Looking In and Reaching Out

 

continued studying and praying about what more I could do with my newfound knowledge of the faith. I began reading a pattern throughout the Bible regarding care for the poor. I made a list of all the times God asked us to care for the poor and I stood in awe of my new discovery. So many times it said that he cared more for our actions of helping the needy than anything else. In Ezekiel, the prophet mentioned that Sodom and Gomorrah were condemned because they were overfed and unconcerned with the poor and needy. He did not even mention their sexual sins for which they were supposedly destroyed and for which the term sodomy was coined. Whether or not God truly cared about homosexual relations or bestiality, God’s heart cared more for the poor, and he destroyed them for their lack of mutual concern.

Excitement welled within me as I considered that this might be the very key to the power of God to do all the more good in the world. Healing, casting out demons, prophecy, and ultimate satisfaction—it could all be available to everyone simply by caring for and helping the poor! I shouted out to everyone I knew and explained the situation. I showed the verses and I expressed my desire to do something. I could find no one who cared as much as I did, of course. Jesus had once said that his food was doing the will of God so this reminded me a lot of the parable of the feast that everyone was too busy for. They could not be bothered with the poor and thus they would miss out on the feast that God prepared for them. Their food was certainly not that of doing the will of God.

             I immediately tried to put my new learning to practice. The homeless were always hanging out at a McDonald’s across the street from a shelter called The Gospel Mission. I sat down and looked around while watching all that went on around me. I began chatting with a homeless man named Rick—a disheveled man of skin and bones with a gleam of insanity in his eyes and an air of ultimate knowledge about the workings of the world in his voice. He had a few teeth and his low-cut jean shorts almost fit, while his leather skin hung off his bones. I befriended him and bought him coffee on a regular basis. I even took him shopping for new clothes and shoes. Rick became my go-to guy for any insights regarding the homeless. He would often introduce me to people and tell me all about everyone. He loved to tell everyone that I was starting a church despite my never having claimed so and despite my many attempts at clarification. I shared my views with him regarding the church and he wholeheartedly agreed while not having a clue what I was talking about and instead continuing on with some kind of conspiracy theory.

             One day, Rick had me take him to a friend’s house who supposedly owed him some things and who should have his mail. When we arrived, the place looked condemned but almost in progress of being worked on as evidenced by the dried-out paint cans and rollers lying around. Also lying around were two half-naked guys jacked-up on some kind of drugs. They were not too very conversational. The situation understandably made me uneasy, but I trusted God and kept a composed disposition as we went on our way with Rick’s things.

             I tried asking Rick what we could do to help people. The best idea he had was to create a night-watch organization for the homeless. He told me how he looks out for everyone and makes sure that no one gets hurt at night. I did not particularly believe a word he said, of course, but I allowed him to continue with his delusions. We talked about making up some shirts that said “Blue Angels,” which is what he wanted to call his night watch, and handing them out to the homeless. It sounded like a fairly interesting idea to make them feel a part of something, but I feared that they might start policing and taking matters into their own hands as if they had some form of authority. I did not wish for the police to then trace the problem back to me. I quietly disowned the idea although Rick remained quite enthused about it.

             On another day, Rick decided that he wanted to go visit his son and grandkids. He told me that he had an "Obama Phone" sent to their house and he wanted to pick it up. I hesitated at first since I figured there were probably family problems given that he was homeless and his son was not. I had also never heard of this Obama phone concept which sounded rather strange to me. Cell phones for homeless people, at the time, seemed quite ridiculous. Eventually, I obliged and took him. Rick directed me to pull into a trailer park and we pulled up to one of the multitudes of rundown mobile homes.

Rick knocked on the door and out came his towering son Ricky at six and half feet, probably over 300 pounds, with ragged pants and no shirt. Ricky stepped out with a slight ducking of his head beneath the door frame. He had long hair and he strongly reminded me of Goliath. Consequently, I immediately felt like his opponent David. Despite much practice, Rick Senior turned out not to be very good at introducing me and he started things out by telling Ricky to grab the family Bible. I watched confused as Ricky looked at me then back at Rick and responded only with a forceful, “Why?”. Rick again told him to just get the Bible. He sighed and rolled his eyes as he went to do as he was bid. He came back out and Rick instructed him to give it to me. Ricky handed the Bible over to me with a little shove and said, "Here” while waiting to see what I would do with it.

             Confused, I asked Rick what he would like me to do with the Bible. He then explained to Ricky that I was starting a new group of people to watch the streets as if that had anything to do with the price of tea in China. The conversation continued with a series of similarly odd and disjointed statements by Rick followed by eyebrow raises from both Ricky and me alike, then followed by me shaking my head in confusion and fear. The grandson came out and watched the ordeal rather bemused at the confusion. It was fairly obvious that Rick’s son and grandson were rather uncomfortable around him and they did not really know how to handle him any more than I did. His grandson smirked a little as if he enjoyed the oddity of his grandfather to some extent but Ricky certainly did not seem too interested in having him witness his grandfather’s derangement.

             Things began to get a little more comfortable as we continued to talk on the small porch. Ricky began to understand that I, too, was a pawn in Rick’s game and that I had no motives of my own in approaching him. Rick’s granddaughter then came out to say hi briefly. Rick asked her if she still played the clarinet but she explained how they had to sell it to make ends meet. Without thinking twice, Rick asked if she wanted another one and she nodded her head yes. Ricky, visibly upset, looked at Rick and questioned why he would get her hopes up for no reason. He knew he had no means of getting her a new one but Rick assured him that he did. This means, of course, had a lot to do with me without my express approval before-hand. I really had no qualms on the matter, however, since I desired to help the poor and help I would. I later went and bought a clarinet for her along with a few reeds. She jumped up and down ecstatically when I delivered it. I went alone that time, however, in order to refrain from reintroducing the insane man to the family. It really got me thinking more about how to help people. I felt like the clarinet gift probably helped more than anything I had yet done. It felt good. It felt right.

             Rick often put me in rather uncomfortable situations, but it kept things interesting since I never knew what to expect. I felt as if God utilized such situations to grow me and to help me understand things more clearly while also helping others. For one thing, I began contemplating Rick’s advice to become a street preacher. I had gotten together with many homeless people up to that point and twice took about 8 of them out to dinner at Fazoli’s to have a Bible study. They did not appear very capable of asking questions or seeking God on their own, but they were fairly receptive to being preached at while eating food.

             There were only a few homeless people who actually appeared mentally competent to some degree while everyone else seemed entirely in need of someone else to think for them. I befriended two people in particular who enjoyed the freedom of the homeless lifestyle for its simplicity rather than for their incapacity to function properly. They gave me the ins and outs of when and where to eat if one found oneself homeless. There were churches everywhere handing out different kinds of food but the homeless folks tended to avoid certain places due to the preaching involved. They told me how they could get real beds at the Gospel Mission if they agreed to listen to preaching, but most of them chose to sleep on mats on the floor of the shelter instead.

             In attempts to help those in need, I paid for a few bus fares and even gave someone house furnishings including a bed for the low-cost housing she was just accepted into. I offered to take another guy shopping to buy whatever he felt he needed. I tried leaving it up to him to see what he would buy as a kind of test while simultaneously trying not to be too judgmental regarding things I might not feel he truly needed. I could be helpful and kind in ways other than buying necessities as I did with the clarinet. He bought shoes, clothes, a hat, and even sunglasses. I could mostly approve of every item if I kept an open mind, but I had later heard that he returned a lot of it for store credit and ended up trading the credit for drugs. I made the mistake of giving him my phone number, as well. I helped him a few times and acted as pizza delivery boy, but I quickly became rather uncomfortable with the arrangement. I purchased some Bibles for him and his presumed druggy friends, then I began making excuses not to see him anymore.

             I noticed that some people would try to help the homeless by handing out McDonald’s dollars but they would then exchange them for cash with the people who were already buying at McDonald’s. It made no difference to them if they bought their food with cash or McDonald’s dollars so why not, right? The homeless would then use the cash for cigarettes and alcohol. Most of the homeless were smokers. It consumed most of their day trying to get enough change to buy a stick off someone or to find enough buds on the ground to roll a new one from the remnants.

             One man asked me for a ride to a particular store. Being the kind and helpful homeless-advocate that I was, I did not hesitate and invited him into my car. He directed me where to go and we stopped at a little convenience store. He went in for a few minutes and came back out with a paper bag stuffed with a bottle hidden in his back pocket. I sighed internally as I returned him to his destination saying nothing about his purchase.

             Emily did not much appreciate my endeavors but still she helped a few times. She made about 20 pizzas from scratch one afternoon and we went to the park to distribute it among the homeless. Most of them just grabbed a slice and ran off. Only those that I had already engaged with actually stuck around. We also did a barbeque on a different date and at a different park but it had similar results. Seeing as they had so many food choices, we were simply one of many stops which merely made for a better option over hot dogs and soup. We could find very little appreciation for the food or willingness for conversation.

I spoke with one homeless person at the barbeque regarding the nature of Christianity and the reform needed to restore it to its original splendor. He seemed fairly interested at the time and he encouraged me to write a book about it all. I rather enjoyed that one encounter and I tried to arrange meeting with him again. He never showed and I never saw him again—an angel in disguise, perhaps?

              During these food outings, we brought our three kids along with us. It amazed me to see how the kids were entirely impartial to the fact that these people were homeless and generally unhygienic and creepy-looking with their rotting teeth and strange behavior. They played with Rick like a long lost uncle who later wept as he told me that my kids were healing his mind and heart. I thought that perhaps this is possible. Maybe they only needed to hang around more children to remind them of the simple pleasures in life and to bring them out of a self-centered stupor. I did not particularly try to have my kids go around hugging everyone though.

             My feelings of inability to help or do anything of importance weighed on me and put me in a somewhat depressed mood. I felt worthless. It donned on me, however, that perhaps we are not supposed to focus so much on changing anything or anyone. Perhaps we were simply supposed to love and that would serve God just fine. Jesus instructed us to hold banquets for the poor, the lame, and the crippled rather than for friends. It said nothing about having to change anyone’s lives in the process or making the purpose of the banquet to help anyone in any long-term way. Perhaps my befriending them fulfilled all that God actually wished for me to do. While perhaps true, it did not feel any more satisfying.

One night, I decided to stay with Rick on the streets to see if I could do anything greater. He told me so many fantastic stories of being a lookout and preventing women from being raped and whatnot that I wanted to see what would happen and whether or not I could be of help myself. It got dark around 9:30 and Rick told me to head over to the park where he would then follow on foot and meet me. I went and I waited for a while, but he never showed up. I thought I would start walking back to the McDonald's to perhaps catch Rick on the way or find him still there caught up in a conversation or something. It began to rain a little as I walked and I feared it would soon downpour like it had been doing off and on that day. I decided to wait out the rain under the cover of a bus stop as I watched to see if Rick would come by.

             I took a seat on the other end of a bench from a man named Troy who had fallen asleep in his wheelchair. Troy had lost his left leg from the knee down. I sat there not wanting to disturb him while I watched drips come through the ceiling onto various parts of the bench. On the ground I watched small white maggots crawling around in the water that flowed in from all around the bench. Troy kept bobbing his head, falling over, hanging his arm over the side of his chair, and readjusting himself every couple of minutes. I have no idea how a man can sleep like that for more than a math or chemistry class.

             Thunder rattled the whole bus stop with an amazing display of force and awoke Troy long enough for a brief conversation. He told me how he felt more comfortable outside in his chair—head-bobbing or not—than at the Gospel Mission shelter. He described how horrible the place was and expressed that no one there truly cared about them. He also complained that everyone kept stealing his stuff which I had already heard from a few other people. He had been out of the shelter for 60 days now sleeping in his chair rather than going indoors at the Mission. He told me his hopes and dreams of buying a house that the city would sell for the cost of back taxes. His friend had told him that he could buy an entire house in the range of $1000. He also said that for one dollar you could get a listing of all such properties.

             Troy seemed rather hopeful about such housing opportunities. He had thoughts about pitching in a couple hundred with a few other people and having their very own place. If that were true, I thought, then I could buy up three properties right now and give a lot of people some housing. I subtly expressed my concern that this could be a scheme someone invented to obtain a few hundred dollars and run off with it, but he excitedly believed every word and I did not want to destroy his hope any further. I later looked into this option and found that indeed some properties could be purchased for this incredible price. Unfortunately, such houses were not legal residences without a significant amount of work. I suppose, however, legal or not, a house is better than an open sky in Michigan. Who knows how long one might keep an illegal residence after wasting money on it with no ability to renovate, however?

             After Troy fell back to sleep, I decided to go ahead and walk in the drizzling rain for lack of anything better to do. I locked up my wallet and phone in the car just in case it started pouring again. A few blocks away I ran into a lady named Maria who asked if I had a phone she could use. I quickly reached for my pockets attempting to loan her mine when I realized I had just gotten done locking it in my car. I apologized and said I did not have it on me. She began to cry with frustration at her horrible luck and I asked her if she needed something. She said she just got out of the hospital from having a hysterectomy and she just wanted to go home but could not find a ride. I offered to give her a ride myself and we began walking back to my car.

             Maria then expounded upon her horrible luck. A lady had picked her up from Borgess Hospital and brought her just as far as where I had found her. The driver had told Maria that the Gospel Mission could help her with a phone call or a place to stay so she went in and ended up waiting 45 minutes to talk to someone. When someone finally came out of the office to speak with her, they merely told her that they do not allow the phone to be used for personal calls and all they provide for is food and shelter—not transportation. Maria then asked if she could stay the night so that she could use someone else's phone in the morning but they rejected her request since she already admitted to having a home and they only house the homeless.

             Completely frustrated, Maria then went to the Rickman House which is supposed to be housing that is really cheap in order to help people get off the streets. They purportedly responded in much the same way and refused to allow her the use of a phone. She had just left the Rickman house and that is when she met me. She cried in frustration with both organizations for being so unkind as to not allow a mere phone call to obtain a ride home at such an hour and in such weather. They were both perfectly content with leaving her out on the street in the rain and not giving her so much as a phone call even to the police whom she intended to ask for a ride. I was not entirely sure the police would have given her a ride anyway since they are not exactly a free taxi service, but who knows when one is out of options. As we drove, she also told me of her plight with her refrigerator breaking. I considered if I might be able to acquire one for her and I logged the idea in the back of my mind. To help ease her frustration I got her something to eat at McDonald's before dropping her off at her house.

             After all that, I went back to the streets and walked around until about 1:30 in the morning. I found a few other people that I knew and I chatted with them for a while, but my usefulness had expired and perhaps God only wished for me to do the one good deed that night. Maria's plight appalled me exceedingly and I could hardly even believe it. It would be entirely unthinkable not to allow someone the use of a phone for an emergency—especially coming from the Gospel Mission in particular whose sole purpose is to help those stuck on the streets. I had never heard anything good about that place from any of those utilizing its services and this certainly took the cake. I seriously contemplated feigning as a homeless man and staying there one night just to see what it is really like first-hand, but I never did muster the courage. I also could not convince myself that God would approve of such deception.

             It seemed clear to me that organizations lacked an ability to produce a true feeling of love toward those it tried to help. Love can only occur from persons and not organizations since an organization is not a human capable of feeling. An organization is a set of rules used to command people as if no one is unique. Organizations are cold and unloving even if they are quite useful in some ways. I felt that Christians were not currently living out their faith the way Jesus taught it and thus such organizations needed to remain for now, but I did not believe they should have to exist. If Christians were focusing on the poor as they were supposed to, then such organizations would be redundant. There would be no homeless since all those around would sell what things they had in order to provide housing for such unfortunate souls.

             I decided then that I would indeed write a book. I had tried my hand at it a few times before but the output never satisfied me and never appeared convincing enough to appeal to anyone or draw in readership. Still, someone had to speak out, I thought. Perhaps God would do the work and I should just allow for those who had “ears to hear” to hear like Jesus did. I could simply speak truth without concern for trying to convince people of it. The very people who were open to receiving it would not be the ones requiring me to be a great teacher or convincing arguer. I knew I would never be successful in convincing everyone, but I would not be convincing anyone at all if I did not write something. I then started taking detailed notes of my endeavors with the poor in order to help with whatever book I might write. Unfortunately, I lost all but two of those documents when the blog site I utilized for these notes went down and took my writings with them.

 

* * *

 

Our house had not yet been foreclosed upon so I allowed Rick the luxury of living in it. I bought him a mattress and laid it down in the master bedroom. I gave him $40 in cash so that he could walk to a nearby store and buy anything he needed. I then took him to visit some friends of his who had his bike and I brought it back to the house for his transportation. Rick did use some of the cash for food, but he used most of it for beer. I found him drunk when I came to visit the following day. He cried in shame while explaining the difficulties of being so alone and weak. He said that he knew he should not have done it but he could not help himself in his sorrow. This immediately made me think of Proverbs 31:6 which says “Let beer be for those who are perishing, wine for those who are in anguish.”

             I forgave Rick but I did not give him money after that so as not to fuel his weakness. Instead, I opted to buy things for him. This event caused two small epiphanies. First, I had always considered the alcoholism of the poor as a failure of their character as if they are foolish drunkards choosing to waste their money. Having been through mental disorders myself, however, I realized it is more of a coping mechanism than that of evil character. They are compelled due to the discomforts of life in the same way I might reach for ice cream or take a nap. Second, it had also not really occurred to me that the house might provide isolation and thus be more detrimental than living on the streets. I found the realization odd yet fairly obvious once I thought about it. He stayed at the house for only a week or two when he made plans to try living with the friends from whom we retrieved his bike. They had their own recycling business which Rick could help with, although by the look of their property, I would sooner have guessed that they lived in the recycling rather than doing any actual recycling.

             I felt as if I had done some good, though. I made a homeless man feel appreciated and cared for. I befriended him and he opened up to me. He made it off the streets and he supposedly now had a job. I tried visiting a couple times but he never had minutes on his Obama phone and being so far away made it difficult to stop by unannounced. I usually found the house empty which made for quite the waste of time. I managed to visit him once while he lived there and we went out for lunch together. He seemed happy with his new situation. A couple months later, he called me on his Obama phone to tell me that their house burnt down. I am not sure what happened after that and thus I am still unsure if I did any amount of good whatsoever. Perhaps I only made matters worse. It is difficult not knowing, but I at least take comfort in the fact that I tried. And, if even for a short time, I did brighten Rick’s day on multiple occasions. Misfortune does not negate the good that had been done lest no good ever be done for fear of unanticipated results.

             Back near the McDonald’s, sitting at the bus station, I met another man who could use a good shave and a new set of teeth. I find it hard to describe what his mouth actually looked like as I am sure I saw a mere optical illusion, but it looked as if he had a mess of fangs filling his mouth so much so that it looked burdensome to speak. He laughed hysterically to himself for no reason as he sat there. The obvious conclusion, of course, was that he had been possessed by a demon. I felt even more assured of this hypothesis when it seemed that he laughed specifically at people with some kind of visible ailment. He would point right at a limping man as he continued to laugh maniacally like the musical group Gorillaz in their song “Feel Good Inc.”

             I worked up the courage to go and sit about fifteen feet in front of the demon-possessed man. For lack of anything better to say and feeling as if I had to say something soon, I asked, “Is something funny?” In hindsight, I probably should not have started a conversation with a man laughing hysterically to himself for no apparent reason by asking him if something was funny. On the other hand, assuming demonic possession, I felt God would protect me and I craved to see how a demon would react to me, the one Christian who seems to get it. He immediately stopped his laughter and stared at me. He cocked his head much like a curious dog might but in a more glaring and evil, demonic manner as he stared at me none-to-friendly. Forcefully through his grit mouth-full of fangs he mumbled a raspy question to me which sounded like, “Do you smoke the word?”

             “Do I… what?” I asked in confusion.

             “Do you smoke the word?” he repeated with his head tilting side to side impatiently swaying his filthy dreadlocks as he spoke.

             “Smoke? Do I smoke what?” I tried to understand.

             “Do you smoke the word?” he repeated once again.

             At this point, I realized that I do not smoke anything so it really did not matter what he asked that I might smoke. “I… I don’t smoke anything, so I guess not” I said shyly with a confused chuckle. The demon-man then crawled up to me on his hands and knees, put his face about two inches in front of mine as I sat there on the concrete and offered me some friendly advice: “You’d better take your fucking Bible and get out of my fucking face before I fucking kill you!”

I slowly stood up as he spoke and he matched my movement, rising up and keeping his face right in line with mine the whole way. This, of course, confirmed to me that a demon or two inhabited his body. I bravely backed away, “Okay, I… sorry, I just, I wanted to be friendly.” Once a few feet away, I turned around and walked briskly in fear for my life. He went and sat back down and continued to laugh as if nothing had just transpired. Only this time, I knew he was laughing directly at me and my powerless faith.

At the time I had wished that I had the courage to rebuke the demon in Jesus’ name, but I am rather glad now that I had not. Had I had such courage, I would potentially not be writing this today. Clearly I did not have the same effect on demons as Jesus, and I did not wish to receive a thrashing like the Pharisees did due to presuming myself better than I ought. I reasoned with myself that perhaps I had not yet reached a level of proper faith that would enable such confrontations with demons at this point in time.

             A couple months after this event, I had a strange dream about Emily smoking a cigarette. Neither of us are smokers and I had certainly never given it any consideration to take up the habit. In the dream, however, Emily’s smoking had not shocked me in the slightest. After she had smoked a few puffs, I took the cigarette out of her mouth intent on trying it out myself for the first time. The self-rolled cigarette fell apart in my hands as I tried to maneuver it to my mouth. I struggled to keep it together and barely managed to get it up to my lips for my first inhale. I breathed in deep but ended up with a mouthful of tobacco and choked on it as it went down into my trachea. I then grabbed a filtered cigarette from a box lying nearby and I tried to smoke that instead. I did not find the experience any more rewarding; the fire spread straight through the paper, around the tobacco, and up to the filter which left the tobacco unscathed and falling to the ground. I expected this dream had some meaning, but I had no interpretation for it that night.

The very next night I had a dream much like the first only this time Emily smoked a golden cigar. I recalled my previous dream within this dream although I did not recognize my current dream state. I decided in the dream, given the circumstances of the previous dream, that this could not be mere coincidence so I went ahead and tried to smoke again. I began rolling my own cigarette just before I awoke in bed with all the more confusion.

             I spent that day pondering what had happened. Surely God meant to tell me something with these two dreams. The second dream seemed almost like a clarification by making Emily smoke a cigar and making it gold. After much pontification, I came to remember the demon-possessed man with the scary teeth asking if I smoked the word. Suddenly, it all clicked. The cigarettes were the word of God. The gold represented the golden edges that many Bibles have and being a cigar was to indicate the prestige of smoking it. Emily had no problem with smoking the word and getting a high from it. I, however, managed only to choke; I could not figure out how to do it and every time I tried, it all fell apart. In essence, I could not use scripture as a happy pill to get a high. Even though I wanted to, it simply made matters worse. I could only use God’s word properly no matter how much I might want to be like everyone else and rest happily as if drugged. I could not use God’s word for a fix. God had thus related to me how the church used and viewed the Bible. They merely desired a high and I could not subscribe to such usage. I sought deeper meaning and revelation from God. I cared more to understand his will and to follow it than to think myself in a special club of fortunate believers bound to heaven for their faith.

             I wondered if Satan’s demons actually spoke in this way by referring to believers as word-smokers. Perhaps the demonic man sought to know if I were just like every other so-called Christian who smokes the word for a high. Perhaps he challenged me with full assurance that I could do nothing against him being like everyone else: powerless. Perhaps, with a little more insight, I should have responded, “No, I fully digest the word as surely as I eat food.” Maybe then he would have realized that I had the wisdom of God and the power to control him. Perhaps he would have asked for mercy. Perhaps then he would have recognized me as a powerful son of God rather than a weak professor of a false faith. I later came to understand the more worldly understanding of what had happened. He asked if I smoked the herb. He was high, likely on marijuana, which is what caused him to have incessant giggles.

             In all, I believe my experience with the poor enlightened me in some regard while utterly depressing me at the same time. The poor in our city had all the material things they needed handed to them on a platter and they mostly lacked the physical or mental capability to do anything greater with their lives no matter how much help we could provide. They needed guidance, rehab, friendship, and some, quite frankly, seemed beyond repair without a miracle from God himself perhaps due to severe brain damage or abuse. Most of them were like children. They bickered, fought, and gossiped worse than high school students and had an understanding as advanced as second-graders. Perhaps our homeless were unique, however. Maybe in other places, people are homeless due to tough circumstances and could indeed benefit from hand-outs without a personal touch of friendship. I hear about such situations, but I certainly did not find them in Kalamazoo.

             After all this effort to care for the poor, even with a few fasts and extensive prayers, I never did manage to see the power of God as I had hoped. I reasoned that it must take the gathering of the saints with like mind for that to happen. I felt that perhaps I had the right idea, but the poor might have to wait until I could get the true message out and recruit others into this glorious work of God. I had to explain God’s lack of presence despite my faith and obedience and this became my only logical conclusion. God wanted more than just me and he wanted me to be the messenger of the restoration of his kingdom. For now, I needed to be the messenger, not the doer.