I sat at a little table in the corner of Seattle's Best in one of those cute old buildings on Chicago Avenue. The view out of the big window in front of me showed off the clouds and the sun shining off of the skyscrapers, hiding the chill that swept the streets and caused me to take refuge with a latte. I sat with my textbooks and my Bible and read and pondered, the way I always did.
The middle aged Caucasian man across from me quietly observed, his curiosity evident.
"Do you really believe all that?"
I stopped and took in his sweeping question that encompassed the scripture in front of me and my evident devotion to it.
I told him I did, and as much as this earnest introverted college student could, told him why, and told him how real it all was to me.
He sighed, his own story obscure to me but obviously weighing on his mind as he responded.
"Yes, but you're young. We'll see. We'll see if you still believe it in a few years."
didn't say it to be insulting. He was intrigued that
I, an educated and intelligent person, would believe. My youth discredited me. I'm sure he thought, "When she is older, when she knows more and has experienced life, she will change. It will fade, this passion." He wasn't skeptical, though. It was evident that he was sad.
If memory serves, it's been eight years from the day I talked to that man in Seattles' Best.
understand a little more where he's coming from, a man in a city where unbelief is the accepted norm. He's right that I see things differently as an adult, and I am no longer that naive college kid.
But Sir, if I could meet you again in those easy chairs under the Chicago skyline, I would tell you that I still believe. Today I remembered you and I prayed for you, that you with your wistful response would be chased by the Hound of Heaven until you know it too.