I met a man on the street whose sad eyes told a story of pain hidden behind the smell of his drink and the slur of his words. His voice was like a desperate cry for help, though it came out in jumbled, silly phrases. And then, a lady appeared by my side, concerned. “Watch out for your car. Your trunk’s open. He’ll take your things.” I smiled and said, “It’s just a car. I’m not worried. What’s your name?” She looked nervously at the man and said, “Never mind me. He’s getting close—do something, or you’ll lose your things.”
I handed her two small Gatorades and reassured her, “I can’t lose. It’s just stuff. As long as we’re children of God, we have hope. My hope isn’t in my car.”
Suddenly, her face lit up, and she exclaimed, “You’re so right. If I have Jesus, no one can take anything from me that matters.”
