Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance, and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith... --Hebrews 12:1-2a
 
     We were rolling through the hills where Jesse James once roamed, six of us crammed in a car meant for five.  Ahead of us, a hearse carried my pastor.
 
     Riding in the car to the cemetery, I resented the normal chatter among the others.  It felt disrespectful.  I wanted them to be sullen, withdrawn, contemplative.  I wanted them to feel sad the same way I felt sad, to mourn the way I mourned.  Ahead of us lay the body of a man whose whole life had been devoted to Christ, whose every waking hour seemed to be spent serving the "neighbors" Christ commands us to serve.  At 19, I wasn't wise enough yet to understand that people manage mourning in different ways.  All I knew was my pastor was gone, and the world didn't seem to notice.
 
     I was only seven when I met Francis.  He was the quintessential rural Baptist preacher, spewing fire and brimstone from the pulpit in a voice that surely shook the gates of Hell itself.  It was scary, to be sure. But oh, when he stepped down from that pulpit!  Never a human exhibited more the gentleness of Christ than burly old Francis!  Every fiber of my faith traces its roots to the hours he spent teaching me truth.
 
    For years he walked beside me, teaching me Christianity belonged in the workplace as much as the pulpit; that how I lived said more than how I talked.  Every time he sensed me wavering, he nudged me back to Scripture, calling me back to the one place where truth may be reliably re-learned.  Far too often, though, the memory of our chats has been drowned out by the seductive call to do something big, be somebody big, producing a desire to be served instead of serving.
 
     What I didn't realize all those years is that Francis wasn't planting his wisdom in my head.  The words he spoke, the wisdom he offered, all came from his own relationship with Christ.  He modeled intimacy with God by mentoring me.  He hid Scripture in the corners of my life, knowing what I didn't know then, that once planted in our heads, God's truth never really leaves us, even when we try to push it out of the way. 
 

     We were not just meant to be mentored. Younger faces look to us to model something as their mentors, to pass on what we've learned from our journey.  What wisdom are they hearing from our words?  What truth do they see reflected in the paths we choose?  What echoes are we planting in the recesses of their hearts? Are we hiding our thoughts in their heads, or are we passing on to them the wisdom of God? 
 
     Riding down a bumpy country road that day so long ago, I noticed a pickup pulling over as our line of cars approached.  A farmer stepped out of his truck, pulled off his hat and stood silently as we passed.  The chatter in the car stopped short at this unexpected moment of tribute, and the snapshot of that farmer with his hat in his hand etched itself forever in my head. 
 
     May the memory of those who brought us to Christ renew our commitment to live as they would want us to live---for Him.  May we find, in our own circle, coworkers and family members whose lives wait for words God gives us to share, and may we make the time to not only share them, but live them.
 
--Randy Kilgore