Cross Roads

Many years ago there was a popular evening radio program which began with the sound of a steam engine roaring along the tracks, followed by a description of the scenery flashing by. You’d hear the train diving into a long tunnel—and then the announcer intoned “Grand Central Station, crossroads of a million private lives.”

I spend an hour twice weekly at our local gym on a treadmill and other exercise machines. I use a lot of that time to pray—for all of my family and Betsy’s, by name, visualizing them and asking God to supply their needs. ThenI look around. On any given day there there are dozens of others working the equipment—old, young, handicapped,jocks, male, female, garrulous, stoic, rich, poor, svelte, obese—a real crosssection of our local gentry. The other day I had a flash of insight: there was very little recognition or sharing among our fellow participants. Physical presences intersected, but each was mentally and spiritually isolated, busy doing his/her thing. I began to ponder: which ones were joy-filled? frustrated? or grief-stricken? pain-wracked? worn-out, peaceful? Which ones were friends of Jesus, which were atheists? What secrets were hidden in that mass of humanity? We were at a crosswords of a hundred private lives! And which ones, including me, had the faintest inkling of how much Jesus loves them?