Now and again, just for fun, we would dream of what it would be like to take an extended concert trip without a major crisis. Such a trip actually did happen—well, sort of. I will have to explain.

The last bus to Nashville

It was in 1976 during our last trip across America when we learned once again that even with all of our careful preparations, we could never anticipate what God might do. There were always more lessons of faith to be learned on the road, and as usual, they were not what we expected them to be. Frankly, at the time we had no idea we were on our last extended road trip, for we thought our traveling ministry was only just beginning to roll.

Indeed we were very hopeful trekkers who once again set off on their way to Nashville, Tennessee, this time taking the beautiful northern route on Interstate 80 through the Rockies and beyond. We had been blessed with some great new musicians, and as usual we could hardly wait to get started doing ministry. For years it had been just that way. We always had hungered for any chance to share the gospel, and that remained our focus through every adventure.

From the start things went so smoothly that it struck us that perhaps this could well be the long trip that would stand out from all the others. Far from the sometimes desperate struggles we had often encountered just to stay rolling, the ease of this trip could not escape our notice. Was this what it was like for a normal traveling singing group? Had God brought us to a place of maturity where traveling was to become more routine and we could just focus on music and ministry?

In fact, the trouble-free peacefulness of our ride east really took us off guard. It wasn’t that we no longer felt the need to trust God. It was just that we had noticed how, right then and there, he seemed to be leading us by still waters. We were especially grateful because we were still healing from the loss of Laurie only three or four months before.

We had seen too many difficulties through the years to ever think that such a calm and peaceful journey could be anything but a gift from the same Shepherd who had always cared for us and nurtured our faith in the slow lanes and on the shoulders of America’s highways. Were we missing something?

Somewhere in Missouri

Still eastbound on Interstate 80, deep in the countryside of Missouri, we had been making close to 1,500 miles a day when we neared the Mason-Dixon Line on a humid summer afternoon. Long-range tanks on every vehicle, food and accommodations aboard Redbird—there was no reason to stop. All morning and into the afternoon the parade of white mile markers and road signs funneled endlessly into the right-hand windshield and just as quickly departed into the rearview mirror.

As we drew nearer to our destination, we were still thinking, Is this going to continue being a trouble-free run, or will something unexpected happen? We didn’t want to be presumptuous in believing that there wouldn’t be a problem anymore than believing there would, but we couldn’t help wondering. Driving out there so far from home in well-worn vehicles, especially with our history of trouble, you just can’t help wondering and praying.

We were cruising smoothly on flat highway at about sixty-five miles per hour when, without the slightest warning, Redbird’s engine abruptly shut down. Our now-powerless bus slowly rolled to a stop at the side of the highway. Releasing the pedal for the air brakes, there was the familiar hiss of evacuating air. The ensuing silence was surprisingly loud. What could have happened?

Following the parking routine by rote, I methodically pushed the button that loaded the parking-brake air pots—whoosh; then flipped the lever opening the front door: his-s-s-s, thump. I released the buckle on my seatbelt and stood up to survey our situation. The other mechanics were already shaking off their sleep and working their way forward to help.

My first instinct was that we must have experienced an electrical problem of some kind. Almost without a second thought, I grabbed the unlocking tool for the engine compartment doors in one hand and an electrical tester in the other, then headed down the steps. It could have been almost anything, even the beginning of another difficult trial at the side of the road, but I would start by checking the ignition system.

As I walked to the back of the bus I was surprised, in fact almost astonished, to note that I was not at all worried about what I would find. How could that be? So many times over the years I had hurried back and opened the access doors only to discover some devastating mechanical scenario, but this time was very different. I was already experiencing an unexplainable peace about this breakdown.

The other mechanics and I had just opened the compartment doors and were peering into the hot, dark cavern (underneath the grease it too was pea-green) when a cry for help suddenly drew our attention to the other side of the highway. Directly across from us through some trees and over on a frontage road, a car had burst into flames. Alone and desperate, a woman was frantically calling to us.

I dropped my tools and ran back to the front of Redbird for a fire extinguisher as some of the others pulled extinguishers from the two vans, Greenbird and Bluebird. We raced across the highway, and the blaze was out moments before serious damage could be done to the lady’s car.

A quick inspection revealed a ruptured fuel line, and we dug through our parts stock to find the hose necessary to do the repair. As we finished, a small-town fire department arrived on the scene, only to find their work done and the woman’s car repaired. The grateful fire fighters showed their appreciation by inviting us to their headquarters to recharge our extinguishers. Not wanting to be without fire protection during the rest of our trip, we decided it was well worth sacrificing precious road time in order to take advantage of the offer. Besides, it was free.

After the drama of the fire had subsided, I was chagrined to remember that on the other side of the highway Redbird was still broken down. We couldn’t drive anywhere, not even to the fire station. It was clearly time to go back to work on our own problem.

Returning to Redbird, we went over the electrical and ignition circuits in the engine compartment, and everything checked out fine; nothing appeared to be wrong anywhere. Maybe the wiring to the front of the bus is bad, I thought. To begin tracing the problem, I decided to try starting the engine from the engine compartment and sent someone to make sure Redbird’s transmission was in neutral. But before he had time to check, I became suspicious. Suddenly I exclaimed to myself, “I’ve got it figured out!”

With a quiet delight I walked to the front of Redbird, climbed in the driver's seat, turned the key, and pushed the chrome start-button. The engine roared to life! Just as I had thought, there was nothing wrong. The problem had indeed vanished, and it never occurred again. Off we went to the fire station and Nashville. As it turned out, just being able to make that trip to the fire department in Redbird turned out to be the most amazing part of the incident.

What had stopped us? I was baffled then and I am baffled now. I am convinced I will have to wait until I am with the Lord to find out just what he did to shut Redbird down.

Why did God stop us just at that moment in time? To all outward appearances it was to help the lady whose car was in flames. We would have liked to hear her story, but the lady hurried on her way after talking to the fire fighters, never to be seen again. Miracles aren’t always what they appear to be, and what that help meant to the lady is known only to God. How often does someone who steps in to help us during difficult circumstances truly understand the difference they make for us?

The whole episode was a clear reminder to us that how and why ministry is done is not necessarily our business. It is our place to follow the Shepherd, and work as a servant. It is God’s place to direct his kingdom.

Running Red

Besides the fire incident, the only mechanical difficulty of any consequence we faced happened while still on the way east, when the inside tire on our left-rear duals went flat. We carried no mounted spare, so we had to break the tire down and repair it at the side of the road. Outside of doing the repair in the blazing sun, the flat tire was not a remarkable problem. Oh yes, there was a little welding we had to do on the exhaust system when we reached Nashville, but that was no big deal either.

The biggest problem on this trip was the driveshaft. Redbird had a short, solid driveshaft that always had to be treated with great respect because its rigid design was subject to snapping under a sudden heavy load from the engine. That driveshaft was wearing out, and just about the time we got to Nashville it began making threatening noises. While we were there, we replaced it with our backup driveshaft which, unfortunately, was not in much better shape.

As we began the homeward journey the drivers would pass mile after mile listening to the faint vibration noise of the well-worn replacement. When would it fail and leave us stranded?

Where could we find another one if it came to that? It could take days. Were the peaceful miles that had so far defined our trip from California destined to be forgotten in the shadow of a difficult breakdown?

Up to this point we had been thinking that God was going to make this trip different. We were actually looking forward to going home and telling people what God had done in giving us a quiet trip across America and back. But now, with the faint but ever-present hum of the old driveshaft reminding us of its condition, that vision seemed to be vanishing.

Worrying about potential breakdowns can cause more than a little stress when you are 2,300 miles from home. To add to that concern, our concert schedule had been nothing less than exhausting, and when we finally turned west to find our way home, everyone had given everything they had to give. The idea of being stranded was very, very sobering. That is when the Shepherd did something very special.

The promise

I was on duty, thinking as I drove about the many miles we had yet to travel and the growing potential for real trouble. I still don't know how to describe the feeling I had. Rarely had I ever felt so up against the wall. I just didn't feel like I had anything left inside to fix any more problems on the bus, or for that matter deal with any other kind of crisis.

As I stared out the windshield, caught up in my sense of powerlessness, the Shepherd spoke words of comfort to me that I have never been able to forget. There would be no more mechanical difficulties the rest of the way home—nothing—on any vehicle. Being a mechanic, that prophecy challenged me to the core.

Had I heard God right? Still, that word of encouragement immediately gave me great peace, and that peace remained with us the entire way home. We passed through state after state without a single mechanical complaint. We were able to relax and rest because, safe under the pea-green ceiling, all we had to do was follow the Shepherd home. We had crossed America in two directions with hardly a peep from our vehicles. God had indeed given us that trip for the books.

Shotguns

Aside from mechanical issues, we always had to worry about the attentiveness of our drivers. Safety was a priority on the road, especially when we drove around the clock, and even more so when everyone was struggling just to find the strength to get home. Road coaches typically do not run with passenger seat belts, and of course there are always people moving around on board. Because of the vulnerability of passengers, the responsibility of the driver to anticipate traffic problems or any change in speed or direction was very great indeed.

We paid particular attention to driver alertness, and early on we developed a rigorous safety system that redoubled at night. We had no interest in any driver falling asleep and putting all of us on the front page of a mid-western newspaper (or for that matter any other).

We had carefully planned duty shifts, not only for drivers but also for assistants we called shotguns. Our shotguns, reminiscent of the armed guards who rode “shotgun” beside stage-coach drivers, were non-driving copilots assigned to monitor the driver in each vehicle. Senior shotguns worked the more critical night shift.

Those who rode shotgun were carefully trained and understood that they were as responsible for everyone's safety as the driver. The shotguns talked with the drivers frequently to make sure they were alert, and monitored the driver's performance at all times.

They had the authority to commandeer the CB radio and order all our vehicles to pull to the side of the road with no questions asked. All they needed for the stop command was to observe the slightest hint that the driver was not alert, or to notice any abnormality with any one of the other vehicles.

Once we had stopped under such circumstances, the procedure was to have all the drivers consult together standing outside on the shoulder of the road. Before we would continue on, they had to agree that everything was safe and in order. Each driver also had the pull-over authority while watching the other vehicles, so between drivers and shotguns we had a backup system of watchful eyes as we traveled through the night. Of course, deep in the pea-green tunnel there were usually one or two sleepless riders who were also available to do backseat driving.

The shotgun system worked well, and we rarely had any serious concerns. On one occasion however, as we returned from Nashville, there was a bit of an embarrassing problem. In the wee hours of the morning, an off-duty driver - mechanic lay sleeping face down on the floor, wedged uncomfortably between the seats near the front of the bus. Exhausted after hours of driving and deep in sleep, he began to dream that he was still behind the wheel of Redbird as it was speeding down the interstate.

The driver would probably have dreamed on for hours had it not been for the hand lotion. A girl seated nearby unintentionally disrupted the quiet of the night when she noticed that the elbows of the sleeping driver were scratched from leaning into the engine compartment. With quiet innocence she decided to put some of her hand lotion on the roughened skin.

Suddenly the dreaming driver began to stir. Unable to fully waken; unable to freely move his arms, which were jammed in tight confinement; unable to control his dream and therefore quite unable to control the bus he thought he was still driving, he feared a most terrifying catastrophe. Had he fallen asleep at the wheel? Did he need to wake quickly to avert an accident? Was it all too late?

In an act of nightmarish panic he fought to rouse himself and regain control of the bus, even while wrenching his way free from between the seats. But as he awakened it only became more obvious the bus was indeed still rolling. So who was driving? Where were the shotguns? Why didn’t they say something? Where was the command to pull-over? Couldn’t they see what was happening?

“Pull over! Pull over! Pull over!” the dazed off-duty driver shouted desperately in the darkness. Behind the wheel was Pete L. (not to be confused with sound-truck Pete who stayed off the bus because of motion sickness), who was now pumping a little adrenaline of his own, thinking he had failed to see a hazard on the road. He tapped Redbird’s brakes in caution and veered towards the shoulder while peering into the darkness ahead to see what the danger might be.

That’s all it took. The shotgun in Greenbird noticed the unannounced and unexplained maneuver in the middle of the highway. Following protocol, he immediately grabbed the radio and shut down the entire convoy.

“Pull over, pull over Redbird, Blue! Pull over now!” came the no-nonsense command over the radio. “What’s going on?” echoed another radio. Now every vehicle was shining brake lights.

In those confusing seconds Patty, who was trying to reason with the half-awake driver, broke into laughter as he continued trying to convince her, “no, this is serious!” Her amusement only continued as the driver, finally becoming fully conscious, slowly came to understand his awkward situation.

Standing on the shoulder of the highway in the glow of Redbird’s headlights in the cold wee hours of the morning, all the drivers and shotguns had an entertaining consultation at my expense (all right, it was me!). Apparently they were convinced they were all quite capable of continuing on and handling things without any advice I might offer while driving in my dreams.

The hand lotion had already been put away by the time we had climbed back on board, and we continued on into the night. I worried a little about going back to sleep—and maybe Pete was worried about my going to sleep as well—but I was still tired enough to quickly get over it. After all, the shotguns really were on duty, and they in turn were being watched by the Shepherd who did not sleep.

Restrooms

This may be more than you need or want to know, but it was certainly part of life on the road!

We had a restroom on the bus, but on long trips we always tried to maximize the capacity of the holding tank. So when it was convenient and we had time to spare, we would use the restrooms at service stations, which in turn created a real adventure for desperate people who needed to be first in line. Conversely, we had some people who were known to us not only by their quality of Christian character but by their ability to persevere between stops. How in the world did they do it?

When we stopped there was always the danger of running out of toilet paper, so we had long since learned to carry a healthy supply with us, even beyond what we needed when we were driving a bus with a restroom on board. Meanwhile, whenever we stopped for fuel, maintenance crews immediately did a complete safety check of our vehicle while others did a basic cleaning of all the vehicle interiors. We tried to get our maintenance done before everyone moved on to relax, use an indoor restroom, or buy a snack for the road.

Rest stops were the greatest challenge during the Greenie years when nearly everyone needed to go at the same time, and there was no bathroom on board. One time while traveling with Greenie, we managed to overflow the toilet at one service station, whereupon everyone scurried over to another station and unfortunately blocked their plumbing too! We simply didn’t have any appropriate plumbing repair equipment, so although apologetic, I was certainly glad to get down the road as fast as Greenie’s legs could carry us.

And then once, in Utah, Redbird’s riders encountered yet a different dilemma. Landing at an unfriendly truck stop, the girls ran out of toilet paper in the bathroom. Somehow the attendant at the truck stop felt he was being a hero to the locals by denying toilet paper to all the out-of-towners.

No, I won’t tell you how we got out of that situation.

In case you were wondering

Now you may be wondering with all those buses and all those trips if there were any romances or conflicts. Well, yes and no. All of us were far from perfect, but I believe any of the riders would be hard-pressed to identify any serious conflict that occurred during our travels.

While there were occasional frustrations, there was so much common purpose that problems with personal conflicts just never seemed to play a significant role. Everyone was so committed to our mission that even “singers” who absolutely could not sing and

probably shouldn’t even sing in the shower stood up with everyone else and lip synced.

What about romance? That’s another story. Our work together was never characterized by romance, but of course it flowered occasionally, and there were many couples who met during our years of ministry together. Romance always seemed to take a back seat to ministry, and couples who did find each other tended to keep a low profile in public in order that during gatherings no individual would feel excluded. We were there to serve Jesus, and we were there to serve others before ourselves.

What was true of others was especially true for me. I simply could not pay more attention to any one young lady than another and still maintain my role as servant of all. Yet, even that careful posture created its own frustration amongst well-wishers. Finally, on my 20’th birthday, the young people totally surprised me when a young lady I had never seen before popped out of a giant birthday “cake” wearing a sash emblazoned with the title “Girlfriend.” That certainly caught my attention but ultimately it was not to be.

Perhaps I should mention one other memory, one that takes me back to the earliest days of Greenie. I had just hopped onboard at the church one afternoon, when several young people introduced me to two delightful sisters. Visiting for the first time, they were about to take their first ride on Big Bad Green. Fortunately they stuck around. Several years later, when I was no longer an “unavailable” youth minister, I asked one of those sisters out. It has been 35 wonderful years!

Is that the whole story? Of course not. What actually happened was that throughout the Greenie and Redbird years my wife-to-be was dating one of the bus drivers. One day that driver made the mistake of becoming interested in someone else. Nancy now was not spoken for, and months later I was standing in our chapel when she happened to walk through. Suddenly my lights went on, and I wisely asked her out. Months later I was again standing with her in the same chapel as we celebrated our marriage!

And then there was that guy who showed up at church to pick up girls at the youth group. I was used to watching out for the girls, but this character was not only on the prowl, he seemed to be gaining the interest of my sister! But while I was chewing nails God was at work, and the young man gave his life to Jesus. He and my sister have now spent their lives on the mission field, and there is nothing I can do but admit he is an outstanding brother-in-law.

There were so many other wonderful lifetime partners who began their journey serving Jesus on the old Green Bus.

Marcella’s kitchen

Pulling off a concert tour required drivers, mechanics, singers, sound people, maintenance crews, and of course cooks. Everyone had a job to do, and everyone made a contribution. But three times a day, nobody was as important as our head cook.

Marcella, the girl with the servant’s heart, was amazing. With very little money she had to plan out all of our food supplies and meal preparation for ten days on the road. Of course Redbird had a kitchen, but it clearly belonged to “Celler.” Well, it was sort of a kitchen.

Everything was compact. It had a small sink, a tiny refrigerator, a counter, some storage space, and a Westinghouse tabletop electric roaster oven powered by a generator in the engine compartment. An electric oven was the only method safe enough for cooking on a bus full of people. We could make one large dish at a time, and it had to serve dozens of hungry travelers.

Marcella and her assistants could slice and dice almost anything while standing up and jostling along at sixty-five miles per hour over all kinds of roads. She would start off each trip with frozen bags of her signature lentil soup, Grandma Mary’s Leche, which would turn into our first big meal on the road. After that, her real creativity began to show.

Once we were stopped at a state border inspection station, where the agents told us we would have to discard our crate of oranges. We could ill afford that loss, so Marcella made sure we all sat outside and peeled them for use later on. Now they were just “food” instead of “produce.” Having complied with regulations, we loaded the skinless fruit back on the bus, and off we went.

Marcella etched herself in everyone’s memory the afternoon she served hot blackberry cobbler as we rolled through Wyoming’s landscape watching incredible sheet lightning display itself in the distance for mile after mile. Of course there was singing too. Nancy, Carol, and Maria never wanted to stop! What with the cobbler and the wonderful pea-green fellowship, travel didn’t get much better than that!

We had developed a practical plan for saving travel time when we provided meals to the drivers of the sound and equipment vans. A meal would be prepared in Redbird’s kitchen and then placed in a bag. Next came the hard part – moving the bag to the front of the bus – sometimes that required a committed courier climbing over seat tops and sleeping bodies and returning from the kitchen in a similar fashion with a bag clenched securely in their teeth! After radio contact to synchronize with the vans, Redbird would ease to the side of the road, still rolling at fifteen-to-twenty miles an hour, while someone would lean out the front door and, at intervals, drop the brown bags, marked with dental imprints, but filled with food.

Redbird would then ease back onto the road and accelerate while the vans following behind would pull over, pick up the bags, and then speed up to rejoin the convoy.

Oh yes, one night we had a surprise meal on the bus. With a long driving shift ahead I stopped late one night and ran up to McDonald’s window for a cup of coffee. The cooks saw the bus pull in and immediately covered the grill with hamburger patties in anticipation of rapid sales. Since I was the only one who jumped off the bus they soon realized the burgers were all about to be orphans. In a thoughtful gesture, they happily donated them all to the bus riders who by now had awaken to a delightful late night snack.

Recipes for the road

Marcella can cook for me anytime. Now I know this is not a cook book, but just in case you are interested, here are a few of the special Redbird Recipes that may offer a little taste of the pea-green ceilings (I assume you already know how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!):

Grandma Mary’s Leche

(from Annie Banannie’s recipe book)

12 oz. lentils, rinsed

3 large carrots, chopped fine

4-5 stalks celery, chopped fine

2 medium onions, chopped fine

½ head garlic, chopped fine

½ stalk leek, chopped fine (optional)

2 or 3 tomatoes, chopped fine or 1–12 oz. can V8 juice

½ head cabbage, chopped fine

½ c. olive oil

salt and pepper to taste

Put all ingredients together in a 4 qt. stockpot and add 3 qts. water.  Bring to a boil and cook at medium temperature for 10 minutes. Then cook on low for 3 hours. Simmer for another hour.

Stir it!

Tuna Salad

This can be used as a sandwich filling or served on a bed of lettuce/spinach or choice of greens; no additional dressing needed.

Serves 3-4 people (for Greenie tours we used one or two #10-size cans of tuna, depending on head count).

1 can (5 oz.) white tuna/albacore in water

2 T. small-diced jack cheese (or your choice of cheese)

1–2 T. coarsely chopped walnuts (preferably lightly toasted first)

½ to 1 T. chopped black olives

½ small sweet onion, finely chopped

2–4 T. mayonnaise

¼ c. celery, finely chopped

½ t. Dijon mustard

Mix ingredients together. If mix is a bit dry, add some of the olive juice to loosen rather than more mayonnaise, or use some pickle juice.

If making sandwiches, use about 1/3  cup per sandwich. This is good on a nice whole grain or crusty French bread.  Add lettuce as desired.

If made as a salad, use a nice bed of mixed lettuces or greens under a scoop of the mix, then top with a few whole olives, nuts, and/or chopped onions.

Berry Cobbler

For one 8–10 in. round baking dish (high sides best)

Filling:

4 c. berries

1 c. granulated sugar (may use brown sugar)

1 T. cornstarch

pinch of salt

juice of one lemon if using blueberries

1 t. cinnamon (optional)

In a bowl, stir sugar and cornstarch together until fully mixed. Add to berries and mix until berries are coated with sugar. (This is where you can adjust the amount of sugar to personal taste and sweetness of berries, as those bought out of season tend to be less sweet).

Add pinch of kosher or sea salt to brighten the flavor. Place mix into baking dish.

Topping:

1½ c. flour

½ t. salt

1/3 c. sugar

2 t. baking powder

4 T. unsalted butter (omit salt if butter has salt in it)

1/3 c. milk

Mix dry ingredients together, then add butter until mixture is crumbly and butter bits are no bigger than a small pea. Add milk and mix well. If too dry add a tablespoon or two of milk at a time until batter is loose enough to drop on top of berry mix with a spoon.

Bake at 375° in middle of oven about 45 minutes. If your dish is short-sided, place a baking sheet on shelf underneath to catch any drips from berry juice.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

The San Joaquin Valley

After safely returning from Nashville, we continued to do prison camp concerts throughout the year, and we would still take the band and singers across California on Redbird. But what years of hardship, mechanical problems, and even human opposition had failed to do, growing responsibility in serving God’s kingdom was finally able to accomplish. We were simply unable to do all the ministry God had given us at home and still take to the road. Our ministry was changing.

Both the emergency shelter and the drug treatment program we were responsible for at home began to place an ever-growing demand on our staff and resources. Despite our continued heart for doing prison concerts, our days of ministry on the road were sadly coming to a close, and here is the story of what was perhaps Redbird’s last concert run.

This time Redbird was crossing the great Central Valley of California very early on a Sunday morning. Our band was scheduled to do a concert in a prison camp high in the Sierras, and we were heading eastward towards the mountains from Highway 99. We were on a little-traveled highway that promised to intercept our final turnoff, which in turn would lead us up into the mountains. Why we had taken that exact route no one remembers.

Having run a tight schedule during the previous week, and now with a concert just hours away, we badly needed a sound check and a final rehearsal. Our stress level was memorable. Try as we might, we hadn't been able to put that critical rehearsal together before leaving home. As the miles rolled by, we began to discuss our options.

We had departed early enough to allow time for any difficulties that might cause us to miss our concert. Since we were well on our way and had not broken down, it began to look we would indeed have time to stop and practice. But where could we stop with a thirty-three-foot bus early on a Sunday morning, take over a room, plug in our equipment and just start practicing? None of us had an answer. As we rolled past a small town while talking about our dilemma, God got my attention and told me to immediately stop the bus. The instruction was so definite I wasted no time pulling over at the next wide place at the side of the road. Once we had stopped, I told the others why I had abruptly pulled over, but I could offer no further explanation.

We all respected each other enough to know that when someone wanted to share something God had showed them, we would all pay attention. Although that sort of thing was quite out of the ordinary, anyone could have suggested that we stop and we all would have listened respectfully. For a time we sat there by the side of the road praying and discussing our options. As we waited on God for further instruction, someone sitting in the back suddenly realized where we were and excitedly pointed out our location to everyone—we were in Greenie territory! Could it possibly be?

Years before, early in our ministry, we had taken Greenie on one of its very first trips to spend a week conducting a summer camp for the children of migrant farm workers in that area. The outreach was located south of Fresno in a tiny town of about 600 people. We had worked hard to prepare for the camp, and we were still praying and planning when we arrived on Greenie. For one wonderful week we worked under the intense summer sun building relationships and sharing the gospel. The week was filled with Bible study, fellowship, activities, and handcrafts. What an exciting week of ministry it turned out to be, as even the kids got to ride that special machine we sometimes affectionately called the Miraculous Green Bus.

Powerful memories flooded back for the old-timers. We hadn’t seen Greenie for a long time, but of course those early pea-green memories had never really left us.

So as we sat there on Redbird, we finally realized we were indeed parked at the side of the road in the very same little town! We soon began to wonder where the church was that held so many memories. We didn’t know its location, but we thought we would take a look around. We drove one block off the highway and there we were!

The church people standing outside were as surprised to see us as we were them. Not only did they open their doors to us for a sound check, but we were able to share music with them in their worship service; and as an incredible bonus, we fellowshipped with wonderful Christian young people we knew from years before. After all those years, some of those kids were still in the church. We still knew each other by name, and we shared many fond memories. After the service we were back on the road and heading up into the Sierras.

So why had God counseled us to stop right then and there? I don’t think it was just for a sound check; I believe it was for the kids. As we traveled on to a rewarding concert at the prison camp in the mountains, we marveled at the simple yet profoundly beautiful thing God had done!

But wait! Maybe that heartwarming side trip to see the kids was for the grown-up kids on Redbird too. God gave us a reminder of how for all those years on the road he had also taken care of us. It served as a remembrance of how he had nurtured us from the time he had first brought us there on Greenie to serve migrant workers’ kids, up to the present time when he had brought us back again on Redbird. It was almost like Greenie and Redbird were on the same journey—a poignant testimony to the Shepherd who had brought us through it all.

Maybe our time on the road was coming to a close, but if the Lord had brought us that far by faith, would he not continue to lead us? Certainly there would be other roads to travel, but for us they would always be filtered through the precious pastel of pea-green memories.

Therefore, since through God's mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. 2 Corinthians 4:1

Epilogue: Road time

The pea-green ceiling did far more than keep the rain out and the sun off. Sharing an extended journey in tight proximity with other imperfect believers was a lesson in patience, humility, and servanthood. If you were driving it was also a lesson in perseverance. Sitting there behind twenty-two inches of steering wheel, shifting gears at just the right time, constantly calculating stopping distances, watching gauges, mirrors, and blind spots, swinging wide through tight city corners, and maintaining vigilance against brake fade was both challenging and, at the same time, utterly routine. That was to say nothing of finding a place to park. On the road your ear was always tuned to the faint but soothing purr of the Red Diamond power plant thirty feet behind. What was it trying to tell you?

There was the ever-essential CB radio linking you with the other vehicles and holding the convoy together through the dark of night. Just to the right of the “Jesus is Lord” sign, there was the long, wide mirror above the windshield. That mirror kept you in touch with the rest of the bus riders. Occasional upward glances revealed fellow worshippers in song, sometimes with games and laughter woven into the singing, along with conversations, planning, and problem solving taking place throughout the bus. Somebody was always sleeping. Even though you were hardly alone, you knew you had to stay focused on the business of driving, and that in turn meant personal time with God. As the miles passed, your mind would always drift into a pondering mode.

Meditations defined the journeying wherever you were seated because somebody around you was always praying and . . . well, you were always in church. It was inevitable that so many of our thoughts resolved themselves in prayer because of the One who traveled with us. It simply was not our journey.

Sometimes sleep-deprived, often punchy from an exhausting schedule, questions about God’s purpose and calling would continually surface as the miles drifted by. How could we travel for hundreds of miles through the beauty of God’s creation without our attention being gripped and challenged? And there was more to ponder than beauty. What about the people that we encountered everywhere who struggled with illness, conflict and personal hardship. How could we see the pockets of poverty and need in the countryside, and in towns and cities across our nation without considering our own responsibility, without understanding our own limitedness and need of him? How could we drive on by and not care? What could we do to make a difference? What was the best way for us to share? Every town seemed to call out to us in its own special way.

“Listen, my dear brother: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him?” James 2:5

On the highway it never crossed our minds to question why God brought difficulty our way or why he did or did not do a miracle. Those questions just never arose. But there were other questions. What was God showing us? Why did he choose to intervene in our lives the way he did? Of all the things he could do to challenge us, help us, or reveal his presence, why did he reveal himself in just the way he did? Were we listening carefully enough? Were we doing his will?

In our complex, modern society it is a struggle to maintain an awareness of just how vulnerable we are and just how much we need God, especially when our circumstances are such that our daily lives seem secure and predictable. But the sense of complete dependence was the special reward of traveling in those old buses. That was the real blessing, and that is why I finally grew to love those pea-green ceilings.

There it was easy to remember not only that we were not in control, but that we were very, very vulnerable. There we encountered both joy and grief. There we were always reminded to seek God. Knowing we could not presume upon the next moment or the next mile meant it was much easier to bend to the Shepherd’s counsel and experience his mercy. On the road we often had to yield. What more could we want?

I have never been able to shake those memories of the road, especially the hours of pondering behind the wheel, and the unforgettable companionship of the One who traveled with us. Driving the highways of America was to experience the reality of a simple truth that still speaks to me today.

There is a reason to listen to the Shepherd.

There is a reason to stay close.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Through the Night: Lead Me On, to the Light

Then Jacob made a vow, saying, “If God will be with me and will watch over me on this journey I am taking and will give me food to eat and clothes to wear so that I return safely to my father’s household, then the LORD will be my God.” Genesis 28:20–21

Who are we to say when, how, or why God should perform a miracle?

Although as believers we all follow the same Shepherd, our journeys of faith are each unique. We travel in the same flock and we kneel at the same cross, yet each of us can point to quite different experiences through which we have learned to trust God.

So it was with the pea-green ceiling. The events and miracles our band of believers witnessed affected every rider in a different way. During our time on the road, some of Greenie’s passengers first came to faith, while others seemed to grow in faith with every passing mile. Many were the riders who became convinced that it was unwise ever to stray from the Shepherd of Israel.

A turning point

Perhaps you recall that back in chapter five I explained that something remarkable happened just before New Life began—an experience that was to be only the forerunner of many other extraordinary happenings to follow. We had no idea at the time that within months our world was to turn “upside down” with the painful departure from our old church, nor that we were about to receive a timely lesson in leaning on the Everlasting Arms.

When this story took place we were still at the church where our ministry had started. We had no idea this would be our last tour from there and that our ministry was soon to be forever changed. The particular part of our journey I am about to describe not only challenged everyone’s faith, it transformed the life of the young man who was driving Greenie at the time. In fact, he was to spend the rest of his life as a missionary and pastor.

We were all about to be shepherded through the night in a manner so astonishing that we came to believe that no matter what happened, God would be with us when we needed him most.

The stand-off

It was a Friday morning in the summer of 1970 when we climbed aboard Greenie and the Ford, embarking on a tour that was to begin with a Sunday morning church service in Caldwell, Idaho. We left Santa Cruz early with the goal of spending the night at a state campground at Lake Tahoe in the Sierras and driving the next day and, if necessary, through the night to Caldwell. We would need to arrive in plenty of time to get ready for the service.

The painstaking drive up into the mountains that first morning was slowed even more when we encountered a sobering accident that had occurred just ahead of us. A massive boulder the size of a hotel room had rolled off a cliff and obliterated a huge semi-truck. The terrible tragedy spoke to us of our own limitedness and vulnerability on the road. But by late afternoon we were setting up in a group campground, our work made all the more interesting because Laurie established a competition between the guys and girls to set up tents. Under her guidance the girls won.

Across the lane in the next campsite there was a large gang of bikers, loud and proud with alcohol. I had noticed their observations of us and knew that nighttime was certain to bring trouble. We would be far more prepared than the year before when we had been run out of southern Oregon with guns.

We posted an all-night watch and placed the guys strategically around the girl’s sleeping area. All the guys kept their boots and clothes on and crawled under their sleeping bags, rather than into them. They were all armed with defensive devices and knew they would be expected to remain on alert well after the last lights went out and not sleep until the all-clear was given.

We shut down camp at ten o’clock, and although things grew quiet in the campground, I somehow knew there would be action in only a matter of minutes. Sure enough, without warning the biker gang came storming into our camp. Our guys were up in a flash, ready to rumble. The bikers, taken by surprise, kept right on running and never came near us again.

Sharing watches and sleeping lightly, we were still tired in the morning as we began to pack up for the run to Idaho. We could never have imagined what the next night would bring. This night we had been stormed by bikers and had gone without sleep. The next would not be so easy.

Trouble

Faith is often a mystery, and some battles of faith may be fought without our ever really understanding them. Such a struggle to trust took place for us in a remote wilderness stretching across two states and into Idaho. I don’t know what it was about pea-green ceilings and the wilderness, but that seemed to be where God often chose to teach us to depend upon him.

The Spirit searches all things, even the deep things of God. For who knows a person’s thoughts except their own spirit within them? In the same way no one knows the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. What we have received is not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may understand what God has freely given us. This is what we speak, not in words taught us by human wisdom but in words taught by the Spirit, explaining spiritual realities with Spirit-taught words.

I Corinthians 2:10–13

Greenie and the Ford made their usual slow progress on the way north from Lake Tahoe the next morning. We fueled up in Reno, Nevada for the first leg of our remaining 400-mile-plus trip to Caldwell. The Ford was sporting a brand new Big Bad Orange paint job, and we now called it Orangebird, or Orange on the radio. While it looked a lot better out in public than it did as Yellowbird, it nevertheless used up a lot of our time as we fought to stop a serious engine oil leak.

Nightfall was already upon as we turned north on Highway 95 out of Winnemucca, Nevada. We still had well over 200 miles of hard driving ahead through rolling hills and mountains to make our Sunday morning concert. We decided we now would certainly have to drive all night. Studying the maps, we targeted the next stop as the little town of McDermitt, which sat seventy-five miles to the north of Winnemucca on the border of Nevada and Oregon. It had been my argument that it would be the ideal place to refuel the buses. In fact, I had stuck my neck out and persuaded the other drivers to bypass the brightly lit truck stop in Winnemucca. I knew that beyond McDermitt we would be facing a long and lonely stretch of highway where we might not be able to buy fuel during the night. We would need full tanks, I had argued, and if we filled at Winnemucca, that might put us in range but with little fuel to spare.

We had learned the hard way that Greenie could be unforgiving if we ran low on fuel, so we always took great care in tracking consumption and planning our stops. Greenie’s usual performance was around eight to nine miles per gallon under normal driving conditions and laden with passengers and equipment. Efficiency could drop to even less at high altitude and in mountainous terrain.

We had long since come to terms with the limitations of driving old school buses. We didn’t just cruise over hills and glide through valleys as a car would, for from the driver seat of Greenie the highway looked vastly different. It seemed that, except for rare occasions when the road was truly flat, the whole world was basically angled up or down! You always had to pay attention to where you needed to build a little speed, and of course, when you needed to shift gears. On steeper climbs, where we could not build up speed, we would grind uphill at fifteen to sixteen miles per hour with our flashers on.

Countless times we would lose what precious uphill momentum we had by pulling to the side of the road to let traffic by. Indeed every hill or incline, even ones you wouldn’t notice in a car, could become its own project requiring judicious shifting and immense patience. We did all right rumbling along on flat highways, but travel in the mountains and even through rolling hills was time consuming, tedious, and very hard on fuel.

Only once did Greenie ever need to use the passing lane. That was the day when Dale was climbing a hill behind a car going so painfully slow he decided it was time to do the unthinkable. Pulling into the passing lane we began to inch around it! However, Greenie’s progress getting around the car was so difficult to detect that a highway patrol officer pulled us over for driving too slow in the fast lane! It took a while for him to buy into our explanation and put away his ticket book.

Of course, while we were pulled over, the slow car crept right on by and we lost our golden opportunity to pass anybody!

Shut down

After making the best progress possible, we finally reached McDermitt, eager to take a break and prepare for the final 160-mile leg of our all-night run through the wilderness. McDermitt did have two gas stations, but we arrived at quarter after eleven—and both businesses had just shut down.

It was one of those “day late and a dollar short” moments. Once again my best planning just hadn’t worked out. I was now feeling more than a little awkward, and I was wishing I had given different advice about filling with gas back in Winnemucca.

Now hours of travel with little hope of finding another town large enough to have a gas station open at night suddenly loomed before us. With uncertainty ahead, and no realistic way to press on, we had plenty of time to stand around and talk at a pull-over area in the center of town.

First, we reviewed our situation. The fuel gauge told us Greenie had, at best, only about eight gallons remaining, and the Ford was no better off. No matter what angle we used to peer at the gauges, it was cause for alarm. Both Greenie and the Ford held only thirty-one gallons of fuel, filled to the brim. In a best-case scenario we would need at least sixteen to twenty gallons to reach the next city of any size. We simply could not make the numbers work. There was no way we could ever hope to make the remaining distance with the fuel we had—no way at all.

Next we began to engage in another of our lively debates about what we should do. We could spend the night in a parking lot and wait until morning for the service station to open. That solution, it seemed, would be the safest move. On the other hand, staying put for up to nine more hours could jeopardize our entire concert schedule. Then again, continuing on could leave us stranded, hours from help.

We weighed every alternative we could think of. We had a full, five-gallon can of gas, but we would need that for the sound truck. We could have returned the seventy-five miles to Winnemucca, but if we did that we would gain so little for our effort that we might as well wait until morning. We thought of transferring fuel from one bus to another, but that would be like robbing one destitute person of their meal to feed another.

After carefully reviewing all of our options and not finding a practical solution we began to resign ourselves to staying in McDermitt. We were making plans to settle in for the night when the conversation somehow turned to the subject of miracles. We didn’t plan it that way, it just happened. This was one of those times God just seemed to set the idea of the supernatural right in the middle of our hearts. Jesus could turn water into wine, we thought, so he could certainly turn water into gas. No, we didn't put water in the gas tank, though it crossed our minds that God could make even that work if he wanted.

Please understand that we were not being dramatic, cavalier, or idealistic about our options. We didn’t presume God would do anything more for us than what he had already done. We simply wondered what God wanted us to do. That’s the way it was in those days. We would share and talk and pray, and then try to determine what the Good Shepherd wanted us to do. Sometimes when everything was said and done and we had resigned ourselves to our situation, we found ourselves moved to do things that would only make sense when the Spirit of God was leading us.

Driving off into the wilderness without fuel is, by most measures, a foolish thing to do. On the other hand we knew God could certainly do a miracle for us if he wanted. Who were we to say one way or another? The debate went back and forth between us. What's the worst that could happen? we thought. We might just run out of gas and be stuck—but aren't we stuck right now?

Maybe there was the odd gas station staying open late and waiting for us around the bend. We had seen some remote stations that had a number to call late in the night, and for a surcharge someone would come out, turn on the pump, and sell you fuel. Then again, maybe God just wanted us to press on so he could show us a solution we hadn’t thought of.

But what if we ran out of gas in the middle of nowhere? Things could get a lot worse in a hurry. Would we have enough fuel left to send the sound truck back for help? And how much time would we lose if that happened? What if we ended up stranding ourselves in such a way that we destroyed the whole trip? We dared not be presumptuous.

Still, the idea of getting stuck somewhere under circumstances dictated by the Good Shepherd seemed somehow preferable to wasting an entire night sitting still when we needed to show up for a concert the next morning. We truly did not think God was in any way obligated to do anything special, yet at the same time we had come to know that God might do the unexpected, even when we least expected it.

We had faced struggles at the side of the road too many times to assume we were immune to hardship. We simply hadn’t made it to every concert we scheduled and this was no time to be presumptuous. But God does many different things in our lives. Sometimes God allows us to be caught up in an adventure of faith in ways we would have never dreamed. That was such a night.

We soon began thinking about the impossible and then began seriously discussing the possibility of going ahead and trying to make it on what little fuel we had. Indeed, what we were thinking of doing did seem a little “over the top,” even crazy, and we really felt vulnerable. At the same time we felt peace and the certainty that what we were considering was right.

If you were to ask me today to drive my car off into the darkness under the circumstances we were in that night, I would never do it. But if God told me to do it and gave me peace and resolution the way he did to all of us when we gathered to pray, I would journey on.

At last the debate was over, the prayer was over, and we took a vote by a show of hands. We decided we would indeed drive into the night, and whatever happened would happen. We would simply trust God to take care of us. Not everyone thought what we were doing was such a good idea, but there were no bad attitudes, even though some people were a lot more cautious than others.

So it was that somehow that night, quite beyond our own reasoning and in spite of our very human misgivings, God moved our faith down the road. That's when the story took an interesting turn.

Come let us worship and bow down

Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. Psalm 95:6-7

A year or so before I had experienced God’s preservation in what could have been a disastrous accident in my truck after a concert trip to Los Angeles. I had been praying at the time of the accident, and God gave me comfort and peace until the ordeal was over. It was an unexpected kindness for which I had long been grateful. Now, facing the dark wilderness ahead of us with responsibility for all those people, the memory came back. And of course, why wouldn’t all of us want to stay close to the Shepherd, given what we were about to do.

Before getting back on board, I suggested that we should be praying during the entire time we were traveling while running out of fuel. Everyone grabbed that idea and ran with it. We were going to begin this adventure in faith worshipping God, and we would honor and praise him the entire time he was leading us to whatever was going to happen next.

We had never approached a problem in exactly that way before and never did again, but we certainly felt peace about it at the time. If we were going to drive without gas, we were certainly not going to drive without Jesus. Whatever happened, no matter how it happened, we were agreed that when it happened we would be at the feet of Jesus. We didn’t really care how things turned out as long as we were doing what we were supposed to, and at that moment we were supposed to keep going to our next concert—and we were supposed to trust God. Whenever and wherever we came to a stop, we would face our circumstances there.

With nearly everyone in accord and midnight close at hand, we loaded up, the engines started, the worship started, and we pressed into the night.

Please understand, I am not suggesting that praise is a substitute for gasoline or that we need to stay awake in order for God to do a miracle. Neither am I suggesting that when we get in trouble we can fix that problem by praise and worship. I am not even suggesting that we should expect God to protect us when we put ourselves in vulnerable places, for we must never test God. No, we were not out to prove anything nor trying to make anything happen. We did not even assume God was going to solve our problem. We simply knew that what we were doing was right, and we needed to stay close to the Shepherd.

We continued north towards Burns Junction, Oregon, with Greenie in the lead position as we climbed 5,293-foot Blue Mountain Pass. That leg of the journey used up about two more hours and most of our remaining fuel; the fuel gauges in both buses were now close to signing off for good. There was no moonlight so it was easy to spot a few scattered lights as we neared the Burns Junction intersection, and a little hope flickered that we might find gas. But that was not to be – not even close.

By now I was reaching the limit of my ability to stay awake. I knew I might need to drive again during the night, so I decided I had better get Dale to come up front to take over. I was too tired to lose sleep over the problem I was handing off to him—about three-and-a-half more hours of driving on empty before we would see dawn and a glimpse of civilization. I remember that Dale was less than encouraged by the situation I was putting him in. After all, if we became stranded, he would be one of the go-to people to put together a solution.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Dale continued in worship even as he fought exhaustion. I had seen the fuel gauge dropping dangerously low, but Dale would get to watch it sit on empty.

Dale recalls:

This particular night was life-changing for me. It was crucial in building my walk with God on genuine trust rather than on evidence and circumstance. Faith can be hard for people like me who love to think. I want everything to make sense, even though it often doesn’t during times of testing.

Up to this point in my life, I had been profoundly influenced by my failed relationship with my earthly father, in whom I was unable to trust. In fact, I had a hard time trusting anyone. Now I had to put my reason aside and step out in child-like faith, trusting God while driving a bus on an empty tank. I had to believe in something I could not explain with my mind or logic, and for me it was as tough as pulling nails out of an oak board.

When the fuel gauge hit empty, it made this test of faith overwhelming to me, and I wanted to fight against it. I did not want to do this risky thing, and yet I did it anyway. The easiest part of that night was that there was no room to think we could make it without a miracle. It either was or was not going to be God bringing us through.

For me personally, all our adventures were a test of faith, courage, and relationship. Would I—would we—trust God regardless of circumstances? That was the question. That night the foundation of my faith went so deep that I knew I could somehow weather the storms of life ahead of me. I believe God was building my character and faith, so that even when I grew old, I would still be loving him.

Dale took the wheel, and I crawled in the back, trying to find a place to close my eyes. Like many of the others I would repeatedly catnap, wake, and share in prayer and worship again. Even as I fitfully dreamed, my battle of faith continued as I reached out to the Shepherd from the floor behind a seat.

The singing was occasionally interrupted by the CB radio. Now and again we would hear from Orangebird, and Pete would periodically check in from the sound truck. Throughout the night all of us could hear the unending singing and praise in the background of the radio calls. We occasionally stopped at the side of the road to change drivers, but Dale remained at Greenie’s wheel, fighting his own personal battle of faith.

Soon after Dale began his shift, and for a while after we saw that the fuel gauges had pinned, we all held our breath to see which bus engine would be the first to cough for a few moments and then stall and quit. Would we make it up the next hill? Where will we pull over when the engine stops?

But after a time such waiting became pointless if not awkward, and the moment finally came when worrying about gas seemed downright foolish. After all the engines were not stopping, so what exactly was the problem? All we could do then was turn ever more deeply to the Shepherd. As the miles of wilderness continued to roll by, we began to experience a palpable sense of God’s mercy and care. Scattered in the darkness throughout that old gospel bus, amidst the praise and singing there were now occasional smiles and expressions of humble amazement. It was clear something very special was happening. How far would the Good Shepherd take us before we ran out of fuel? or were we even running on fuel?

The battle

Our battle of faith to continue on wasn’t the only conflict going on that night. There was also a battle between the two buses that helped to keep us awake. Neither busload wanted to be the one that would stop first.

Meggie and Terry, each with their guitar in hand, stood in the front of their respective buses, playing every worship song they knew, and they knew a lot of songs. I can still remember those beautiful voices:

Got any rivers you think are uncrossable?

Got any mountains you can’t tunnel through?

God specializes in things thought impossible,

And He will do what no other power can do.

***

Peace, peace, wonderful peace,

Flowing down from the Father above;

Sweep over my spirit forever I pray,

In fathomless billows of love.

***

Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand;

I am tired, weak, and worn.

Through the storm, through the night,

Lead me on to the light;

Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me home.

There is no way to adequately describe what was happening to us as the hours passed. The farther we traveled, the more grateful we felt. It was as though we were somehow being carried down the road as our singing and praise lifted heavenward in the darkened mountain wilderness. Other than the Everlasting Arms, I have no idea how those two buses continued through the night. I simply have no explanation.

Lead me on to the Light

After working our way through miles of rolling hills and climbing yet another high pass, we eased our way through the little town of Jordan Valley on the crest of the Owyhee Mountains. At four in the morning the gas stations there were closed, but by now that was hardly important to us—we weren’t going to worry about fuel anymore. There was even some laughter as we rolled right on by the darkened fuel stops and headed out of town. No, we would just continue to run on empty and stay close to the Shepherd. Only forty-seven miles stood between us and the next city, and we had no intention of stopping now.

Pressing on into the darkness, we continued our slow climb across the Owyhees and crossed the border into Idaho. It had now been hours since our gauges had shown empty.

Still peering with tired eyes through the windshield of Greenie as we worked our way down Marsing Grade, Dale was probably the first to catch the glimmer of dawn’s earliest light over the distant Sawtooth Mountains. And still the buses were rolling. From halfway down the grade he spotted the sparkling lights of Marsing, Idaho, a few miles in the distance. Those lights caused quite a stir on Greenie, and the delightful scene almost beckoned us to hurry ahead. Now it was mostly downhill, so it looked as though we would easily reach civilization, no matter what. We came off the final long descent and entered a mile or so of a gentle dip in the highway. One more rise and we could almost coast into Marsing. Only minutes more and we would have precious fuel.

Knowing we were so close to our journey’s end ignited a very human response. We’re going to make it! we thought. That moment reminds me of when the children of Israel entered the Promised Land (Joshua 5:11–12) and celebrated Passover. On that very day, the Scripture tells us, they ate food from the land of Canaan. The next day the manna stopped.

Now, so very close to Marsing with only the final gentle rise before reaching level ground, the riders on the Ford gave in to their exhaustion and they decided it was safe to stop singing. But that city was not our source of help. As suddenly as the singing stopped, the engine on the Ford also stopped. Coasting along, the bus rolled toward the top of the last rise with everyone hoping it would make it to level ground. But the bus had to pull to the side of the road just shy of the final crest. Responding to the radio call, Greenie pulled over just ahead. However, the praise on Greenie only grew louder, for its humble engine was still running strong.

For a brief time the two buses sat quietly while big rigs occasionally blew by just inches away. Meanwhile the sound truck drove the short distance ahead to get fuel. There at the side of the road, in the fresh light of day, we talked in amazement about what God had done. But what had he done? I have never had an explanation.

We only knew he had shepherded us, we were safe, and we could finally sleep.

In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone LORD, make me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8

Epilogue

It had been a long, hard night. The guys had taken some rest breaks by walking off into the darkness when the buses stopped to change drivers. But the girls had not had a restroom break since McDermitt. When the buses pulled into the truck stop at the edge of Marsing, they shooed the guys off, set guards, took over both bathrooms, and finally got their own well-deserved rest stop. The guys were not let near until the girls, who I remember as being in no particular hurry, were completely finished.

When we arrived at our destination in nearby Caldwell, we were hosted at a nice older home with white clapboard siding surrounded by a beautiful lawn. Outside under the trees, everyone rested up from the night’s journey, but the kind of tired we felt was somehow good and even comfortable, and we were just fine for the concert later that morning. And yes, the peace we had felt all night on the road remained with us the entire day. We had a wonderful concert followed by a successful tour.

The return trip from Idaho was uneventful and our road time all the more forgettable now that our fuel gauges were occupied. Yet somehow, the moments surrounding our return to Santa Cruz remain locked in my memory. Stopping our buses and sound truck under the shadow of the great peaked roof of our church, everyone began the daunting task of unloading. Soft rays of sunlight sifting through the sanctuary’s amber windows told us that once again we had been safely brought back home.

At the same time the nagging doubt that we might not be welcome there erased any sense of refuge we otherwise would have felt. Indeed, our feeling of deep uncertainty was as inescapable there in the church parking lot as when, only a few days earlier, we had gathered to pray in the middle of the tiny town where we had arrived too late to buy gas. It was a deep sense of powerlessness that knew no answer except for the One who had led us through that night and home again. He would need to do so again.

But what had the Shepherd done there in the little town of McDermitt? We didn’t really know even that. And we certainly didn’t know what he was going to do now. We only knew we should follow Him. In the Scripture and in our lives as well, on some special occasions when God intervenes in human life, faith is memorialized. So it was that during those moments of quiet meditation, I felt a deep conviction that has never left me—I must not forget McDermitt. No matter our circumstances, especially when they are most difficult—should we not seek refuge at the feet of Jesus?

Looking back on that Idaho trip, it is clear that God had been preparing us to trust him in the wilderness experiences he was yet to bring us through. And it was after this trip that we began to look hard at the idea of buying a bus better designed for long-distance travel. Soon there would be our painful experience with Yellow; the exit from our old church; a few more miles on Greenie, including a surprising trip to some mountaintop caves; then deep changes to our ministry—all before we would finally take to the road in Redbird. And even Redbird would be but one step more in a journey where we hungered to stay close to the Shepherd.

But despite the many years we continued to travel across America on other buses, there always seemed to be something special about Big Bad Green.

Part III

Looking Back

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Look Back: Living with Failure

For a day in your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere. I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. Psalm 84:10

Our spiritual growth never reaches the point where we can survive for a moment without the care of the Shepherd.

Following

Hopefully you do not look back on this book as a story about hope springing from miracles and inspiration arising in the face of adversity. In spite of what street ministry became for us, and yes we still go out on the street, it had little to do with overcoming anything. Our human efforts could never prevail over our difficulties any more than they could defeat our failures. The farther along in our journey, the more our shortcomings were revealed. Too often we failed to listen, and there was always more we should have done.

Left to ourselves, our ministry would have carefully avoided the humbling problems we encountered on the hard side of the miracles. We would have missed all those lessons of faith we learned, for we simply would not have chosen to wander into the kind of trouble we did.

In the end our journey was no more than the experience of following the Good Shepherd, for he alone was our strength, our hope, our joy, and our refuge. His was the voice we learned to trust. He was our peace.

Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.

John 6:68

We accomplished nothing at all

While this book does chronicle a variety of true events, it is not meant to record a single human accomplishment. As with the proverbial turtle sitting on top of the fence post, we obviously had a lot of assistance. The more we saw the work of God, the more we became aware that our strategies and efforts in serving those in need did not reflect our poor ability in any way.

LORD, you establish peace for us; all that we have accomplished you have done for us. Isaiah 26:12

The verdict of the Scripture is in. After all of our effort—after all our trips and concerts, and after all the time we spent on the street—we ourselves had accomplished nothing in our own strength. We did whatever God allowed us to do, and that is all. I am reminded of a woman who, many years ago, reached over to a table to pick up a pencil. In that very moment an aneurysm burst in her brain and her life was over—she never reached the pencil.

Jesus defined our powerlessness this way: “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?” (Matthew 6:27).

After forty-five years of street ministry and addiction counseling, our ministry has never been able to lead anyone to Jesus nor ever get a single person sober. We have seen thousands come to know God and many more become sober for life, but such results in no way reflect the ability of the many precious servants who have given their lives as an offering in our ministry. Just as with the miracle of the loaves in Galilee, the bread we shared with others was first given to us.

Our best efforts in assembling a parts supply could never make an old bus complete a trip across America, even on a good day; so how then could any of us in any way ensure another person’s eternal journey? We do not, in and of ourselves, know the way to eternal life. We only know the One who is the Way.

It was all amazing grace, and in a sense, it was all a miracle. We had nothing to bring to the table except for our lives, and even offering those depended first upon a gift of righteousness from God.

“Why do you ask me about what is good?" Jesus replied. "There is only One who is good.” Matthew 19:17

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Corinthians 5:21

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.

Ephesians 2:8–9

Getting real

Whenever any of us looks back at any perceived accomplishment—an outreach, a new sobriety, a gospel concert, or whatever we might think has our name on it—the Scriptures immediately clear the air for us. We are all unworthy servants, and Jesus sets that matter forever straight:

Suppose one of you had a servant plowing or looking after the sheep. Would he say to the servant when he comes in from the field, “Come along now and sit down to eat”? Would he not rather say, “Prepare my supper, get yourself ready and wait on me while I eat and drink; after that you may eat and drink”?

Would he thank the servant because he did what he was told to do? So you also, when you have done everything you were told to do, should say, “We are  unworthy servants; we have only done our duty.”

Luke 17:7–10

Given our powerlessness, given our unworthiness, there was good reason we never became a “successful” ministry.

The problem of miracles

Looking back over the years, I have as many questions about miracles as I ever did sitting behind the steering wheel of one of the old buses. They were a mystery to me years ago, and they are a mystery to me today.

Even as a child I had to try to sort out some of the difficult theological problems related to miracles. I grew up listening to visiting missionaries tell stories while gathered around our dining room table, sharing about supernatural events God did in times of hardship and suffering in remote areas of the world. I heard of miracles of healing deep in the jungle. But when those same missionaries were back in a technological society where there was easy access to doctors, they reported that such miracles no longer seemed to occur in the same way, or perhaps as frequently.

So what about the miracles that came our way on the highways of America? Why did they happen at all? Why was it that sometimes God did miracles of healing and deliverance and at other times he did not? Again, why would God bless our ministry with so much when others had so little?

Not so easy

Our real struggle with miracles is not that God doesn’t do them, but that he doesn’t do them by our design.

Many Christian ministries around the world struggle daily to hold it all together—to keep a tin roof on a tiny mud chapel from blowing off, or a little protein in children’s mouths, or to make inroads into a totally pagan social environment. I have visited my brothers and sisters in Christ in poverty-stricken countries where the only medical care is a single overworked doctor working with decades-old equipment in surroundings of squalor; where you have to look over your shoulder whenever you walk down the street; and where, just days before, a group of Christians was pulled from a train and every throat was cut.

There are many places where Christians face terrifying and deadly adversaries in the jungle or on the street. A single special miracle could change everything for them—save a life or even put food on the table. But such miracles of deliverance do not happen all the time, and they certainly do not occur at our beck and call.

Christians in the Coliseum in Rome were never promised that God would shut the mouths of the lions. Christians imprisoned and tortured under the USSR’s Stalin or Romania’s Ceausescu were never promised that angels would open their cell doors to set them free.

Such miracles did happen in the past, are still happening today, and can happen again—but only on God’s agenda. This very day Christians in many areas of the world face terrible persecution, disease, and starvation. Their calling is the same as ours—simply to do the will of God, to trust him, and to follow him wherever he leads. Only when it is God’s purpose may any of them see miracles that are obvious and startling.

Looking at what Christians face elsewhere, I am humbled to even worry at all about New Life Center’s own struggle for survival. And again, why should God have done any obvious miracles for us at all? I keep thinking, why should we want more than what God has already so generously given us?

I do not have an answer for those questions, but I do know I am grateful.

Trust and gratitude

With the passing years, there has been ample time for our relatively large operation to become stable and secure. In truth, we have become more dependent on God than ever. Our budget problems are relentless, and we do not presume that we will be here tomorrow.

We only know that the same God who watched over us on Greenie is still with us today. Until God removes his hand from us, we intend to carry on. Whatever happens to us tomorrow, we know this today: we have been able to walk with him and know his faithfulness over many years. If we had never seen a single special miracle, that would have been fine; and if we never see one again, we still have abundant reason to be grateful. We have had the joy of being able to follow the Shepherd of Israel, and that is enough.

Tomorrow

Our vision continues to be nothing more than following the Shepherd. We have watched him take us to some interesting places and, if it is in his will, there is reason to believe he will continue to do just that. We never did make it to Crater Lake, but I wouldn’t trade such a trip for any of the places the Shepherd chose for us to go.

So where we travel from here doesn't really matter. We may get up in the morning and in our presumption think we will do one thing or another, but the truth is that we really don’t know what is going to happen.

We have learned not to assume any journey will be an easy one or that it will turn out the way we plan it. But we also know with great certainty that if we follow the Shepherd of Israel, we absolutely will get where he wants us to go.

Now listen, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money." Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, "If it is the Lord's will, we will live and do this or that."

James 4:13

Thank you

Yes, we were pilgrims with plans that rarely panned out. But after all those miles on Greenie and Redbird, after the Shepherd always got us there and back, the plan that proved best is simply to stay close to the One who gave his life so all of us could live.

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” John 10:11

Looking back, we are so grateful that the Shepherd gathered us together under the pea-green ceilings. I want to give thanks forever that he loved us enough to travel with us.

We are also grateful that you have taken the time to ride with us on an old gospel bus, sharing our Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles.

Your servants,

The Jesus People who rode Big Bad Green

P.S.

If you have interest in reading a few more Journey stories, I invite you to visit the appendix section of this book.

Epilogue

During the final days of June, 2011, I found a little time for a family road trip to the Northwest. I had been working on the Journey manuscript, and over and above a chance to get away I was eager to show my youngest sons some of the places recorded in the story. I especially looked forward to walking with them through the Oregon Caves.

Besides visiting the locations where Greenie had once traveled, I was also entertaining the idea of finally seeing Crater Lake. Through the years I had viewed a lot of pictures, but I often pondered what I had missed by not experiencing it first-hand. Given that it was summertime, I assumed (here I go again!) there was little chance the park would be snowed in. It was time to give the long pursued adventure one more try.

As we drew nearer the park turnoff on Oregon Highway 62, I found myself reflecting on those earlier attempts to make the trip. I couldn’t help but wonder if once again I would be prevented from reaching the elusive destination. I had my tools, but my old car, like Redbird, was running “journey proud.” The closer we got, the more my anticipation grew.

Little did I know the previous winter had produced an enormous snowfall in the Cascade Range, and the road encircling the 8,000-foot perimeter of the crater was indeed impassable. So much for my assumptions! Thankfully, however, a viewing area surrounding the famous Crater Lake Lodge was still open. So it was that after many years of waiting, Nancy and I stood marveling at the breathtaking view before us. It was truly beautiful.

There in the splendor of creation, the Shepherd’s gentle proclamation of his love spoke as clearly as it had in those countless mountain landscapes once revealed through rows of our old bus windows, themselves framed in soothing dark forest green.

But standing that morning in the deep snow on the crater’s rim, I was not prepared for the avalanche of memories that suddenly overwhelmed me. Never mind that decades had passed since Greenie had climbed slowly up the mountain on its first trip to Sonora. Never mind that many of the young riders on that trip were now sharing cherished Big Bad Green stories with their own grandchildren. It was as though the years had scarcely passed.

The high mountain air was crisp and still, but it was not silent, for the snow-rimmed lake before me struck the deepest blue chord, even as the clear, and brilliant sky offered its gentle azure refrain. Praise echoed from every corner as gatherings of tall and stately dark forest sentinels reached ever heavenward, joining in testimony to a very present majesty. Even they knew the Shepherd.

My attention should have been riveted far longer on the intensity of that wild panorama, but instead my heart began to melt in the snowy cold. It was as though I was encompassed once again within Greenie’s own dark forest green cathedral, worshipping beneath a vast and precious pea-green ceiling that now reached beyond the surrounding mountains if not time itself. How could I forget where the Shepherd had led us through the years? My memories were drawn to the many bus riders—my friends, some now gone—who would have loved to have been there too. In that moment I could only think of them. Certainly we would have stood together and sung praises to the One who created such grandeur, and those sweet, sweet songs of salvation would have been every bit as wonderful as what lay before me.

O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder,

Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made;

I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,

Thy power throughout the universe displayed.

When through the woods, and forest glades I wander,

And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;

When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur

And see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee,

How great Thou art, how great Thou art.

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee,

How great Thou art, how great Thou art!

Although the Shepherd had never allowed Greenie or Redbird to climb the magnificent mountain where I now stood, I knew he had a reason. After all, there had been a purpose for everything. The early disappointments of never reaching Crater Lake eventually directed us into new prison and street ministries, but they provided other lessons just as profound. They also taught us that our journey was not about fulfilling hopes and dreams, beholding the beauty of creation, or grasping any earthly prize. It was about following and serving the One who, long ago, revealed himself to Abraham, saying, “I am your shield, your very great reward”  (Genesis 15:1).

And when I think, that God, His Son not sparing,

Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in;

That on the Cross, my burden gladly bearing,

He bled and died to take away my sin.

When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation,

And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart.

Then I shall bow, in humble adoration,

And there proclaim: "My God, how great Thou art!"

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to acknowledge first and foremost the Good Shepherd.

Thanks to all those friends who rode Greenie, Orangebird/Yellowbird, Yellow, Big Blue, and Redbird, and who helped tell this story:

Al, Alma, Bert, Bill, Bob, Bonnie, Carol, Cathy, Charlene, Chris, Cindy, Corey, Dale, David, Dean, Debbie, Denise, Diane, Dickie, Donna, Dustin, Ed, Elaine, Enid, Erick, Ernie, Evelyn, Frank, Fred, Gail, Gary, Greg, Harry, Jan, Jeff, Jennifer, Jill, Joanne, Joe, Johanna, John, Joyce, Judi, Julie, Kathy, Kelly, Larry, Laura, Laurie, Leanne, Leonard, Les, Libby, Linda, Little Dale, Daniel, Lori, Louie, Louise, Lucile, Lynne, Marcella, Maria, Marianne, Marilyn, Mark, Meggie, Melody, Michael, Mike, Miriam, Nancy, Ned, Nina, Pat, Patty, Paul, Peggy, Penny, Pete, Pierre, Ralph, Richard, Rick, Rita, Roland, Ruth, Scotty, Sherrill, Shirley, Steve, Sue, Susie, Terry, Todd, Tony, and so many others.

With special appreciation to my wife and family, who were very patient while I took time to work on this project.

Thank you to Cheryl Finch, Esther Wei, Claire Strasbaugh, Emmanuel DeNike, Larry H., and my colleagues at New Life Center and New Life International Services for their helpful input.

Thanks to Daniel Chamberlin and Eric Rovegno for their patient work on graphics and to Mike O’Brien for driving Greenie onto the Internet.

APPENDIX A

On the Road Again: Still Amazed

Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the LORD. Lamentations 3:21–26

Our journey is not complete until we cross the Jordan.

For your journey

It is our hope and prayer that Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles has been of value to you in considering God’s purpose and faithfulness.

To encourage you further, the travelers in this story want to explain something of how this book came to be in your hands. After all, Journey reflects the investment of a great many people.

In the beginning, no one who had been involved in this project had any thought of helping to write a book, but in the end the events and the miracles behind the story in Journey could never simply be forgotten. Decades after the initial episodes in our ministry took place, the riders of Greenie and Redbird, long since scattered across the United States and beyond, continued to recount to friends and families the stories of what had happened on the road.

With the advent of Facebook, the bus riders who had prayed, worked, and traveled together so long ago began to find each other once again. In 2008, Shirley Prince posted the Miraculous Green Bus Facebook page with encouragement from Denise Holser and Meggie DeMers. A rider’s reunion in Santa Cruz was perhaps inevitable, and Denise worked hard to make it happen.

Back together for the first time in years, remembering times of grief, struggle, and hope in following the Shepherd, we could not help but talk of miracles. Before long everyone was thinking the very same thing: these stories really should be written down.

One year and scores of phone interviews later, the rough draft of Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles was ready for an accuracy check, and that served as an excuse for another reunion. However, now that our past had been chronicled, the record could have easily ended up on a shelf. Instead, gathered together to review the manuscript, we once more found ourselves singing, praying, and listening to the Shepherd.

That was when we came to believe God was not through with the story—or with us. We knew with certainty we were to continue praying for the ministry God had given us so long ago, we were to continue working on the story, and we were to publish Journey. Along with that new direction came a vision: proceeds from Journey could be used to help feed and care for the constant stream of those in need that continued to visit New Life Center.

We were well aware that even after raising the money for marketing, finding a publisher who wanted our manuscript would be a statistical long shot. Several editors told us in person that they liked Journey, but they were also blunt in telling us that given today’s market, there was unlikely to be much attention paid to our story. “There is little interest in autobiographies or histories of ministries. Those kinds of stories are all too common, and they just don’t sell,” we were told.

Perhaps the publishers were right, but now we were on a mission and we just kept going. Why are you still writing that book? people would wonder. There we were again, headed down an unknown road with no destination in sight. We only knew to follow the Shepherd.

We did receive a little encouragement along the way when the first several chapters of Journey were evaluated by Karen Burkett of Christian Editing Services. Within an hour after reading the chapters, Karen e-mailed back: “Wow! This story needs to be told!” Karen had somehow taken those words right out of our hearts.

Then there was Larry H., now a pastor, who had ridden countless miles on Greenie. In spite of a demanding schedule at his business and church, and despite the fact that we lacked financial resources, he continued developing a professional marketing plan.

Larry was relentless about moving Journey down the road. “Don’t just recount history,” he would urge me. “It isn’t just about past miracles. Let people know from this story and the Scriptures how they can also trust God in their own lives today!”

Over time our awkward situation weighed more heavily on both Larry and me. Here we were, struggling to develop a book as we believed we were supposed to do, but to outside observers we appeared to be building a bridge to nowhere. With no financial resources for marketing and no publisher in sight, we could only turn to the vision God had given us.

Finally we reached the point where we knew we were supposed to do at least something to pave the way for Journey. But whatever that was, we were also certain we needed to do it now. Knowing we were not supposed to wait another day, we decided our very first step would be to secure a bookselling identity on Amazon.com. I had some leftover copies of a book I had written many years ago, and using them to raise a little start-up money seemed like a good place to start. The books went on sale on Amazon, and the very next day I received a game-changing e-mail.

Mike O’Brien, a student of mine from several years past and now the owner of Nexus Media Management, had gone online just after we posted my earlier book. He happened to be looking for that very book when he came upon our location and realized that the seller was from New Life. He immediately e-mailed me to ask if I wanted help selling books through his internet company. That was like asking the riders of Greenie if they liked to sing! The next weekend Mike, Larry, and I met to talk about our options. Mike rolled his eyes at what we were attempting to do without funding and immediately put his company to work implementing a comprehensive plan with Web sites, graphics, typesetting, and a distribution strategy. It was a complete service package with full company resources at our disposal, Web site development included—but all for no cost!

We couldn’t have been more grateful, but the old bus book was still our priority. “Mike,” I argued as the weeks passed, “you have to read Journey. Marketing it is more important than the other book right now.” But Mike was far too busy developing Web sites to read a story about an old bus, and he wasn’t all that persuaded that it would be worth his time anyway. Buses? Kids? Forty years ago?

Months passed while our Web presence continued to grow, but there was still no place at the table for Greenie. Then one day Mike felt directed to read Journey for himself. After reading through the manuscript non-stop, he called me late at night to let me know Journey indeed needed to be published. Mike later said, "This story connected me to the ministry at New Life, and I came to believe that backing a book like this had potential to both support the work of the kingdom and help encourage believers. I was convinced that putting my resources behind Journey would be worth any investment I could make."

Suddenly Greenie appeared to be going from 0 to 60 in record-breaking time, for God had once more made a way where there had seemed to be no way. Now, with a clear means of presenting Journey to the world, I was back in contact with Karen Burkett, and she referred me to Roger Simmons, our editor, who made sure this story was told with precision and clarity.

The story continued to come back together in remarkable ways. Daniel Chamberlin, who himself had ridden Redbird as a youngster, went to work on the graphics. There was a constant stream of unexpected phone calls and visits from people I hadn’t seen or talked to in years. Pictures, letters, and crucial documents began surfacing from anywhere and everywhere, just when we needed them. It began to feel quite like Greenie was on the road again and the Good Shepherd was at the wheel.

Receiving miracle after miracle while reliving and recording our journey truly humbled and amazed us, and the guidance we received from the One who started us on our Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles confirmed to us that this story truly needed to be told—hopefully just for you!

APPENDIX B

Global Greenie

In recent years we at New Life have continued to maintain a church, a treatment program, an emergency shelter, and other services to the community. But just as in the Greenie days, we have once again found ourselves going down some challenging and unfamiliar roads.

The directive

With a new facility to work from and a strong administrative team, we finally had the luxury of looking outside of our own community again, just as we had in the earliest days of our ministry. It had been a long time since we had been able to consider doing outreach the way we had once dreamed of doing it.

What had kept our interest in outreach beyond our community alive was the fact that for years students had been coming from around the world to take addiction-counseling coursework at the Christian university where I taught.

The university students received their hands-on training at New Life, and then many graduates went out to start treatment programs in their own countries. It was encouraging to watch New Life function as a teaching “hospital” and become an international resource, but it was obvious that there was so much more we could do.

For a long time God had been telling us we needed to be serious about reaching beyond Santa Cruz. It was not a directive to leave the area or to start a new traveling ministry. We weren’t being called back to the road—we were being called to respond to a hurting world in a new way. Deep in my heart I believe the world of serving international addiction counseling is where Big Bad Green, that old International, had always been trying to go.

We were very clear about our new directive to provide help to other Christian street ministries around the world, but how were we supposed to do it? We certainly didn’t appear to have the resources to do anything more than what we were already doing. Nevertheless, the burden on our hearts would not go away, so we all just kept listening and waiting.

New Life International Services

We had been waiting patiently for at least three years for God to resolve the longing he put in us to look beyond Santa Cruz, when an envoy from nearby Western Seminary visited me. After an extended conversation, I was asked if I would be interested in establishing an addiction-counseling curriculum for their graduate counseling program.

Given my motivation to educate Christian leaders in providing addiction counseling, I offered an immediate “I would do that yesterday.” Western Seminary gave me every possible support, and the educational program began immediately.

It wasn’t long before I and numerous co-workers encountered a whole new pool of students who grasped the skill-set needed for addiction ministry, and many of them really had a heart for missions. I began to believe that the time for helping street ministries worldwide was at hand.

Gathering together all the best students I could find, New Life International Services (NLIS) was born to provide Christian training, education, consultation, and other resources to help develop addiction-treatment programs and ministries. Finally, after many years, we were starting to get out of Santa Cruz again.

But how are we going to accomplish all we have been given to do? I am pretty sure I know the answer to that question: we will know when the Shepherd takes us there.

But God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish. Psalm 9:18

APPENDIX C

Tiger by the Tail

In this appendix I would like to share two stories of the many wonderful people who have given so much to help us through the years. The number of people who have given sacrificially is too long to list: Kris, Ron, David, Karen, Earl, June, and especially Yoko, who has carried a heavy administrative load for years—and so many others!

Getting a big gun

With our new and bigger facility, our program grew so much it became obvious we had a tiger by the tail. The problem was no longer our facility; it was finding enough administration and management to keep up. That can cost a lot of money.

Now we were serving far more addicts, battered women, people with mental health issues, and homeless families than ever before. We had to train and manage dozens of volunteers as well as oversee a large staff, and that was to say nothing of the church, which needed additional pastoral support. We had had several wonderful administrators in the past, but we were badly understaffed now. With complicated government standards to comply with, it soon became obvious that we needed proven and experienced administrative leadership to keep pace with our ever-expanding program. In short, we needed a top-notch executive who would work for humble pay.

But where would we find such a Christian, even in our dreams? Let’s see. Such a person had to be a competent preacher, be able to teach at a university, be able to do professional counseling, and also do addiction counseling—and above all, be able to administrate at an executive level.

Once again we had an impossible problem for God to solve, and that was when he provided a most improbable solution. This is the story of how God called Emman to New Life, but I will let him tell his own story:

I was a young, alcoholic non-believer experiencing tremendous success in life. The large corporation I had been working for was fast-tracking me to a top executive position and compensating me with a lucrative salary to retain me while they waited for me to finish school. That is when, through astonishing circumstances, God brought me and my wife an interesting problem.

I didn’t know God at all, but I somehow knew he had brought me a wife. Knowing that I was in some way being shepherded caused me to begin searching for the One who apparently was already taking care of me. As I searched, my wife came along for the ride. There I was, trying to become a believer and looking for God in all the wrong places, when one Christmas Eve my wife and I decided it might be a good thing to try out a church service. We were looking at random for a place to go when a friend mentioned the church across the street from where we lived. One hour later my wife and I had heard the gospel, and we were suddenly two young Christians who saw the world in living color.

Now I was serious about making my life count for God, and I quickly began to wear out a study Bible, searching it from end to end. Soon I came to believe I was called to be a Christian counselor. The corporation that was grooming me for top leadership was OK with the idea that I suddenly wanted to find a way to help people, but it was very displeased that I was even thinking about becoming a counselor. They clearly had other plans for my life.

My uncertainty over what I should do disappeared when I heard a radio ad for the addiction-studies program at Bethany University. I really believed I was supposed to get that training, but the church I had started out in was totally against my getting an education of any kind. Now both my corporation and my church were not happy with me!

With my successful executive career at an end and struggling financially, I began studying addiction counseling at Bethany. By then my wife and I had moved on to a large church with dreams of helping them build a drug and alcohol counseling ministry. To my dismay, every time I tried to enroll in the church membership class, the class was cancelled, I was given the wrong sign-up information, or something else went wrong. After several tries I began to wonder if God wanted me at that church at all, and finally he told me that I wasn’t on the path he had for me.

Since beginning classes at Bethany, I had begun studying as an intern in the treatment program at New Life Center, busily working with addicts and learning the administrative requirements of a licensed treatment program. I had ended up at New Life in spite of myself when God had shut me out of every other internship location I tried to obtain.

Now, unable to find a church to contribute to, I decided I should at least check out New Life. My wife and I visited one Sunday morning and found ourselves surrounded by homeless people, addicts, and convicts fresh from prison. The service began with singing, sharing, and prayer, and I listened to many humble and desperate people seeking God’s mercy. No one seemed to be talking about God, but a lot of people were talking to him! Minutes after the service started, God told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I turned to my wife and discovered he had been telling her the same thing.

Now everything moved quickly in my life. I got into recovery for my own alcoholism (I had become abstinent but had never gone through the traditional twelve-step Scripture-based recovery program) and went on to pursue a graduate education and a faculty position at Bethany in psychology and addiction studies.

Soon after arriving at New Life, it was my delight to become the administrator for the treatment program, and I joined the pastoral staff of the church. Today my corporate career is gone, but I have no desire to climb any other ladder than the one that takes me down to those in need. I have seen countless addicts come to know Jesus, families healed, and children reunited with their parents. Even on a bad day, that trumps any corporation’s plush executive office with its six-figure income.

A business miracle

Even with all the resources we had in skilled musicians, addiction counselors, mechanics, some very special administrators, and other workers with a heart to serve the poor and addicted, we always seemed to lack people connected to the professional and business community. But when the time was right, God sent us Ritt.

“Ritt,” as everyone calls him, was a retired Christian businessman from another church who approached our ministry with a very frank comment: “Steve, I want to make the last years of my life count, and I want to make an investment where God’s kingdom is being served.”

Ritt began looking for a project that supporters would invest in as a long-term funding source to help us with our increasing costs. He and the rest of our treatment-program board tried every possible idea for buying a business or investment property, but nothing seemed to work. It was starting to look like another situation in which we were pursuing something God did not want for us. Then God got everyone’s attention, all on one special day.

It was in the fall of 2007, and as I drove across town one morning I was praying when God surprised me by telling me he was doing something to provide a solution for Ritt. I was encouraged and optimistic, but in my usual caution I waited and thought about what I had just heard.

Soon I got a telephone call from Ritt with some exciting news. For a long time he had been looking at a run-down trailer park near his home. Whenever Ritt drove by it he thought about checking to see if the park could be purchased, but he had never followed through. Right about the time God was speaking to me that fall morning, Ritt finally drove into the park to check it out. It was an elderly man who came to the office door.

“Is the place for sale?” Ritt asked him.

He responded, “Yes it is.”

Ritt wasted no time in asking, “How much?”

The man then named a reasonable price. But when he learned that Ritt was from New Life, he said he would drop the price he had just offered by $50,000 and would even help finance the sale. Why the generosity? He let Ritt know that he wouldn't even own the park—in fact he wouldn’t even be alive—if it hadn’t been for the help he himself had received from New Life thirty years before!

Ritt contacted many other Christian business people he knew and raised the money to pay for enough of the mortgage so that the trailer park was able to pay its own way. Our dream is that when the park is completely paid for, it will fund and multiply ministry for years to come.

APPENDIX D

The Rest of the Story

Faith is not blind. Indeed, the more we trust God, the more we see his purpose.

In this appendix I would like to share some evidence of God’s faithfulness through the generations.

Older journeys

It was not until the bulk of Journey had been written that several of us who had worked together on the project began to notice a striking similarity between our shared story and what continued to take place in our personal lives. No, we weren’t experiencing day-in and day-out excitement and drama; that didn’t even happen in the book. Rather, we noticed that whether it was in the manuscript or in our lives, there existed the same recurring themes of struggle, purpose, and deliverance.

It was as though as any one of us went through a new difficulty, loss, or struggle, we were reminded yet again that God was with us, always bringing purpose to every turn in the road, just as he had done in days gone by.

It was clear all of us still had to depend on him, and Jesus’ parable of the shepherd feeding and protecting his sheep seemed written just for us.

Although the actual bus ride was over, it appeared that the Big Bad Green stories were not.

Through all generations

After working on Journey I also began to notice how similar themes of struggle, purpose, and deliverance emerged in those stories my family has cherished and passed down through the generations, and the understanding dawned that the ride had started long before I had ever known.

So it was that working on Journey on the Hard Side of Miracles eventually drew me back to many of the conversations about faith and deliverance I heard during my younger years. Those were the delightful occasions when all sorts of church folks, especially missionaries, would gather around our dinner table and talk about what God was doing around our city and in the far reaches of the world. Sure enough, some older family members would soon contribute their own stories about the struggles they had personally experienced or perhaps heard about from their own parents. Now and again I still review some of those old chronicles of faith preserved in archives of family letters, documents, and even history books.

When it comes to struggles of faith experienced by other believers through the years, little has seemed to change. There are the repeated themes of difficulty, faith born in warfare, struggle, contagion, danger, grief, and brokenness. And there are of course the themes of dependence on God, coping with poverty, ministry to those in need, and also of surprising deliverance. Truly the need to listen to and follow the Shepherd of Israel stands above time.

It is obvious from the stories I heard that the past wasn’t always pretty. Why had there been obvious mercy and deliverance at one time, and yet at another God had let trouble pour through the door? Certainly there was mercy even during the hard times, but why did everything happen just the way it did? How can I best understand God’s purpose in it all?

Those are some of the thoughts and questions that pursue me as much today as when Greenie and Redbird traveled the highways and byways of America.

Here then are a few more stories of struggle, purpose, and deliverance which may encourage your faith and remind you that the Good Shepherd not only refuses to leave our side, but carries us in his arms.

The cornfield

"Forward—double-quick!"

Leading the 76th New York Regiment from atop his horse that warm, cloudy morning, Major Andrew J. Grover could not know his cryptic order to close on the Confederate Army would not only be one of his last, but would launch the three bloodiest days of the American Civil War.

While marching through southern Pennsylvania on the first of July in 1863, infantry from Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia had wandered near the Union encampment of Meade’s Army of the Potomac. A cavalry skirmish ensued, alerting the two great armies to each other’s presence and sending each to the ready.

The order to “double-quick” immediately sent the 76th New York running four abreast, toppling fences and crashing through yards and gardens in their urgent descent to the battlefield. They would not stop until they had passed through the field of standing corn in the shadow of the local seminary, and until they had entered the Confederate line of fire.

Positioned at the outermost edge of the right flank of Meade’s army, Major Grover’s regiment of New Yorkers were now destined to hold the first field position at the Battle of Gettysburg.

“Commence firing!”

Unleashing the initial volley on the advancing enemy, the feisty 76th was immediately engaged at short range by two corps of Confederate soldiers attacking from the north and northeast. Outnumbered nearly fifty to one, the 350 New York infantrymen suffered a withering crossfire of grapeshot, lead, and minié balls as they waited for arriving regiments to position nearby. Within those first twenty minutes half the New Yorkers fell, along with Major Grover who took a mortal wound near his heart soon after his horse was shot from under him. So hot was the rain of lead that a Lieutenant Whitney of the 76th wrote, “I would never have a chill should I sit astride the North Pole for six months.”

The onslaught resulted in a forced retreat through the streets of Gettysburg. By the end of the next two days and the infamous Pickett’s Charge, yet another seventy soldiers of the New York regiment would become battle casualties.

When the three days of conflict subsided, the few surviving 76ers returned to search for Andrew Grover’s body and grieve for their beloved leader, their own local New York Methodist pastor turned soldier—the pastor who went to war not only to pray for them, but to fight beside them. Prior to Gettysburg, Andrew’s legendary commitment to his soldiers had already put him in the hospital, as he repeatedly stood in the open to draw fire away from his soldiers. His reputation for prayer revealed his heart—his heroic actions, his bravery, his resolute patriotism, and the charge he gave his troops.

“No fearing, no doubting, the soldier shall know when bare stands his country and yonder her foe. Let the sword flash high, fling away the scabbard. We come back with glory, or we come again not."

Major Andrew J. Grover

Charles

Seventeen-year-old Private Charles Scott Matteson lived to tell the story of the cornfield bloodbath. Although he had been spared life and limb during the battles of Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville, this time would be different. His upper right arm was shattered by one of the long-avoided Confederate rounds. Two days later his arm, removed at the shoulder, lay discarded on a towering pile of severed limbs outside the First Army Corps field hospital. If the ordeal of Antietam had begun to shape Charles’ faith and character, Gettysburg certainly changed him for life.

Only two years had passed since the tenacious Charles had out-performed every other boy in Oneonta, New York, for a hard-won cash prize. Driven by his fierce determination, he had fought his way to the top of a greased flag pole, and waving to the crowd below he had hollered out, “You can see me today, but you won’t be able to see me tomorrow.”

By the end of the day the young lad had run away to Cherry Valley, New York. There he lied about his age and enlisted in the Union Army to “fight slavery.” Not only were he and most of those in the 76th New York Infantry committed abolitionists, but on one occasion in 1862 the soldiers found a way to provide sanctuary for a whole group of fugitive slaves. Concealing the runaways in federal uniforms, the soldiers took it upon themselves to drive off the pursuing slave hunters along with their tracking dogs well before any officer could intervene.

Africa: the Ivory Coast

For both Andrew Grover and Charles Matteson, Gettysburg was the last engagement of the Civil War, but it was far from Charles’ final battle of faith. After the war was over and having now decided to become a missionary, the young veteran made his way by brigantine to Freetown, Ivory Coast, in Africa. There he met and married my great-grandmother, Lucretia Maude Dowling.

The shadow of the La Amistad

Lucretia Dowling had faced her own battles of faith. As a young child she had lost almost her entire family to small pox, one of the many plagues of the early 1800s that swept through northern Ohio and the port cities of the Great Lakes.

A bright child of very small stature, she survived from the age of thirteen by teaching in small country schools and moving between families willing to compensate her with room and board. As a young woman she was amongst the first female students at Oberlin College in Ohio, a pioneer institution in opening its doors to both blacks and women. Even there, Lucretia was so poverty-stricken that the president of Oberlin, the “father of revivalism,” lawyer-turned-famed-evangelist Charles G. Finney, took her into his own home, adopted her into his family, and provided for her education.

Lucretia had grown up sharing America’s fascination with the story of the Mendes warriors who had arrived in America after their infamous rebellion off the coast of Cuba on the schooner La Amistad.

Following its four day battle with the westerly headwinds off the coast of Cuba, La Amistad had been running low on food. It was then the ship’s cook told the captives they were to be killed and eaten. Making such a statement to a shipload of Mendes warriors was ill-advised, considering that those slaves had themselves once lived under the specter of cannibalism. They knew all too well the harsh reality of the sometimes-blurred line between humans and livestock in their native land. There, in the jungle, even a small slave child was not only good for endless labor, but when needed, for several meals. Soon after the ill-fated comment, the desperate warriors took over the ship and the cook was dead. Days later the Mendes were in custody in the United States.

The warriors spent a year in America as their fight for freedom made its way to the Supreme Court. The case quickly galvanized the fight against slavery in America. But as much as the case fueled the abolitionist’s cause, the La Amistad incident also turned the attention of the American church toward Africa and, two decades later, toward the plight of blacks in the post-Civil War South. The overall result was a tremendous rise in American mission societies as La Amistad and nineteenth-century mission work became forever linked.

After the Civil War Lucretia, now twenty-two years of age, spent three years in the South working for the American Missionary Society teaching ex-slaves to read. Death, beatings, disease and school burnings stalked those Christian workers who entered the South in the wake of the Union Army. Unable to live in white people’s housing, Lucretia lived with her students, teaching children by day and adults at night. For her efforts she soon became a target of the Ku Klux Klan, and her male students would sleep across the doorway of her hut to protect her during the night.

Even as the eyes of American Christians were drawn to Africa, several great revivals were taking place in Ohio. While visiting one of those meetings in Mount Vernon, Lucretia made her own commitment to God to serve as a foreign missionary with the now well-known Mendes tribe in the south of Africa's Ivory Coast. Lucretia’s decision was deadly serious, for in those days committing to serve in a tropical jungle setting was often tantamount to embracing a death sentence, given the tropical fevers and other dangers that felled so many missionaries.

Despite the challenges, the young Christian lady was intent on departing to Africa within months. But her world seemed to collapse around her soon after she encountered missionaries who had just returned from the Ivory Coast. The missionaries suggested to Lucretia that she was needed much more among the Zulus in South Africa than the Mendes. Such information prompted Lucretia to write a letter to the head of her mission board asking if it would be preferable if she went instead to the Zulu people. The inquiry was all quite innocent.

In response Lucretia was met with a scorching letter from the powerful and demanding head of the mission society, who concluded that because she had raised a question about where she had first committed to go, Lucretia was no longer spiritually worthy to serve as a missionary. Despite Lucretia's gracious replies indicating her willingness to do absolutely anything she was asked to do, her appeal was rejected. Still deemed unworthy, she was removed from candidacy. So it was that her simple and humble desire to serve God clearly did not mean that anything about her path would be easy.

The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:17, 18

In personal despair, brokenness, and desperation she went to her adopted father, evangelist Charles G. Finney, and poured out her heart. Finney responded by writing a letter to the head of the mission board on her behalf, and yes, he still thought like a lawyer. He explained clearly, in both scriptural and logical terms, exactly how the head of the mission society ought to treat the gentle little girl with the servant’s heart he had long cared for. The gracious but powerful letter persuaded the influential head of the missionary society to stand down.

Soon Lucretia was on her way to the Ivory Coast, where she learned the local Mendes language, and there she met my great-grandfather, Charles Scott Matteson.

Indeed, the couple’s individual experiences with danger and hardship seemed only to feed the fierce determination that both Charles and Lucretia had for serving God together on the Ivory Coast.

Taking responsibility for a mission station deep in the jungle, Charles taught the natives there to grow sorghum, and he operated a steam-powered saw mill that had been shipped inland to help the Mendes fight their way out of grinding poverty. For her part, Lucretia taught in the mission school. It was a precarious existence, avoiding the warfare up and down the Bum (pronounced Boom) River, surviving disease, and procuring adequate breadfruit, rice, palava sauce (a stew), and fufu (vegetable starch) to feed the workers and the abundance of hungry children. Charles’ deadly one-armed marksmanship continued to defend and provide for them well.

The years of work invested by the many missionaries in the region were cut short following an outbreak of attacks by cannibals from the interior. My grandparents were among those who made it out alive, but barely. One terrifying day all the men of the mission compound were off at the lumber mill about a quarter-mile up river, when canoes full of cannibals came down the Bum River and captured the entire mission school. In moments, the women and children had been encircled within the school house, forced to eat honey from a horn to indicate their subservience, before being quickly herded off to the canoes. They were only hours from unspeakable terror and agony.

Quite unaware he was about to lose his bride to a raucous jungle feast, Charles momentarily shut down the saw mill for a “reason” unknown. Hearing the sudden silence, Lucretia grabbed the dinner horn from the schoolhouse wall and blew it with all her might. Even as the cannibals were startled by the sound, my great-grandfather and his companions heard the alarm and grabbed their rifles. There would be no double-quick march this time—it was nothing less than a full-on sprint to the mission compound. Once again, by God’s mercy, the 76th arrived just in time.

Why

My ancestors’ stories out of Gettysburg and Africa speak to me of God’s mercy and intervention, but again they raise intriguing questions. Why did he choose the humble schooner La Amistad to instill America with a renewed desire for mission work? Why did God so profoundly close doors to desperately needed African missions after they had once been opened at such great cost? When so many devoted missionaries in the region died from disease and violence, why were my grandparents preserved? Why did the saw mill shut down just at the moment it did? Who had really directed the events leading to the sounding of the alarm and the men’s return to the compound? Indeed, why had Charles even survived Gettysburg, to say nothing of the disaster at Bull Run? Why had Lucretia survived the plague?

It’s not that I have to know these answers, or even that I have any desire to question God. Rather I am fascinated to understand, when I am allowed, the purposes of God’s kingdom revealed in the less-obvious events we so often disregard. Of course the casual observer might view Charles’ survival at Gettysburg simply as a fortunate statistic of battle, but was it only that? Was a single soldier’s survival at Gettysburg or the timely shutting down of a jungle saw mill sheer good fortune, blind coincidence, or the providence of God?

Leaving aside the question of miracles, I have come to believe that God’s intervention in our lives is laden with purpose we can scarcely begin to understand. Why, at Gettysburg, did one Christian (Andrew Grover) die and another (Charles Matteson) live? Both trusted God. Both knew that God could miraculously bring them through the war. But of course, believing does not make you either bulletproof or immune from amputation. So why did one missionary come home from the West African jungle while another was laid to rest by disease?

We know from Scripture such loss does not reflect the virtue or failure of any person, and we know God’s children do not die by accident. Tragic events and even death befalling Christians must necessarily reveal the wise and merciful purpose of God. Jesus taught this very principle when he explained the blind man’s condition to his disciples: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life” (John 9:3). Was this not so with Laurie?

When God directs an event, or even when he simply reveals something to us he wants us to know—as random or difficult as it may appear to us—it is never a matter of coincidence. While we may in part be free to choose how we respond, when God directs our lives we are never subject to the whims of chance. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

Indeed, if there is a purpose in your reading this book, then every deadly confederate round meant for my great-grandfather missed for a reason. The shot that wounded him and removed him from the war had its reason as well. Certainly there was also a purpose in the quieting of the saw mill in the jungle. For if my great-grandfather had been killed by a Confederate minié ball or the noisy steam engine had not been stopped, I would arguably have never been born by twice.

The San Joaquin Valley

“Put a sack of flour over your shoulder and walk down the road.”

The instruction was so absolutely clear, so unmistakable, that John Joshua Matteson knew with utter certainty that God had just spoken to him.

Now John was a serious, hardworking young man, not the sort given to impulse, foolish imaginations, or incautious comments. Far from being the type of person who casually announces that they have “heard” from God, John was exceptionally measured and thoughtful when he acted and spoke. Therefore, his first response upon hearing God’s voice was one of hesitation.

The instruction to carry a bag of flour left John with no doubt as to what he was supposed to do. But hearing a directive, even from God, and then leaving work and immediately fulfilling it was a weighty challenge. It was no easier for John to do than it is for any one of us to open any given page in God’s written word, and then actually accomplish what it instructs us to do. John, of course, was not perfect.

Working that day at his home, John balked when God gave him that simple command. Although he could find no way to effectively deny what he had heard, the idea of walking down the road with a bag of flour on his shoulder just seemed too outlandish to act upon. Yes he was happy to add the weight of more responsibility to his young shoulders, especially if that meant to serve God. But flour? Besides, his own family did not have an overabundance of food. Why should he be incautious with his flour?

John Matteson, being a student of the Bible, understood at least a little of the importance of doing God’s will. In fact, following in the footsteps of his father and mother, he had developed his own fierce determination to serve God. The 1890s were difficult years for him there in the San Joaquin valley of California, as he struggled to help pay the bills and care for his ailing and widowed mother, Lucretia. John would work long hours honing his mechanical skills and working in the summer heat flinging bales of hay up onto wagons or easily lifting great sacks of wheat onto the shoulders of his lean twenty-two-year-old body. But there was time for little else except to dream of his strong desire to go to a foreign mission field.

John hadn’t been raised in the average rural Methodist family of his day. Indeed, he had grown up listening at the dinner table to real life stories of faith, deliverance, and following the Shepherd of Israel. His now frail mother had recounted stories of her work as an abolitionist and then her travels as a missionary to Africa. From his father, Charles, he had not only learned to shoot with deadly accuracy, but had heard firsthand of faith-building adventures both on the battlefield and on the mission field.

But John could not live on the faith of his parents alone. Like all of us, he certainly needed his very own experience of following the Shepherd. Of course rural California wheat fields did not present John with the dangers of the African jungle or the terror of survival on the battlefield that had impacted his father’s faith. But the opportunity to serve and trust God was nevertheless all around him. The time had come for John to fight his own battle of faith.

When God spoke to my grandfather and told him to pick up a sack of flour, it was no minor conflict that ensued within him. He would soon discover that his struggle to believe would not so much be won with the determination he had learned from his father, but by surrender and obedience. Indeed, my grandfather’s own instinctive tendency to personal courage would hardly serve him in dealing with God’s clear directive that day.

Faith may at times demand the fight of our lives, but because faith is a gift, success in believing is not at all served by human effort. That is too easy. Even the more difficult parts of faith, such as those times we may choose to enter harm’s way in order to serve God, can be accomplished by impulse if nothing else. The daunting struggle of faith is dying to self, day after day in the very same world that demands we live to self alone. That is our perennial battle. It is so hard to die to self.

So while his father Charles had learned to trust God in the face of physical death on the battlefield, John’s struggle would be to accept the death of self-will and pride. As such it would be no easy thing for John to carry out what was, in reality, nothing more than a gentle order to carry a sack, that at the very worst could humble his soul but a little. Wrestling inwardly, fearing he would play the fool by carrying the flour, but believing most certainly he had heard a command to put a bag on his shoulders, John chose to “hedge his bets.” Caught between clear-cut orders and his personal fears, he made a desperate move. In partial surrender he left his house and walked down the road—but the flour he left at home.

John walked a good distance along the dirt road near Stockton, California. He was still pondering why he should ever have been carrying flour, when he was approached by a horse and wagon occupied by an exhausted and disheveled family. A conversation ensued. “We are hungry” the family finally told him, “We have enough to cook a meal, but no flour. We have been praying, and God told us he would bring us a bag of flour. We were so excited to see you approaching in the distance, and we really thought you were the man God told us about.”

After an awkward moment for John, the family went on their way, and John could only return home to confront his failure to believe.

It was sometime later that John sat down at a church prayer meeting and found himself feeling the need to tell the story of his struggle to trust God that day on the road. When he was finished sharing his story about the sack of flour, a visitor, sitting with his wife and children, spoke up: “We were that family! We were the ones who talked to you! Let me tell you what happened. After we left you, we traveled up the road and met a farmer. When we had talked with him for a while, the farmer looked at us and volunteered that we looked like we could use a sack of flour, and he went and brought us one.”

Whatever John learned from that battle of faith was due not to his tenacity, but to a merciful God who turns our failure into purpose. What we learn from our own experiences of faith, especially miracles, is often just the same.

Colombia

It was about a half century later in the late 1940s, far up a tributary of the Amazon, that a young missionary, Francine, lost her fountain pen while walking through the Peruvian jungle. But a few years earlier in Bogota, Colombia, a thousand miles to the north, Francine’s sister May had given away all her earthly possessions to guarantee that she could serve as a missionary. Was it a compulsive act or a battle of faith? an act of obedience or a challenge to God? Perhaps it was all four, but there was certainly far more to the story.

May first made her choice back in the day when the decision to become a missionary had a sobering air of finality. Climbing aboard a ship and sailing to a distant land could easily mean never coming home again, never to have a chance to start and build a family. Being a missionary was serious business.

Understanding the possible consequences, May was determined never to look back. Teaching in a Christian school in Bogotá, she invested herself wholeheartedly in mission work. Then trouble started. An infected tooth drove her to the dentist, who pulled it but left her with a festering infection that would not go away. She had determined to live with the discomfort, but meanwhile a deadly disease spread through the city and many died. May, herself, was bedridden for weeks; however, no amount of urging could get her to go to the doctor—not for anything. Why? Back in the United States a doctor friend in the church was helping sponsor her. If he heard from another doctor how sick she was he would immediately order her home.

There were other indications something beyond her control was going on. Without apparent reason her roommate would tell her, “I think you’re going home.” “Absolutely not,” May would protest.

Worried about even the idea of leaving Colombia, May gave all her emergency reserve money to the church building project to make sure there was no way that could possibly happen. Now, she thought, I couldn’t return home even if I wanted to.

May slowly recovered from her viral illness, but then the infection in her mouth began to worsen. In desperation she resigned herself to seeking the help of a dentist. But it completely escaped her mind that a dentist was a doctor too! When he saw the infection, the dentist contacted her doctor friend and sponsor in the United States, who quickly ordered the young missionary home for treatment. Reluctantly, May returned to the United States just long enough, she stated, for treatment and recuperation.

Upon arriving home, May immediately began preparing for her return to Colombia. But trip after trip to the embassy for a visa resulted in a series of unanticipated problems, from staff changes to travel requirement changes. Frustrating months passed by, and it was appearing as if it might be impossible to get a simple visa. But May was persistent, and finally all was in order. Steamship tickets were purchased, and a visa was promised—this time “for certain.” Then just before her departure date, World War II began, and travel to Colombia was cut off for years.

May, however, remained resolute about her return to South America, even after everything she had gone through. In fact, God still had to perform several more surprising interventions in her life before he got her full attention. Finally she was able to acknowledge that he had a purpose in preventing her departure. Since that day, my mother has never believed she was doing anything but God’s will, serving here in the United States as a minister’s wife.

One of the first things my mother did after she married my father who served in the navy during World War II was to take over care of her aged mother from her sister Francine. Francine, who herself had grown up on stories of mission work and who had the deepest desire to serve in missions, was finally free to travel to the Amazon as a servant to The People and later in life to lead in Bible translations around the world.

When I consider how a tooth infection had such a purpose in God’s plan, how it was even part of allowing me to do ministry, I begin to wonder about the purpose of the “tooth infections” I have had. How are they designed to serve God’s purpose? I suppose that is a story for another generation and another dinner table.

Over time

Nearly a hundred and fifty years now stand between Charles and Lucretia and myself. I can still hold in my hands a few physical mementos of those days gone by, preserved and handed down to me through the generations. There are items from the battlefield at Gettysburg displayed on my office wall, and nearby there is a railroad watch given to me by my grandfather, John Joshua Matteson. The rest is mostly gone to time. But simply because I have, like Charles, Lucretia, and John, experienced the struggle of following the Shepherd, I can personally savor the faith of my ancestors through stories re-told as though they happened yesterday.

Oh yes, my mother still talks occasionally of her days as a missionary in Colombia, and my aunt has incredible memories from decades in the Amazonian jungle.

Times have changed, but faith has not. There is still hardship and danger in our world, and faith is still a struggle. Indeed, I rather think Charles and Lucretia, as well as their son John, would have easily recognized the themes of struggle, purpose, and deliverance we riders of Greenie experienced on America’s highways.

God’s mercy and faithfulness do not change, and the Shepherd of Israel’s gentle voice still speaks throughout the world. Given his presence in our lives, it would be no surprise if many of the stories in this book have in some way reminded you of your own journey of faith. Perhaps the Big Bad Green stories are really your stories too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dr. Steven Stiles, a pastor for over forty years, teaches addiction studies at William Jessup University and at Western Seminary in San Jose, California. He is a Professor Emeritus of the former Bethany University in Scotts Valley, California. Steve is also the author of Thorns In The Heart, Recovery for Codependency, and Gotchyaa.

Dr. Stiles is the Clinical Director at New Life Community Services in Santa Cruz, California which provides emergency shelter and drug and alcohol treatment. He is is a graduate of the American Baptist Seminary of the West and maintains counselor certification through the National Association of Alcohol and Drug Abuse Counselors (CADCII).

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All proceeds from this book directly support

New Life in Santa Cruz, California.

ALSO BY STEVEN STILES

Thorns in the Heart

A Christian’s Guide to Dealing with Addiction

Gotchyaa

True Tales of Con Artists and Other Modern Day Wolves

Who Prey on the Church

Table of Contents

Copyright

DEDICATION

FOREWORD

PREFACE

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

PART II

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Part III

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Acknowledgments

Appendix A

Appendix B

Appendix C

Appendix D

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Also By Steven Stiles