Found

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Fine.” Dayne laughed. He wanted to keep the atmosphere light, especially with Rosa nearby. “You have any idea how blessed you are?”

  “Yes.” Bob looked at Rosa, at his two young daughters, and finally at Dayne. His expression shone with a love that defied Dayne’s understanding. “I definitely know.”

  It was ten o’clock, and Rosa and the children were in bed when Dayne realized he’d made all the small talk he could make. He loved Bob, loved meeting his family and spending time in his home. The dinner had been amazing, and the conversation easy—with Bob occasionally translating for Rosa. He felt like he’d stumbled into another world, a place where he could—even for a few days—live the way other people lived.

  But that wasn’t why he’d come.

  “So . . .” Dayne was sitting on one of the small sofas, Bob sitting on the other one opposite Dayne. “You’re a missionary. Just like your parents.”

  “I am.” Bob crossed one leg over the other. “That still eating at you, man? The whole missionary thing?”

  “I didn’t think so.” Dayne stared at a blank spot on the wall. He couldn’t get a handle on his feelings. “Last year I thought I’d worked it out once and for all. Forgave my parents for everything.” He pursed his lips and focused on Bob. “I’m not mad at them anymore. I just don’t understand it, you know?”

  “The importance of it?” Bob’s voice fell some. The kindness and compassion that had always marked him were still there. But something in his eyes showed he was ready to listen, ready for wherever the conversation might head from here.

  “Right. I mean, go ahead and believe what you want. But why make a living telling other people about it?”

  Bob did a slow, thoughtful nod. “It’s a good question.” He wasn’t in a rush. He took a long breath, his expression easygoing even if his eyes held a greater intensity than before. “Can I tell you a story?”

  Dayne exhaled. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted to say exactly or what he was trying to find. A story from Bob would buy him time, maybe help him put his thoughts in order. “Asher telling stories?” He gave his friend a crooked grin. “Definitely.”

  Bob’s lips curved in a smile that was as familiar as everything about their childhoods. But then his smile gradually faded. “After graduation, I spent a year with my parents in Papua New Guinea. One of the places both our parents had spent time in.”

  “I know the place.” Dayne leaned into the sofa arm.

  “There I am, a kid eighteen years old, and I’m taking my first long-term mission trip. A year in Papua New Guinea. So we get off the plane the first day, and I can’t believe my eyes. The place looks like something out of a National Geographic spread. Tribesmen wearing bones through their earlobes and lips, men dressed in loincloths and carrying spears.” He made a face that said even now he was amazed at the memory. “The only buildings were thatched-roof mud huts. Nothing else for hours in any direction.”

  Dayne tried to picture the area. “Pretty remote.”

  “Another world.” Bob fell silent, as if he were trying to find his way back to the memory, to every aspect of it. “Now . . . for months before the trip while we were preparing and raising funds, I kept wondering the same thing. How do you try to explain God to other people? How do you find the words to tell them there’s someone bigger than anything they can imagine yet that same someone is invisible? How do you talk about someone who is Creator and God, Savior and Friend? someone who wants to be Lord of their lives?”

  A question came to Dayne’s mind: why did the tribesmen need to know? But since Bob was on a roll, he kept it to himself. He could always ask why at the end of the story.

  “I figured I’d find out how by watching my parents. After a lifetime in the mission field, they would probably have some supertrained way of introducing God to people who hadn’t heard of Him before.” Bob uncrossed his legs and sat up a little straighter. “But that’s not what happened at all.”

  “With your parents?”

  “Right.” Bob’s expression grew more intense than before. “We go out to the village people the next day and give them supplies—medical kits mostly—things they don’t normally have. My parents spoke the language, of course, and by then I did too. We walked to the middle of the village square, and the tribal chief told us there were twelve groups who wanted to speak to us.”

  Bob took a quick breath. “I’m thinking, great. Twelve groups of three or four people each. The size would foster intimate conversation, and I could watch firsthand how my parents would explain about God.” He looked straight at Dayne. “Only that’s not what happened.”

  The story unfolded in a way that was more gripping with every detail. “The first group consisted of more than a hundred people. I asked my parents how so many people knew we were coming.” Bob’s tone showed his disbelief even after all the years that had passed. “They told me it was by word of mouth. And that some of the people walked three days for the chance to be there.”

  “Three days?”

  “Through the jungle on bare feet.”

  “Wow.”

  “Okay, so wait till you hear this.” Bob explained that his parents worked with a spokesperson from the first group. “One statement was being shouted from nearly everyone in the crowd. The same thing over and over and over again. The spokesperson couldn’t quiet them down. My parents seemed to understand what was being said, because they raised their hands and nodded—trying to get the crowd to quiet down.”

  Dayne could imagine the scene. “What were they saying?”

  “They were saying, ‘Tell us about God. Tell us about God. Tell us about God.’”

  “So . . .” Dayne thought he was understanding. “You didn’t have to worry about how to explain that there was a God because someone else had already told them?”

  “No.” There was a sense of wonder in Bob’s tone. “No one had ever told them a thing.”

  Something curious stirred in Dayne’s heart. “Then how . . . ?”

  “See, here it is. These were people who didn’t know the day of the week. They didn’t know that the world’s round or about television or even electricity. They received no magazines, couldn’t read, and had no knowledge of Scripture.” Bob patted his chest twice. “But in here, where it mattered most, they knew instinctively that there was a God, without any proof or convincing or anything at all. They knew and believed. And if we came in His name, they figured we could talk about Him, answer their dozens of questions.”

  Dayne twisted his face, confused. “They knew about God without being told?”

  “Right!” Bob held up his hands and let them fall to his lap. “Which doesn’t really work, does it?”

  Dayne’s voice was quiet. “No.”

  “Unless God put that in their hearts. God alone.” He paused. “See, Dayne, the Bible says that God has set eternity in the hearts of men, and His creation stands as proof of His existence. If we doubt God, creation will speak on His behalf, so if we choose not to believe, we will be without excuse one day when we face Christ.”

  Gradually, Dayne understood what his friend was saying. Want proof of God? Listen to the cry of your own heart, look at the creation.

  Dayne asked, “So you’re saying the reason those people knew that God existed was because they had eternity deep inside them, and they paid attention to the living things around them?”

  “Exactly!” Bob practically jumped out of his seat. “It was that way for each of the twelve groups that day.” He seemed to realize he was getting a little too loud. He dropped his voice a notch. “Every one of them was willing to stand there a full hour until the next group needed to move into the area. There wasn’t a person in that crowd who wouldn’t have stayed to listen to us all day long. Just for a little more information about God.” He sat back against the sofa. “I think I believed from that moment on.”

  “You?” Dayne was careful with his tone. “Come on, Asher. You believed from the time you were born.”

 
“I believed because I was taught to believe.” His words were more thoughtful. “But that first day in Papua New Guinea, I believed because, after watching the faith of those people, I knew beyond a doubt that God was real. And if He’s real, then He was worth spending my life on.” Bob smiled slowly, easily. “See, Dayne. None of us go to the mission field to force our beliefs on an unsuspecting people. We go because the people already know about God. But they’re desperate for answers concerning Him. Desperate enough to walk on bare feet three days through a jungle.”

  Dayne felt something lift inside him. For the first time, that made sense.

  “We saw over a thousand people that day, and my parents explained about Jesus twelve times—how He died on the cross to pay the price for our sins and how the people could have a relationship with Him. A friendship with God.” Bob dug his elbows into his knees and leaned closer. “I saw grown men collapse, weeping on the ground because they were so grateful that my parents had taken time to tell them what they needed to know.”

  The scene played out in Dayne’s mind. Countless people, desperate for answers about God, reliant completely on the visits of missionaries to point them in the right direction. His heart softened toward his adoptive parents. No wonder they were convinced they were spending their time the right way.

  In that moment Dayne was sure about something else. He wasn’t here so he could talk about his parents and their decision to be missionaries. No, he wasn’t here for answers about his childhood hurts, wounds that had been healed for months. He was here—sitting with his good friend Bob Asher—for the same reason those tribesmen had walked three days through the jungle.

  He wanted answers about God.

  The street ministry was in full swing when Bob took the podium.

  Dayne was sitting off to the side, out of the way of the pressing crowd. Already he’d seen Bob and Rosa act out three scenes—each showing something about the sacrifice of Christ or the joy of living a Christian life even in hard times. At the same time, Bob’s church members worked various booths handing out hot dogs and carnival food. Between speakers there were games for the children and prizes for everyone who played.

  A number of musicians had played for the crowd, and every half hour or so random people would come up to the podium to talk. Everything was in Spanish, of course. Dayne understood very little of the language, but over and over the message was clear. Whoever the people were, they believed they had been rescued by Jesus. With tears on their cheeks, they would look up to heaven, arms spread wide, and say, “Gracias, Dios. Gracias!” “Thank You, God. Thank You.”

  Dayne wondered why those words had never been his own, even after all God had done for him, all the times God had tried to get his attention.

  His heart felt raw, the soil of his understanding turned over and ready for planting. What had he been doing with his life? From the time he lost his adoptive parents, he’d been angry at God, alternately fighting and doubting Him.

  There was a hole in Dayne’s heart—one that had been there since he was old enough to remember. He’d tried to fill it with anger and fame, wild living, and Kabbalah. He’d hired a PI, believing that maybe the hole could be filled by finding his birth parents; only that hadn’t worked out either. For a season he’d found some satisfaction reading the Bible, the one Katy had given him. But after a while, he’d lost track of it and forgot about how it made him feel.

  Even Katy Hart couldn’t make him feel complete. No matter how strong his feelings for her.

  Dayne looked on as Bob brought the microphone close to his face. “Friends . . . I bring you an invitation.”

  The crowd grew utterly still—men, women, and children expectant for whatever Bob was about to say. They inched closer.

  Dayne was surprised they knew enough English to understand, surprised too that Bob wasn’t speaking in Spanish. But then, maybe his friend’s part was quicker, simpler. He focused on what was being said.

  “Not one of you here tonight will ever be complete until you find a relationship with Jesus Christ.” Bob paused, his eyes shining with kindness and concern. “Jesus Christ, our God and Savior, the same one you’ve been hearing about all afternoon. The God of salvation and miracles.”

  In the distance, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy mixed with the pungent air from the city. The evening light was fading fast.

  Dayne hadn’t thought of God that way before—the God of miracles. He stared into the darkening sky. What miracles, God? His question wasn’t asked in anger or frustration, but more out of earnest curiosity. What have You ever done in my life to show me that You’re the God of miracles?

  There was no loud answer, but Dayne could feel a knowing growing in his heart. There was his conversation with Elizabeth Baxter the day before she died. That could’ve been a miracle, right? Or the fact that he’d driven aimlessly through Bloomington and walked into a theater to find a woman he could’ve searched a lifetime for and not found. Yes, God had been working miracles in his life all along. But until now, he’d never taken the time to look for them.

  Dayne closed his eyes. If You’re a God of miracles, then please . . . please work one tonight, God. Please . . .

  Bob held his hands out to the people, his voice rising. “That same Jesus is here . . . now. He waits for you; He’s knocking at the door of your heart.”

  Dayne felt like the words were for him alone. His heart ached within him, ached for the ways he’d tried to find peace and missed out. So many years lost, so many mistakes and wasted opportunities. If his heart had a door, then it was made of solid mahogany and steel. Not only had he refused to open it to God; he’d refused to hear even the slightest knocking.

  Bob was wrapping up. “Where you live doesn’t matter.” He scanned the crowd, and for a moment he stared straight at Dayne. “Where you work doesn’t matter.” The passion in his tone built. “It doesn’t matter how much money you have or whether you’re the owner of a business or the one who cleans the floors. When your life here on earth is done, all that will matter is whether you heard the knock of Christ on your heart. And whether you took this chance to open the door and ask Him in.”

  Dayne felt the pinprick of tears behind his eyes. How many times had God knocked on his heart? Through the efforts of his adoptive parents and his birth parents—praying for him from across the country. Through people at the boarding school—the secretary and a dozen teachers and staff members. Through the emptiness that called out to him time and time and time again.

  And through the most amazing woman he’d ever known.

  But every single time he’d refused to open the door.

  “People, I beg you.” Bob’s voice rang in the still air. “If you want to let Jesus into your life, into your heart, then come forward. Come here.” He motioned to a place in front of the small stage—maybe twenty feet deep, forty feet wide. A section of the street that had been roped off from the mass of people.

  Dayne was breathless. Was the invitation for him too? He and Bob had shared hours of conversation. They’d talked about the women Dayne had been with and the regret he felt over the emptiness. They’d talked about Kelly’s abortion and the loss Dayne felt because of it. Dayne talked about being adopted and how he had a biological family he thought about every day.

  Most of all, they’d talked about Katy Hart.

  For every topic, Bob listened and lent Dayne gentle feedback, wise perspective. When he told Bob he thought he was in love with Katy and that maybe she was the only reason he was feeling strangely out of sorts, Bob simply tilted his head and said, “If she’s all that’s eating at you, why aren’t you in Bloomington?”

  Touché.

  Now . . . with the air cooling around him and against the background of people weeping over the years they’d spent alone without God, the truth was as obvious as the sound in his own heartbeat. The sound of someone knocking.

  God, is this invitation for me too? Right here . . . now?

  My precious son . . . I have dra
wn you with an everlasting love.

  The words echoed in his soul, in the places around his heart. Dayne gulped. Okay, so maybe the invitation was for him, but if so . . . he should do something about it in private. Back at Bob’s house.

  Or maybe not.

  Bob was explaining how people could come from either side where there was a break in the roped-off area. “Come now, friends. Jesus wants to come into your heart. He wants to stay with you; He wants to walk with you. He wants to live in your soul starting right here, right now.”

  A man with a guitar took the spot to the side of Bob and began to play. The sound was familiar, a hymn they’d sung a million times back in boarding school. The words were in Spanish, and they filled the air. After a few seconds Dayne recognized the song. “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound—that saved a wretch like me! . . .”

  And it was on that note, with that part of the song, that Dayne felt himself crack. His eyes flooded, and tears spilled onto his cheeks.

  From all over the crowd in the street, people were heading to the stage, falling to their knees, and crying out to God.

  “That’s right,” Bob was saying. “Let God in, people. Don’t wait.”

  Without thinking another minute, Dayne stood and joined the flow of people. Not one person gave him a second glance. Dayne Matthews wasn’t the famous one now, not with all of eternity on the line. That place belonged to God and God alone. The God Dayne had spent a lifetime hiding from.

  His chest hurt as he made his way closer, and he realized why. A lifetime of rust and decay had built up around the door of his heart. As long as he left the door closed, he could hide from the pain, deny the bad choices and emptiness of his life. But now—as he opened it to Jesus for the first time—it hurt.

  But nothing had ever felt better or more right in his entire life.