"Skinhead" (Part 2)

This is the continuation of my last post.

My condition (Alopecia Universalis) has now made me hairless, completely BALD! In other words, a skinhead.

My head looked just like — well you know — a cue ball on a pool table. And, man, everyone was cuing up on me.

It wasn't too bad at first, because it was winter and in Rochester, N.Y., and that meant snow. It was cold! Bald-head, chilling cold. That means out comes the parka, the kind of coat that has a nice hairy hood when pulled up over the head and the strings drawn tight the fur edging look like hair around the face.

And that was a good thing — except when you went indoors and off comes the parka.

At home my youngest liked to slide up beside me and reach up and pet me, running her small hand over my crome dome with a ear to ear smile on her face. You get the picture ... everyone else present just sat there with the same kind of grin.

"God, what are you doing to me?"

Hang on it gets worse (or better depending on your perspective).

There came the mission. Yes, the mission.

Staff would pass my office sneaking a quick peek or sit there talking to me ... not eye-to-eye contact, but eye-to-head contact. God!

Then there were the street folks. They would come in bundled up in multiple layers of day-old clothes smelling like a ripe bottle of Wild Irish Rose or Thunderbird cologne, otherwise known as "hooch." A buck and a half at most liquor stores. Don't have a buck and a half? Well, the nearest drugstore or market was ripe for the picking of bottles of mouthwash. Mouthwash you say? Check the bottle around 13%to 18% alcohol. Surprised? Where did you think that "antiseptic" taste and feel comes from? Quick grab and under the coat. No one is going to pat you down. God, the smell is enough to keep nosey ones away.

Those were my people. 100% genuine folks. Fit right in. Cook a hot meal, walk the chicken through the soup, save it for the next night. Same with the tea bags too.

First a service with a couple of hymns. You know, "The Old Rugged Cross" or maybe "Blessed Assurance." All different kinds of keys — not the kind that unlock locks or doors either! A  symphony of, well, noise.

Then up I'd go behind the old pulpit, older than dirt. I would yell out "Shut up" or "Be quiet, if you want to eat." Real church, not the one hour religious type of service and raise hell the rest of the week church you see around town. They did that, of course. They wanted something else: for a little heat and some simple food, they endured the skinhead.

The overhead lightbulbs would shine off my shining dome. A local news reporter, desperate for a story to make the deadline might wander in looking for string of words for the paragraph factory. Yep, usually a rookie reporter looking like he or she want to be any where but here. Scared too. You could see it in the eyes. TQuiet, sitting in the last seat close to the exit.

Next morning there it would be the article.

A few words describing the event the night before, and there buried were the words, "The rail skinny pastor with the bald head speaking words that Jesus loves you. Looking like a distant relative of Mahat Gandhi." Oh God, not again! The whole world is going to know.

Then there were the church speaking engagements. Those were "fun" too. As word got around, you guest it, TV! Thank goodness it wasn't HD! Interviews, talk shows there I was glowing brightly in all my glory. "Skinhead."

Truth be known, I was starting to enjoy it all. Really, cross my heart. You see my shiny bald head was becoming my "trademark." Funny, huh?

Warm weather came, more of my folks too. And yes did I tell you? Suddenly more chickens, tea and money too. Once in while some meat. Real genuine "Grade A" meat. Wow, we were eating high on the hog, so to speak. Happy drunks, the kind I liked to see. No fights. No yelling. And even some coming forward during service to seek Jesus and forgiveness. Mind blowing. Unreal.

More calls, more interest, more money, more programs and staff too. WOW! God is good (all the time).

You see, God chooses imperfect vessels some hairless, to work through. Think about it. Hair on a pillow, bald head, reluctant pastor...ready to quit. God sure has a strange sense of humor. Yuk, Yuk.

Why me? Don't know go ask Him. Warning: be careful. You might get something you didn't quite want. Don't worry, He will walk you through the valley of the shadow of — no wait, not death but opportunity.

He is a practical God. After all where was I to go if I quit? God knew that and gradually I realized it too. How else was I going to feed my family?

So there I was the reluctant reverend.

As time went by the mission grew so did my family. Six! Boy, girl, boy, girl, boy and girl. Busy time! All accepting the Lord as their Savior most in various kinds of ministry now joining untold numbers of folks head to the promise land sprinkled with lots of folks that came through the open door.

The Open Door Mission: reaching out to the Lost, the Least, for Christ, among them a skinny bald headed reverend. Me. The Skinhead. God grew that mission, promise upon promise using imperfect folks like you and I — plain, hurting folks with a willing heart, pumping hard, to bring the Good News that Jesus Saves and perhaps even some love.

God takes that bit of clay and puts it on the wheel shaping, molding over and over into the vessel He wants it to be.

Today, the mission grown from a seed of $11,000 dollars with a service and meal at night, maybe 15 folks at most and one bald headed reluctant pastor lost, not knowing what to do and everyone else in town home warm and with full bellies. That seed grew, my friend, nightly. Fertilized by the Word of God, planted in imperfect souls watered with tender loving care day by day, year by year, until 25 years later that open door became a ministry of five buildings, 40 paid staff, part of a mobil medical unit roaming the streets reaching out.

Christian Life live in rehab. program, a live in seniors program, GED. Along with a Rep. Payee program. Skinhead doing a three station daily radio mission program simulcasted fifteen minutes a day live five days a week for twenty years. A motorcycle ministry called "Cycles for Christ." Thousands of nourishing hot meals clean beds annual, crisis housing. Complete with a budget of $3.4 million dollars.

No government, No United Way, 7% church help mostly just people like you reaching out ever so slowly, a buck, a night serving food, piece of clothing, all making a difference — one life at a time. 2,500 volunteers annually and one skinhead and family.

To God be the Glory, great things He has done and is doing in a world lost and hurting. One life, maybe another cue ball too. Amen.