We were settling into the soft chairs in front of the fire, easing into that comfortable rhythm of conversation that takes a few minutes to get back into after a long time away from a friend. Our Bibles were out and we were busy comparing our translations and chatting excitedly about our personal studies.
His gruff voice breaks through in a way I've gotten used to, growing up surrounded by farmers who had little tolerance for beating around the bush when a question can just be asked out right.
"You believe in the end times? You think they're coming?"
My heart sped up. I'm good at talking to people about the Bible. I'm good at talking about Jesus. It's what my days revolve around. This one was different, though. I could tell.
We went back and forth for close to 20 minutes - he had some scary misconceptions about the broken but beautiful Church I love so much. Eventually he left with his wife and my friend and I wrapped up our talk and I headed to work, but not before making a quick stop to pray before the tabernacle that I'd done what God needed me to do, no more and no less.
Because those moments of encounter never really shake out the way we want them to, do they?
