I didn’t realize how fickle the weather is in Seattle, but Friday evening the weather proved just that. It was dry, then it would sprinkle, then it would dry up again to be followed by a heavier pour. It just couldn’t decide what it wanted to do. In the meantime we walked, talked, quietly prayed. We ran into three guys, or maybe more they ran into us. Joe,* Bob,* and another guy named Joe.*
As we walked down Broadway they didn’t even know it but were breaking a “cardinal rule” of Fisherman’s Club that anyone who has ever come out with us ought to know, which is, DON’T BLOCK THE SIDEWALK. As we walked toward them there was no other way to get around them then to go right through, but they stopped us.
They were celebrating the sobriety of one of their compadres and wanted to include us in the celebration. So, why not? We like celebrating. We were congratulating Joe on his sobriety, people were talking, cracking jokes, an overall good and somewhat briefly chaotic time.
Then from behind the chaos the other Joe slipped over to where I was standing and asked if we could pray for him about something.
He said that he wasn’t sure if he was going to hell or not because some years ago he had torn up a Bible. It wasn’t so much what he did that impacted me, but the why. So I said, ‘You must have been really angry to do that.’ From there came a small snippet of Joe’s tragic childhood, which would erase doubt in the minds of most as to why such a person would bear so much hurt and fury toward even God of the universe who is said to love and protect the orphan.