Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. -Matthew 11:29

     Lakeside, sounds carry unfathomable distances, making things said in private not-so-private. Add the incredibly quieting effect of new-fallen snow, and you can just about be sure everything everybody says will be heard by more than the people who are supposed to hear it.

     On just such a night, I stepped out of my cabin to watch a full moon burst over a nearby mountain in northern New Hampshire.  Its' eerie orange glow as it peeked over the ridge was camera-worthy in its' own right, another of God's moveable masterpieces marching across the winter landscape.

     I was basking in the majesty of the moment when, two cabins down, two men not so familiar with the traveling distance of voices on lakes broke the mystique: "I sure hope this Kilgore guy is stuck on the road. All I want tonight is some snack time and sack time." His buddy echoed his sentiments, and I found myself wondering if theirs wasn't the general sentiment for a bunch of men who'd worked all week and then driven hours to arrive for a retreat.  Maybe starting fresh on Saturday was a good idea.

     I mean, really, who wants to spend Friday night listening to some guy talk about something that's hit or miss at best in most lives: Their love for God and Jesus Christ.

      Standing in the front of the room a short time later, I studied the faces as announcements were made.  Experience taught me that men willing to give up a holiday weekend for a spiritual retreat were looking for two things: Comradeship and Kick-starts.  Tired as they might be; they'd volunteered to come.  Even if they'd been pressured by a spouse or a pastor ("It'll be good for you!"), most had likely put up only token resistance.  In return, they wanted---for the most part---either to find that magic bonding all men ache for on some level but don't know how to describe; or they wanted to find their way to a place where they had a passion for their faith again.  Many wanted both. 

     I wish you could have seen their faces---this mix of white-collar-successful and blue-collar-sturdy male countenances---when I asked them to stand up and sing that childhood classic, "Jesus Loves Me."  It was not a pretty picture.  Still, they stood and started singing

    As frequently happens, the Holy Spirit took that simple song everybody knows, and packed it full of emotion.  Weary faces fought back tears; broken hearts didn't even try to fight them off. By the second time through, I'm fairly certain even angels stopped to listen.  All the barriers between them and God dissipated in the face of the simplicity of that unexpected moment of childlike worship. 

     Like me that Friday night, each follower of Jesus carries a message most people aren't sure they want to hear; at least not right now. They're too tired, too broken, too busy, too successful, too skeptical, too disapproving, too-almost-anything to think that now's the time for them to hear what we have to say about God. It's oh-so-tempting to just be quiet.

     And yet, beneath their too-almost-anything lies this vast wasteland of fear and fatigue and worry and doubt, desperate for two things: Connection (community, companionship, comradeship, etc.) and eternity (spirituality, faith, belief, etc.)

     Hearts are turned, not by the angry voices of the convinced shouting their convictions, but by the surprising sweep of the awe-inspiring, bigger-than-us realization that "Jesus really loves me; and the heartbreakingly simple message He asks us to pass on that, yes, He loves you, too.

---Randy Kilgore