1997. I was pastoring in Geneva, Ohio. We
lived about 50 miles from Cleveland. One of our men was in for a touchy surgery
at the Cleveland Clinic and I was there with the family. The Clinic is a huge
place. Extremely professional. Always rated in the top five hospitals in the
country. It was one of those terrible, drenching rainy days in early November,
overcast and lightening and booming. Needing to get away by myself for just a
bit, I caught an elevator to the 8th floor, at that time the top floor in the
hospital. I knew of a glassed- in observatory up there and I wanted to see the
storm up close.
When I got there the room was oddly empty except for a thin man standing by one of the windows. He wore an old suit that was shiny from wear. In the reflection of the glass I could see his eyes were closed and his lips were moving. A battered old Bible was clutched in his right hand. He stood there all alone, yet there was the feeling of a presence about the place.
After a bit his lips stopped moving and his eyes opened. He took a deep breath and his thin, narrow shoulders straightened. "Pastor," I said. "Are you OK?" I knew, somehow, that he was a Pastor. Maybe it was the suit, maybe it was the old Bible. Or maybe, probably, it was something more. He looked at me via the reflection, never turning, and said in a soft Southern drawl, "Yes, Pastor, I reckon I'm fine. Just praying for one of my ladies, is all. Wouldn't be up here in this crazy ole city if it wasn't for her. She's in surgery. Just had to step away from her family for a bit." By this time I had stepped up to the window next to him and he turned and faced me. About 50, his face was damp with tears that had run down the wrinkles caused by years of care and strain. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. I told him why I was there and I asked him where he was from. Somewhere in West Virginia, I couldn't tell you where now. Pastored a little country Baptist church on some mountain. Had driven his pick-up all night to get there. Couldn’t really afford a room. His clothes were old but clean, his shoes battered but polished, his Bible well read and precious to him. I asked about his church and he lit up as he talked about the little church in an old coal mining town. Good people. They took care of him and his wife as best they could. This was the farthest he had ever come without her, but she had slipped and fallen feeding the chickens a week ago and though she was doing fairly well now she figured the trip would be hard on that sore hip. He talked about how the Lord had blessed him and the Mrs. and the how He was looking after the church even now that the mines had closed. "He's a big God, Brother Pastor," he told me.
We stood and talked for about fifteen minutes. It was getting time for us both to get back. Still, in one of the busiest hospitals in the country, no one had come into that room. After a bit we prayed together and then shook hands again and he ambled away. He was headed down to the second floor of what was probably the biggest building he had ever been in. I held back for a bit, looking out at the storm. The rain kept coming down, making a drumming sound against the glass. I needed to go and check on my own folks, but for just a bit I tarried. The storm reminded me that the world is a dangerous, gloomy and stormy place, but there are moments and places in those moments that are heaven sent. Right then I was standing right where that pastor had stood. It felt like holy ground and I wanted to feel it a little longer.
People started filtering in then. The quiet moment had passed and it was the hospital again. I don’t know what became of that pastor, but I thought about it later. I knew he was a pastor when I saw him. He had a depth of Spirituality I had never felt before. When he was there I was standing on holy ground. For 15 minutes God allowed me to be in the presence of greatness. College, seminary, highly educated professors. Yet, none of them compared to that pastor from West Virginia. Weary from driving, ill at ease at being in a city, loving his people, taking the time to talk with a younger pastor. A man drenched in the Spirit. Someone I was privileged to meet. I pray that memory stays with me always.
When I got there the room was oddly empty except for a thin man standing by one of the windows. He wore an old suit that was shiny from wear. In the reflection of the glass I could see his eyes were closed and his lips were moving. A battered old Bible was clutched in his right hand. He stood there all alone, yet there was the feeling of a presence about the place.
After a bit his lips stopped moving and his eyes opened. He took a deep breath and his thin, narrow shoulders straightened. "Pastor," I said. "Are you OK?" I knew, somehow, that he was a Pastor. Maybe it was the suit, maybe it was the old Bible. Or maybe, probably, it was something more. He looked at me via the reflection, never turning, and said in a soft Southern drawl, "Yes, Pastor, I reckon I'm fine. Just praying for one of my ladies, is all. Wouldn't be up here in this crazy ole city if it wasn't for her. She's in surgery. Just had to step away from her family for a bit." By this time I had stepped up to the window next to him and he turned and faced me. About 50, his face was damp with tears that had run down the wrinkles caused by years of care and strain. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. I told him why I was there and I asked him where he was from. Somewhere in West Virginia, I couldn't tell you where now. Pastored a little country Baptist church on some mountain. Had driven his pick-up all night to get there. Couldn’t really afford a room. His clothes were old but clean, his shoes battered but polished, his Bible well read and precious to him. I asked about his church and he lit up as he talked about the little church in an old coal mining town. Good people. They took care of him and his wife as best they could. This was the farthest he had ever come without her, but she had slipped and fallen feeding the chickens a week ago and though she was doing fairly well now she figured the trip would be hard on that sore hip. He talked about how the Lord had blessed him and the Mrs. and the how He was looking after the church even now that the mines had closed. "He's a big God, Brother Pastor," he told me.
We stood and talked for about fifteen minutes. It was getting time for us both to get back. Still, in one of the busiest hospitals in the country, no one had come into that room. After a bit we prayed together and then shook hands again and he ambled away. He was headed down to the second floor of what was probably the biggest building he had ever been in. I held back for a bit, looking out at the storm. The rain kept coming down, making a drumming sound against the glass. I needed to go and check on my own folks, but for just a bit I tarried. The storm reminded me that the world is a dangerous, gloomy and stormy place, but there are moments and places in those moments that are heaven sent. Right then I was standing right where that pastor had stood. It felt like holy ground and I wanted to feel it a little longer.
People started filtering in then. The quiet moment had passed and it was the hospital again. I don’t know what became of that pastor, but I thought about it later. I knew he was a pastor when I saw him. He had a depth of Spirituality I had never felt before. When he was there I was standing on holy ground. For 15 minutes God allowed me to be in the presence of greatness. College, seminary, highly educated professors. Yet, none of them compared to that pastor from West Virginia. Weary from driving, ill at ease at being in a city, loving his people, taking the time to talk with a younger pastor. A man drenched in the Spirit. Someone I was privileged to meet. I pray that memory stays with me always.
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