I bought bean bag chairs with some Christmas money to put in “my” school store.  Because I was having a problem with my prayer being answered and nowhere to put the blessing.  I’d asked for Him to hover there, to make the store a place He lived.  To take His peace and tuck it into every crevice, every shirt for sale, every conversation.  I wanted Him to be welcomed in so He could stand at the door and welcome in.  I wanted Him to be honored so that He could do miracles.  Quiet ones, loud ones, messy ones.  I wanted Him to stir us up so that we bumped up against one another.  So He gave me ideas and the means to do them.  They needed a place to sit, these blessings coming in the door each morning.  First it was bean bags, then it was a table and chairs, inherited from my son moving far away to Africa.  The first morning the kids discovered the table waiting for them in the store,  it warmed me inside bright to think of what it represented to me.  My boy flies off in search of God dreams and leaves a piece of himself behind and I watch others gather around with dreams of their own. I feel tears gather up ready to spill like happy bouquets.  But then, I cry easily so pay no attention to the sappy woman behind that curtain.

So, Chase sits next to me some mornings, he on one bean bag, me on the other, and slowly others come and sit on the carpet next to us and listen in.  It’s that listening in that spreads seeds and welcomes others into the God dream.  He tells me he writes poetry and I perk up.  I used to do that same in high school, I tell him.  What do you write about?  Mostly life like I see it, things I think about.  I tell him I would treasure being able to read it.  If he trusted me to.  Really??  He seems surprised.  I write too, I tell him.  I know about heart on paper.  If you would let me, could I share it on my blog?  He hesitates overnight.  He needs to think about it.  “It would be an honor,” he says to me the next day.  I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Shane.

Chances
By Shane Scott

Go to work every day and see the same guy.
 He always looks the same way, fire in his eyes.
His life a constant cliff hanger;
hanging off a cliff of anger

You know the word says to share the truth,
but why would he want to hear from you; yet his soul screams out,
 because it seems doubt is the only route.
He goes home that night and cries in his bed;
takes nine pills to kill the thoughts in his head
and before you know it, it’s done.  He’s dead.

Drive to the same place for lunch every day of your life,
see the same lady there, overwhelmed with strife.
You think her outside appearance says “leave me alone,” but her inside cries, “my soul needs a home.”
You don’t want to talk about the One who conquered sin.
You would rather see her soul rot within.
The lady goes out that night, looks down at a text and gets hit on the left side.
She’s gone, instantly dies.

You come home late, had a long day; before you go to bed and lay down,
you have a heart attack and hit the ground.
Your soul ascends up the stairs, to the judgment seat
for God sits there.
You rejoice, for you know your fate
but you see the others there that await.

God opens the door just for you;
as you walk, you look back at the other two.
They sing a symphony of cries, a horrible song;
and wonder if you knew all along.
But then they fall down those firey rings……

and suddenly, you wish you had said something.