Baby Mouth July 2018
We have an unusual group of adults who come to our church on Friday mornings from about 30 miles away. Arriving at 8:00 AM they have had to contend with rush hour traffic on I-5.
These fine people stuff the weekend-service bulletins with the additional printed materials announcing various ministries, special events, and bookmarks. With a mixture of anomalous conditions including Down’s syndrome, autism, behavioral challenges, and other conditions which some would consider handicaps, their overall employability is very low.
My men’s group has met and concluded just minutes before their arrival and must vacate the room which they will occupy for their labors. When they first arrive after their long trip, they head to the restrooms to prepare for work. Occasionally I have ended up in the Men’s Room at the same time as one or more of them. Nothing prepared me for what I heard coming from one of the stalls during one of these instances.
I quote, “More, more, more, more, more. More of you God. More of you. More of you God. More, more, more, more of you, more, more, more God, more of you.” It was to continue even after I left. It was a four-word prayer repeated in different combinations by a brain that could grasp little and a heart that knew all.
Oh, that my cry would be this simple, this profound, and this sincere.
A Guy Named Bob 