The really sad thing was I agreed. I had seen the look on the face of the man I called Dad, who had just made a visit after an absence of several years. Pity, disgust, abhorrence. I knew I was as lost as anyone could be, but that look, his manner. It confirmed what I knew in my heart to be true. Those voices persisted and crescendoed.
But there was another voice. As I fingered the gun, I thought how this decision was not like all the other stupid ones I had made. There was no coming back from this one. It was permanent. Fourth generation pentecostal on three sides of my family, and the stepson of a Church of God pastor, I knew there was a devil’s hell on the other side, or was there? Maybe there was nothing. I could welcome that. Tears poured down on the hand holding the instrument of my imminent demise. The voices suddenly went silent. Through my choked sobs I heard, almost audibly, “What about Me? You haven’t given Me a real chance.”
New Year’s eve night, 1990 going into ‘91, a friend and I had been to a party, drank our fill, got bored and decided to go joy riding. It was just above freezing, blustery and raining. With the toxic potion of Canadian Mist, Boone’s Farm, and Marlboro Red nicotine coursing through our veins, we sped through back country roads in a late 80’s Camaro. Bad Company, Guns n Roses, Poison, and other debauched bands pumped their melodic devastation at unsettling volume through the sound system. We were going nowhere in a consequences-be-damned hurry.
On the backside of “lit” we rolled through a small town looking for a place to relieve ourselves. A little way out of town we pulled into what looked like a sort of tractor trail, it looked solid enough. We stumbled out, did our business, then discovered it was just an access to the side yard of a house. It was not that solid, and we found we could not back out. Rather than go for help, my friend, Franky, decided to try to shoot down the hill and get enough momentum to carry us to another road access a hundred feet away. No such luck. We were very stuck, wet, and inebriated.
Panic began to creep in. We both thought of who we could call for help. Franky had no one. I reached for my smokes in the pocket of my dampening jean jacket and a piece of paper with a number on it came out with the pack. I had forgotten about it, but it had been there for several weeks. It was the number for the residence of L.C. and Annette Lynch, youth pastor at Morlan Park Church of God.
For a year or more I had shown up there, intermittently, to youth meetings and sometimes Sunday school. It was a church I had attended as a child. The music lady pastor’s wife invited me to play my trumpet with the music team, and as I liked playing, knew the songs, and was taught to “use it or lose it,” I obliged. I was a holy terror to L.C. in the youth services and Sunday School classes. I used my knowledge of scripture and history like a foil to thrust, perry, and lunge, disrupting the lessons, which were really more like guided conversations. My underlying disdain for all things church was thrust mainly upon him, and he dealt with it so graciously, many times picking me up for church and taking me home. He would listen to my griefs, complaints, and hangups. He never responded in anger or even pressed the authority he so clearly had. He had scribbled his number down on this piece of paper and told me that if I ever got in a spot where I didn’t know who to call, to call him, any time, day or night. And he put his big rough stone mason hand gently on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and said, “I mean it, Aubrey, day or night.” I knew he meant it.
Franky and I walked into town and found a pay phone and made the call. It was two-thirty a.m. L.C. answered, I told him of our plight, expecting a negative reaction or a lecture. He just said, “Alright. I know the spot. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” His arrival was concurrent with ours, and we quickly got to work pulling the car out of the muck and back onto the road. No sooner was that accomplished than a couple of town policemen rolled in. Franky and I looked at each other knowingly. We were dead caught.
Before the lawmen stopped, L.C. directed me into the cab of his truck, and continued unhooking the car from the wench with Franky. My view of the interactions was limited, but I saw what I could see in the side view mirrors. L.C. was talking to the cops. Franky, who had practiced doing sobriety checks while in the cups, was performing beautifully. I do not know what was said, but I saw the cops talking and smiling with L.C. Strange. Then they shook hands with L.C. as Franky got into the Camaro. L.C. climbed into the truck. By this time early morning was rolling in, light rain still falling. I directed L.C. to my abode, Franky following in the Camaro. Otherwise it was quiet in the cab.
I kept my head down, expecting the explosion of grief and disgust at any second. Nothing. Not a word until he stopped in front of my place. Then he turned to me and said, “Hey, you guys have work in a few hours, so get some rest. We’ll talk about this later.” I thanked him rather profusely, climbed out with big eyes, and met Franky at the door going in.
Franky was grinning. “Dude, they knew him. He talked them out of taking us in.” Apparently, L.C. was sort of a football hero in high school in this town, and had used his clout to smooth things. That was sort of a miracle in my mind, and I took a serious mental note. Still, my life experience kept alive the expectation of some sort of retribution. We owed him hugely, no doubts there.
The next time I saw L.C. was at church. He just smiled warmly, shook my hand, and asked if I was doing alright, just like any other Sunday. I was tentative, waiting for the hammer to drop. After service I saw him coming my direction and I figured it was coming now. Instead, he asked me if I’d be interested in going to Winterfest in Gatlinburg with the youth group at the end of the month. I told him I didn’t have the funds. He just smiled, and said, “I got you. And I’ll give you some spending cash while you’re there. You don’t have to pay me back. Let me do this.” I was so bumfuzzled all I could do was nod and say OK.
Nothing really amazing happened at Winterfest, except that I was on my best behavior for the first time, probably in my life. Nothing changed in my life. I worked, I drank, I partied like I always had. But a seed had been planted with much trouble on L.C.’s account. The demons I had been fighting with seemed to up their game. I remember a time in those months between New Years and sitting on that porch when I lay in my bed thinking life was always going to be like this, depressing. I felt like nothing would ever change. I felt locked into this trip to nowhere.
“You haven’t given me a real chance.” For the first time since I did not know when, the hateful voices had ceased. It was like I was in a rabid storm and it just stopped. My thoughts went back to the events of that cold rainy New Year’s night. In the middle of my thoughtless raging, the authentic, bald-faced love of Jesus had stepped boldly into the hell of my life, right into the middle of it, in the grace and generosity of a man that didn’t know me, had no claim on me. He was gentle, not harsh. And in a situation where, honestly, he owned me, he made no demands. He did not preach, lecture, or chastise me in any way. Just the opposite happened with his selfless gesture of an invitation to a weekend away from my drudgery. This, I thought, was the love I had been hearing about for twenty one years, but never had really seen until then. This was the "something to believe in” - words from Brett Michaels of the band Poison, and it found me despite my efforts to elude it. Jesus chased me. Jesus found me. Jesus would not let me go. It was not a Church of God thing or any kind of religious thing. It was the pure love of the One Who gave everything to redeem us in the shape of a big ol’ stone mason named L.C. Lynch.
The next day was Sunday, and I walked into the church about the time the pastor was doing his welcome and announcements thing. I didn’t stop at the back pew as I usually did. I kept walking laser focused on that altar I had been raised at. Before I reached and fell down on it, the tears of years of hate, anger, hurt, and disappointment began falling, raining. Strong, rough hands rested on my shoulders. The music lady pastor’s wife Jimi began singing and praying. Other people, who maybe thought they were witnessing something very special, if not miraculous, began filling in the spaces between altar and pew, praying, worshipping, and repenting. I cried my face dry as I committed my way not to a ministry, or denomination, but the Christ of humanity.
That was thirty-four years ago. I found a passion in youth ministry, and in ministry to people with disabilities. I have spoken at youth retreats, at camps for people with disabilities. And L.C. was a pivotal person in my life. Since then, Jesus has put me in that same place several times. I have been married to the same woman for almost thirty-three years, another miracle. We have raised two amazing sons. I have screwed up from time to time, of course. My righteousness is not mine, but that of Jesus. But through it all, His grace and mercy has gone ahead and followed behind me all the way. If not for a vessel of God that decided to exercise aggressive grace, expelled condemnation, and poured out Jesus’ love, I know my life would be tragically different. God has used many other such vessels of grace to help me along. Looking back, I think you just never know when you might be the very life-line for a drowning soul.
I Corinthians 1:27-31 NKJV
[27] But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty; [28] and the base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, [29] that no flesh should glory in His presence. [30] But of Him you are in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God—and righteousness and sanctification and redemption— [31] that, as it is written, “He who glories, let him glory in the Lord."
1 Cor 1.27-31 NKJV
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