Axe Murderers, Angels and Alex

"Dad, pull over and pick him up! He's just a kid."

I had seen the hitchhiker way over on the right side of the highway, but since we were in the far left HOV lane and moving sort of fast, and since I knew it would be dangerous even to try to stop, I had not considered it. The fact that I don't want a knife planted in the back of my neck may have also played a role in my decision to keep going.

"He's probably an axe murderer," I said. "Plus, I am needed at the hospice," - a beautifully played religion card.

"Dad!" Andrew would have none of it. "Pull over."

"Ugh. " I said, the love of Jesus evident in my groan. Pulling over I promised Andrew that when this guy drew his knife or gun or whatever he surely had in store for us, he would need kill only me because the first thing I was going to do was dive for Andrew's neck! Andrew smiled as if happy at making the old man live up to all that Jesus stuff he's endured since birth.

So, at great peril to myself (not unlike St. Paul enduring raging seas en route to share the gospel in new territory, I might add), I cut across four lanes of I-75 and pulled over to a stop - about 200 yards past the hitchhiker. I could see him running toward us and I sized him up all the way. My car was still in gear. He had one small blue duffel bag and an extra long skateboard that was nearly as big as he was. He stood all of 5'6" and weighed no more than 100 lbs. Red, unkempt hair and pimples. He wore tattered jeans and a green tank top. A checkered scarf lay round his neck. It looked like it needed a broach on it. A very skinny kid, he looked real young - 15, 16 maybe.

"Where you headed?" I asked as he got to the car. "Please say 'next exit'. Please say 'next exit'," I thought.

"Far as you can take me," he said.

"But specifically where are you going?"

"Salt Lake City, Utah" he said with the faint sound of resignation in his voice.

Relieved that we were going different directions - soon - and that we thus couldn't take him very far at all, I replied, "Well, we'll be heading East on I-285," gesturing toward the large green sign above us. "That's only about two miles, but I guess we can take you that far." I must have sounded quite chipper. It feels good to help people.

"Every little bit helps," he replied, quoting the hitchhiker creed.

Turns out he was actually 18 years old though he did not look it. He'd been on vacation in West Palm Beach with his (soon to be former) roommate and some "friends." Three mornings earlier he'd awakened to find the room empty and his wallet gone. He had four bucks on him. Hitchhiking for three days, sleeping in the woods, eating whatever he could, he was now in my car. Ugh.

We hadn't traveled 100 yards together when I knew we were going places I would not choose. I hate admitting it, but I wasn't really excited about helping this kid. No warm feeling of the good volunteer swept over me. This was an interruption. I had important God-business to do. I was on my way to the PCC Hospice to visit a dying friend and I was in a hurry to get there. Further, I was delighted that my college sophomore son Andrew had been willing to accompany me, and I was looking forward to some rare time alone with him. But this hitchhiker kid was small, frail looking, and had the proverbial deer-in-headlights look. Ugh. Every once in a while Jesus gets in the way of my serving Jesus.

So, instead of pulling off the road at the junction of 75 and 285, I continued north. "We'll get you just a few exits up the road, but then I have places to be," still lying to myself about how this was going to turn out. I immediately dialed FREE-411 and got the 800 number for Greyhound. After pushing a few buttons, I discovered that it would cost 183 bucks to put this kid on a bus to Salt Lake City.

"You interested in a bus ticket to Utah?" I asked.

"Sure!" he said, "but I've only got four dollars to my name." He was unable to suppress his smile.

"Well you're going to have to ride with us for a while, because I have to visit someone in a hospice," I said. I wanted him to know my visit was more important than whatever business he might have. "Then we'll see about a bus ticket. By the way, what's your name?"

"Alex."

We made it to the hospice and I spent about a half an hour there. A wonderful saint has leukemia; she's dying. We talked about that a little, though I'm not sure how much she really understood. She was pleasant as she has always been. I prayed with her, and then we left.

We drove straight to the bus station in downtown Atlanta. If you've ever been to the Greyhound station, you know the scene: a lot of people milled about on the sidewalks, both sides of the street. Talking, smoking, some sharing brown bags. Weather beaten faces and dirty clothes. A guy asked me for my spare change. Alex and I walked into the station and waited in line for about thirty minutes before he got his ticket. The bus was going to leave at 12:45AM (Monday morning), and in just under two days, he'd be home. He felt good. I felt good. And just as I was about to shake Alex's hand and wish him well, I got the impression that Jesus was not done yet. Next thing I knew I heard this voice that sounded strangely like mine saying, "You need to come home with us until time for your bus." Ugh. We stopped at WalMart to buy Alex some snacks for the trip. Two days is a long time when you've got four bucks, and Alex loaded up on drinks, cookies, crackers, trail mix and slim-jims.

Wendy has always been pure gold when I pull these stunts, and Sunday night was no different. Sh had an unmistakable delight in her voice when I informed her I was bringing Alex home for a few hours. I know you're thinking that I should have asked Wendy first, but I know her. It was a gamble, but not much of one. She got out ham for sandwiches along with all the trappings. A bag of those little baby carrots, a couple of bottles of water. She kept shoving food at Alex until he said, "Ma'am, I don't have anywhere else to put any food."

Alex took a shower (his first in three days) , and Wendy found him a pair of fresh socks. He plopped down on the sofa and watched TV. It turns out Alex was a really bright kid who made good grades in high school, graduated early, and even had a year of college under his belt. At eighteen, however, he was completely on his own in the world. We chatted a bit about life, religion, his family -- such as it was. He had, as he put it, "lots of 'dads' that were [his] mother's friends." His birth father abandoned them when Alex was about 5 years old. Alex said he had reached out to him in recent years only to hear, "I'm not your father. I just got your mother pregnant a long time ago." Alex just stared out the window a while after telling me that.

When the time came for me to drive Alex to the station he thanked everyone in the family. Wendy slipped him a twenty, and he gathered his few things. We drove in silence for a while until I could bear it no more. I began the parent routine: do not leave the Greyhound station for any reason. Do not leave your bag unattended for any reason. Do not look anyone in the eye, and if you do, don't lock in on them. Did he still have that twenty? I forgot to tell him not to accept candy from strangers. I was very caring and quite impressed with myself.

Alex's response was perfect: "Do you mind sitting in the car while I stand just outside to smoke a cigarette? This doesn't look like a safe place."

"Sure."

A man came up to Alex while he smoked and offered to sell him something. I think he was selling crack, but neither of us could understand him. Alex finished his cigarette in a hurry, and opened the back door. Before he got all of his stuff out of the car, I asked him if I could pray with him.

"Oh yes," he said, "would you please?" I was surprised to hear that.

We bowed our heads, held hands, and prayed a long time, street toughs just a few feet away, watching. I squeezed his hands when I finished. When we finished praying Alex looked me in the eye and said as sincerely as I can imagine it being said, "Thanks." And with that he was gone -- the 183 dollar Greyhound ticket in his hand.

I believe that was gospel money well spent. I hope you do, too. But this was no good Samaritan type story. Rather, looking back, it gives me the odd impression of having been oblivious to an angel in my presence.