First person
It was 10 o'clock on Sunday night and I was sick of looking at the squash
yellow walls of my hotel room.
As I went out to the deserted streets of Tehran I saw the old man who
made his home on the steps of the Mashaad Hotel. I reached into my bag
and gave him an orange that I had bought earlier. He thanked me and shook
my hand warmly. Passing the former American embassy I wondered where the
old homeless man fit in the Islamic Republic of Iran. He had neither home
nor hope.
I walked for a long time before I found a small combination shop/fruit
juice stand. I ordered a glass of mango juice and shared a table with
a young Iranian man who had been educated in Russia. With his limited
English we talked for a while. I went to the cashier to buy soft drinks
and pay for my drink. The man got up and walked with me. As we walked
he asked me to go back to his apartment. I refused and he said, "But
I find you beautiful and interesting." I thanked him for the compliment
and left him on a street corner with his desperate loneliness.
As the cool night breeze chilled me I tried to imagine the young man's
life in a society that imposed conformity with brutal force. How much
hope would a homosexual have in such a society? At the same time, I felt
sad for the young man and thankful for the abundance of love that I had
with my wife and children. Even while traveling alone I would never be
alone; even in his own home, the man would be lonely and fearful. That
night I prayed gratefully for what I had and I prayed that the young man
would find the one "who sticks closer than a brother."
The next morning I was walking the bustling streets of a wide-awake Tehran.
The roads were gagging on the morning rush hour. The sidewalks were teeming
with people on their way to work or school. In the middle of the sidewalk
a beggar lay face down propped up by his elbows so his hands made an impromptu
collection plate above his head. I watched as people rushed around him.
Finally I approached him, knelt down and placed some money in his hand.
His dirty, gnarled hands closed around mine and I whispered, "May
God bless you." He said nothing and never looked up.
As I moved onto my appointment it occurred to me that the beggar illustrated
the men I had met the night before. All were down and out, each of them
were desperate and begging for hope.
My sense of superiority came crashing down on me as I realized that the
beggar was me in the presence of God. Everything I have comes from His
hands. Without Him I am broken, face down and groveling for hope, love
and acceptance.
Waiting for the taxi I prayed that God would encounter the three shattered
men and place in their outstretched hands the Savior and the love and
peace that comes with Him. PS
Prayer items for this article:
- There are outsiders in Iran who live each day with no hope. Pray that
God would find these lost black sheep and bring them into the fold through
Jesus Christ.
- Pray that you will be obedient to God's will in your life ... wherever
that might take you.
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