Sam’s heart began to melt, and he realized that he was hearing the need. He looked through the glass door in the direction where the man had been looking. “Maybe she’ll still come,” he said. “Maybe she’s just late.”
The old man’s mouth trembled as he shook his head. “No, I don’t think she’s gonna come. See, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in touch with her, and well . . . I guess I crossed over the point where there’s no goin’ back.”
Sam met his eyes and remembered the lost things of Luke 15. The lost coin . . . the lost sheep . . . the lost son. The poignancy of those stories assaulted him anew, and he realized that the Holy Spirit had reminded him so that he could tell the man. “There’s never a point where you’ve gone too far,” he said.
The man breathed in a heavy, soul-deep sigh. “Oh, yeah there is. And I crossed it a long time ago.” Sam looked out the door again, wishing the daughter would come to show the man that there was such a thing as forgiveness and new life. But even if she didn’t, there was someone else who would. There was a father, scanning the horizon for the sight of that lost son. “Why don’t you let me give you a ride?” Sam asked. “I have my car out here.”
“Weren’t you waiting for somebody else?”
Sam shrugged. “Sort of. But they didn’t show up either.” The man looked at Sam with new eyes, as if he could understand how it felt to be rejected. “Come on. I’ll take you to wherever you need to go.”
“Well, I appreciate that, sir,” the man said. “Don’t you need to tell your friends?”
Sam looked over toward Kate. She was watching him and smiling. He winked and nodded that he was leaving. “It’s okay,” he said. “They’ve got another way home.”
As he got into the car with the old man and asked where he wanted to go, he realized that the needs were right there on the surface . . . in the man’s face . . . in his stance . . . in the way he carried himself . . . in his words. And what he couldn’t hear, the Holy Spirit could. He could do what Sam couldn’t.
This man needed Jesus Christ.
That was all he needed to know.
READING GROUP GUIDE
READ THE THREE PARABLES IN LUKE 15. WHAT WAS Jesus trying to show in these parables? If you could sum them up in one sentence, what would it be?
1. How do these parables relate to you?
2. If you are a Christian, how should you respond to these parables?
3. Read Ezekiel 3. What does this passage mean to you?
4. Even though we can’t hear the voices of souls crying out, what are some ways we can understand people’s needs?
5. Think of times you’ve missed opportunities to share Christ with others. What could you have done differently? Rehearse those conversations the way you wish they had gone so you’ll be prepared the next time an opportunity arises.
6. Look up Acts 4:18-20. Do you feel the way Peter and John do about telling people about Christ?
7. Think about the people with whom you’ve come into contact in the last few days. What needs might they have had? Did the Holy Spirit give you any impressions of those people?
8. Rehearse a conversation in which you might have met their needs.
9. Why are some Christians (you? me?) so reluctant to share their faith?
10. Read the Great Commission, Matthew 28: 19–20. How important were Christ’s last words before ascending to heaven?
11. What do you think Jesus meant when he said, “And lo, I will be with you, even unto the end of the age”?
12. What do you think is everyone’s deepest need? Are you able to fill that need?
13. Even though you don’t have the gift of hearing the voices of people’s souls, how has the Holy Spirit gifted you to meet their needs?
14. Read Romans 10:14 and 15. Do you have beautiful feet?
15. Pray for God to give you the courage and the words to take His good news to a hurting world.
the
Gifted
This book is lovingly dedicated to the Nazarene.
INTRODUCTION
YEARS AGO, WHEN I WAS A DIVORCED MOTHER of two little girls looking for a church home, I went from church to church, desperately seeking a place where I felt accepted rather than shunned—a place where I could grow in Christ and get my life back on track. Thankfully, the Lord led me to that place, and that was the beginning of my healing . . . and my journey back to God.
Some time later, as my pastor spoke to the congregation about our mission to help hurting people, he said that Christians too often shoot their wounded. He said that our church’s mission was “to send an ambulance instead of a firing squad.” And that’s just what that church did for me, through people who’d experienced what I was suffering, and others who used their God-given gifts to minister to me in my time of need.
But I don’t see that working in every church, nor do I see it working in my own all the time. Too often, I see five percent of the congregation doing a hundred percent of the work. The other ninety-five percent just wants to be fed. They sit in their pews Sunday after Sunday, like the man-eating plant in “Little Shop of Horrors” crying, “Feed Me, Seymour!” And the workers do everything they can to accommodate.
That’s why I wanted to write The Gifted. I wanted to show what could happen if we each used our gifts as God intended. What might that look like in the church? And how would it change us to see God working through those gifts, using every part of the Body of Christ, to minister to a hurting world?
It’s my prayer that this book will make readers think about the ways they’ve been gifted, and prompt them to ask themselves how God might have intended to use those special, unique gifts. Sometimes that gifting takes the form of a talent or skilled service, which God honed in them for a specific purpose. Sometimes it takes the form of an affliction, or an experience of tragedy or suffering, which can be used to help others stuck in the depths of despair. Sometimes it’s service or compassion . . . gifts we think aren’t important. But God knows they are, and He had a plan for them when He gave them to us.
As you read this book, keep your own gifts in mind. When you’re finished, allow the study questions at the end to help you prayerfully seek God’s will in your life.
Then imagine the Body of Christ with no paralyzed members, actively laboring in the fields that are ripe for harvest!
1
THIS JUST ISN’T WORKING.” BREE HARRIS CLOSED her Bible and looked at her co-workers across the table. Andy Hendrix and Carl Dennis looked as frustrated as she. “I thought you said this Bible study was going to be an outreach, that we were going to talk it up and get half the office studying with us every Thursday. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“I thought you said you were going to be the one to print out the fliers, telling people about it.” Carl Dennis looked disgusted as he got up and crossed the employees’ lounge. The office coffeepot was filled to capacity, even though there were only three of them here. “Where are those brochures?” he asked as he poured himself a cup. “I never saw them.”
“I was busy, okay? I didn’t have time. You could have done them, you know.”
Andy sat slumped at the table, his Bible open in front of him. “Bree, you’re supposed to be the big desktop-publishing whiz. When we talked about this at church, you said it would be easy. You were even excited about it.”
“I know.” Bree groaned out the words. “I blew it, okay? I should have done it, but I didn’t.”
“It’s okay.” Andy left his Bible on the table and joined Carl at the coffee. “We don’t have to have a bunch of people in this. We can do it with just us.”
The two men made an amusing picture standing side by side. Andy was six feet four and three hundred pounds; Carl was only five-five and probably weighed 130 pounds soaking wet. But their personalities didn’t match their statures. Carl said whatever came to his mind—good or bad—as if he didn’t realize that almost anyone in the office could pin him to the floor in the time it took to call him a jerk.
Though Andy looked a lot like one of those cocky television wrestlers who ranted and raved threats, he was mild mannered and quiet.
“I know we can do it with just us,” Bree said, “but having the Bible study was supposed to be for a purpose. A way to share Christ with our coworkers. I just don’t get it. Half the people up here claim to be Christians, but when we start a once-a-week Bible study for thirty stinking minutes after work, nobody has time for it. It kind of makes me mad, you know? I mean, what are the unbelievers supposed to think?”
“Like I said,” Carl piped in, “they’re not going to think anything because they weren’t even aware we were having it.”
Bree bristled. “Hey, I did put it in last week’s newsletter. I also sent an e-mail around to everybody.”
Carl sipped his coffee. “Nobody reads those things. I get a million e-mails a day. I delete half of them.”
“I also invited a lot of people personally. That should have carried more weight than anything else.”
“I did too.” Carl sat back down. “I told everybody I’ve seen for the last three days, and I heard excuses that would singe your hair.”
“Well, we’re here.” Andy came back to the table and set his coffee down. “We can do this. I’ve been working on my lesson all week.”
To Bree, that was the biggest problem. When the idea had come up to start this Bible study where they worked, Andy had quickly volunteered to teach it. In her opinion, he was the worst choice. His soft, level monotone would probably put them right to sleep. It was clear that he was following their pastor’s admonition to step out of his comfort zone, but she wished they didn’t all have to pay for his growth.
She just didn’t have the heart to say so. “Okay, Andy. You’ve got the floor.”
Carl came and sat down, but the look on his face said that his thoughts mirrored Bree’s.
Andy cleared his throat twice, sipped his coffee, then pulled his notes out of his Bible. “Maybe we could open with a prayer?”
Bree glanced at Carl. “All right.”
Andy took both of their hands and bowed his head.
A rumbling sounded over the building, and the coffee in Carl’s cup began to slosh. The framed “Character First” sign hanging on the wall crashed to the floor.
Andy’s grip on their hands tightened slightly. “It’s just a tremor.”
But it was more than a tremor. Other pictures fell, and the chairs they sat in began to vibrate and move beneath them. The coffeepot jerked its way across the counter and crashed onto the floor.
Carl jumped up. “Earthquake! Get into a doorway!”
“Not a doorway,” Bree cried. “We’ll never make it. Get under the table!”
The three of them dove under the table as the rumbling grew louder. The floor began to crumble, and Bree had the terrifying sensation of hunkering over unsupported plaster that was falling apart beneath her. She screamed.
Plaster from the ceiling began to snow down on them. “The ceiling!” she cried. “We have to get out.”
She tried to crawl toward the door, but Andy pulled her back. “The wall’s coming down! Cover yourself!”
She got back under the table and covered her head as the wall collapsed on itself, making the rest of the room slant and splinter like a house made of toothpicks. The floor beneath them tilted to one side, rumbling like waves, and the table started to slide.
Bree shrieked out her horror as she began to slide down the incline of the floor. The three-story building above them came down in slow motion, walls crashing, the ceiling caving, people yelling above them.
The light blacked out, and all went dark, but the rumbling didn’t stop. The building continued falling on top of them, burying them alive.
2
WHEN THE RUMBLING AND CRUMBLING STOPPED, Bree forced herself to think beyond the panic gripping her. Her body felt bruised, but she didn’t think anything was broken. She tried to force her arms through the plaster and concrete pinning her to the rubble beneath her.
“Andy? Carl? Where are you?”
“I’m here.” It was Carl’s voice.
Relief flooded through her. “Andy?”
Andy spoke up. “I’m here, but I can’t move. Something’s crushing me.”
“Me too,” Carl said. “I’m pinned down. Man, three floors fell on top of us. How are we still alive?”
“I don’t know.” Bree wondered how deeply they were buried. “Maybe we’d better not try to move too much. We might start another avalanche.”
They lay silent for a moment, listening for the sounds that might foretell another tremor.
“It was a bad one,” Bree said finally.
Andy agreed. “Had to be eight or nine on the Richter scale. We’re probably not the only building in town that’s fallen.”
Bree didn’t want to hear that. She pictured the whole town devastated—bridges collapsed, streets buckled, homes and schools destroyed. She thought of her children. Her mother had picked them up from school. They were at home with her by now. Had they been buried too?
Rescue workers were probably combing the streets, looking for victims even now. What if there were so many that it took them days to work their way here?
Horror caught in her throat as she pictured her children buried just like this, unable to help themselves. She imagined seven-year-old Amy’s terrified screams and eight-year-old Brad’s desperate attempts to dig his way out. Please God, save my kids! “Thank goodness it happened after work,” Carl said. “There probably weren’t many people left in the building.”
Andy moaned. “Man, I wasn’t even supposed to be here today.”
Bree tried to concentrate on the sound of his voice. If she could keep her mind focused somewhere else, she might be able to hold the panic at bay. “Where were you supposed to be?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment. I was supposed to get a physical, but then I remembered that I was teaching the Bible study so I postponed it. Pretty weird, huh?”
The rumbling started again, and Bree groped for something to hold on to. She screamed as the rubble beneath her shifted and rolled. She felt a hand . . . and grabbed onto it.
“I’ve got you,” Carl shouted. “Andy, grab my hand! Grab it, Andy!”
A cruel roar sounded around them, and Bree heard things collapsing, crashing, falling . . . She felt the impact as debris caved down onto the table pinning them down. She twisted her head sideways and felt as if her neck would pop or her jaw would collapse as the table legs had done. The concrete block wall next to them crumbled and buried their legs. They all screamed out.
Bree began to pray as loud and as hard as she could, pleading with God to spare her, her children, and Andy and Carl.
Then the floor fell out from under her again, and she heard a small explosion and the sound of shattering glass. It sprayed into her eyes, tiny shards of metal and glass, cutting into her corneas and the skin of her face.
It was as though someone had taken an ice pick and made a sieve out of her eyes. She screamed out, but couldn’t even get her hands to her face.
Darkness fell over her, and she knew she’d been blinded. If she survived this earthquake at all, she would likely never see again.
Carl fell with the floor, praying that he would hit bottom soon and that the weight of the building would shift and avoid crushing them. Something jagged broke his fall, but his back buckled in pain. He wiggled to move off of whatever lay beneath him, but a steel beam crashed across his legs, pinning him.
Pain shot through him like an internal fireworks display, racking his nerves and stretching his tendons, cracking his vertebrae and crushing his legs.
His screams echoed through his own head, reverberated through the devastated room, and competed with the sounds of the screams he heard next to him.
At first all was dark, then Andy saw the flicker of bright orange dancing through the mounds of rubble that lay next to him. He tried to move toward it, figuring that light must provide some means of escape.
But then he felt its heat.
“Something’s burning!” He fought to move away, but couldn’t. “Fire!”
“We’re gonna die!” Bree’s cry sounded as though she was still close by.
Carl moaned. “Where’s the fire? I don’t smell anything.”
“It’s where I am.” Andy choked on the smoke as it filled his air hole. He coughed and tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t move. “Help!”
Hot, searing smoke whispered around him to the background song of the crackling fire. He tried not to breathe, but he could only hold his breath so long. Finally, he gasped in air, and scalding smoke shot down his throat, blistering everything in its path, searing his vocal cords, and trapping itself in his lungs.
He coughed and sputtered, but it felt as if the flames were licking his throat, taunting him, destroying him in some slow, evil way. He tried to speak, but his throat felt bloody and ruined.
“Andy, are you all right?” Carl’s voice wavered on the edge of panic. “Where’s the fire?”
He coughed again, trying to force the smoke out of his lungs, but there was more behind it, growing hotter and more deadly.
“Andy!” Carl’s voice was strained and tight. “Andy, move toward me. I’m not getting the smoke. There’s clear air toward me.”
Andy tried to squirm toward Carl’s voice. With all his strength, he managed to turn his body away from the flames and dug through the pieces of concrete next to him.
“I can’t move my legs,” Carl said. “They’re crushed. But I can move my arms. I’ll try to dig through to you.”
Andy heard scraping next to him, and he tried to match it. Behind him, the rubble shifted again. He dug with his hands toward the sound of Carl’s voice until finally he reached the steel beam holding Carl in place. He touched Carl’s belt.