Out in the Cold

            It’s cold in Colorado Springs tonight.  Joseph decides to take the last bus of the day to visit the Thursday evening class at Charis Bible College—surely someone will give him a ride home--and to check the bulletin board to see if anyone is looking for a roommate.  His apartment lease ends in a month, and he is desperate to move.

            Unfortunately, the bus gets him to his destination 45 minutes before the class begins.  He goes to the main building and asks the security guard at the entrance if he can come inside to get out of the cold.  The guard refuses Joseph entrance:   though students can enter at six, visitors cannot enter until the class begins at 6:30 p.m. 

            Cold and frustrated, Joseph calls me on his cell phone to talk and pass the time.  As we talk, he decides to walk over and try the college’s administrative offices next door.  I can hear his request and the initial friendliness in the voice of the man who asks him, “Are you a student?”  With Joseph’s reply that he is not a student but a visitor, the man’s voice becomes guarded.  Our phone call ends.  I wish that Joseph had identified himself as a former student of the college, which he is.  Maybe that would make a difference.

            A few minutes pass.  The phone rings.  It is Joseph.  “Well, that didn’t work,” he says.  “The man wouldn’t let me stay inside because it is against the rules.”

            Anger and helplessness rise within me.  Surely, at a Bible college there should be an iota of compassion and hospitality.  I ache for my son. 

            “Joseph, I can’t remember the area well,” I say.  “Are there any businesses open where you could step inside?”

            We continue talking as he walks the stretch from Charis to the main road.  “Yes. I see some sort of shop where they sell woodcarvings,” he says.  I hear the tinkle of a bell and the background murmur of voices as he enters the store.  We continue to talk.  I am glad he is out of the cold.  After ten minutes or so, he decides to walk back toward the college.  He tells me he sees that the evening class students are arriving, so he should be able to go inside soon.   We say good-bye.

            Over an hour later, I am still angry, still aching for my son.  This is not the first time he has been left out in the cold, literally or figuratively.  The final verses of Matthew 25 echo in my heart:

            ‘Master, what are you talking about?  When did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or homeless or shivering or sick or in prison and didn’t help?’

            “He [the Master] will answer them, ‘I’m telling the solemn truth:  Whenever you failed to do one of these things to someone who was being overlooked or ignored, that was me—you failed to do it to me.’” (The Message)