Well, it's been two months since the Pastors hit the streets of Boston and we are beginning to be recognised and even looked out for by some people. Of course we are still being asked 'Where's the spaghetti?' by every other person, but let's look on the bright side at least we don't go out on the streets of Plymouth; what's the betting we would be Cornish Pasties, there!
We are having some interesting conversations, but many, many people are asking questions that I have no answers, absolutely no answers to. A man asked for direction last night. He used that very word: 'I'm looking for new direction in my life; what can you offer me?' When we spoke to him about God, he answered, 'I can't believe in a God who killed my 16 day old baby. While I have breathe in my body you will not make me believe in a God that could do that.' Of course we tried. I spoke about a God who loves...a God who doesn't kill, but for some reason, that I cannot understand, allows pain and suffering to happen. But of course, it was not what he was able to hear, and all I really wanted to do was hug him and tell him that it was all right to be angry with God, but I couldn't do that...didn't know what to say or what to do.
We are doing some good though. There was young George name changed), last night who looked so young and was so very drunk. A big lad with a baby-face, who staggered so uncontrollably that he almost tipped himself over the balustrade into the Witham. While he was propping up the wall of the Midlands bank, complaining that he needed a toilet and he didn't know the way home. I prayed. One of those simple 'on the spot prayers' that are whispered to the wind... and George said, 'over there...It's Ian, my mate. He might take me home.'
Ian, it turned out, was a pizza delivery man and stone cold sober, thank God. He grudgingly fetched his car and we bundled the young lad in. Answered prayer and a successful end to George's evening.
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