Wazza, the truck driver turned up at about ten to six that morning with the cargo I was waiting on.
“Wazza,” I greeted cheerfully, “how are you this morning?”
"How are you Junior (he always called me that; me: a fifty year old junior)?” he responded, “What’s news?”
The usual light banter ensued till he said something that made me respond with a remark about knowing Jesus as your Saviour.
“Ah, that’s bull,” he challenged, “Isn’t it, Raj?”
Raj was an old semi-retired painter who came to help unload and grunted his disapproval at being drawn into the conversation. I am well aware that neither believed.
“So you really believe that the Lord is going to sort us out at the end, Junior?” Wazza was in a stirring mood today and just spoiling for a stoush.
“Yup,” I replied just as brazenly, and without saying it let him know, “If you want to get it with both barrels mate, I’ll give it to you.”
One thing I can tell you about Wazza from about thirteen years of experience is he is neither shy nor easily dissuaded, “So, you think there’s still hope for me?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” He acknowledged the obvious truth of that and I continued, “Trouble is, Waz, I want you to think about something. How many times has your wife asked you to do something and you have responded positively, fully intending to get it done, but later? Unfortunately you linger too long on your way, or you become so busy that time just runs out, and now you can’t get the job you promised your wife you’d do, done.
That’s what will happen if you don’t make good now. You’ll always think you’ve still got time, and one day it will run out and it will be too late. The consequences are far worse than having a cranky wife, mate. Better to fix it now than find time has wasted away on your good intentions, Waz. No good crying over lost opportunities.”
Raj, the painter was listening as I spoke, and I hoped he was taking it all in as well. I’m sure they got the point because they were into me the whole time we spent together – trying to point out every little fault I made so that Ken, whose shop we worked in couldn’t help but smile and comment at their fun-filled aggression. I didn’t care, just as long as they got the point.
All morning, on my delivery route I sang Andre Crouch’s song from the seventies, “Count the years as months, count the months as weeks, count the weeks as days, any day now we’ll be going home.” Ah, the happiness of speaking God’s truth to those who don’t know it!
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