Friday, October 21, 2011

#2. The Blaster


The warning – in a minute.

Seeing as how we as silver-haired seniors are learning about teenagers and how to reach out to them, we must, with caution, include here the lesson we learned from the Blaster.
As car doors were closing, members and friends of the Silver-Top Seniors group were entering the activity center and whispering warnings along the way. The warnings were all variations of, “Be on your guard tonight. 'Blaster' Jackson is leading our fellowship tonight.”
No one really knew what Blaster's real first name was, nor did they have any courage to ask. Blaster got his nickname in the coal mines, he worked in most of his life. He was the person that always set off the dynamite charges.

The way Blaster talked loud and sometimes with a bit of confusion, you'd ask yourself if Blaster had been standing too close to his work, a few times. Entering the activity room the first thing to be seen was a long folding table with full coffee makers and a bowl of tea bags sitting near a large thermos of hot water. They were all lined up ready for action, like rifles and hand grenades along the wall of an army barracks.

The same muffled warnings were still being shared as the 40 or so, men and women took their seats; three were in wheel chairs. One thing was crystal clear in the minds of everyone, was the war these silver-haired soldiers (for the Savior) have declared, to recapture the minds and hearts of the youth of the community, especially the teenagers.

When the announcements, thank-you's, and other customary preliminaries were finished, Blaster Jackson stood straight and tall. His frayed shirt sleeve almost covered the 3-inch scar on his left wrist. Peeking just over his shirt collar was a neck tattoo that said, “MOM.” An unkind rumor started at the barber shop a couple years ago that the rest of the tattoo probably said, “MOM loves me, 'cuz no one else will.” It's just a rumor, you understand.

The room got quiet as a graveyard as Blaster walked up to one of the men at a front table. In a stern tone, Blaster asked him, “Whad you want?” Without time to answer, Blaster asked again, “You came here tonight, whad you want?” Again, not waiting for an answer, his eyes beneath large bristly black eyebrows looked toward Donna Benning. Without a word, Blaster's eyes asked Donna the question with such force she almost dropped her coffee cup.

He returned to the front of the room and lightly tapped the table he stood next to, a few times, thinking of his next words. In a softer look and tone, he scanned the faces of all his audience, beginning with, “Whaddah we want? Everyplace we go, whether it's into the kitchen, the hardware store, doctor, or even here tonight. We know what we want. We mostly know where to get it, and even why.”

With more gentleness than you'd expect possible from Blaster, he slowly walked among the tables as he spoke to everyone, often repeating the question, “Whaddah we want?” “Oftentimes I'd be working in the mine tunnels so dark; so black, you'd think God's eyes couldn't see me, down there. But you and I know He did, and He does, every moment. Can you imagine darkness so intense, you can almost taste it, with your tongue?” 
 
I can still remember once, in shaft #14, it was black like that. The battery on my cap lamp was just about gone. I was all alone. I pushed the plunger to set off the blast, but realized I didn't know which way to run. I didn't know where my safe spot was. Maybe you've had a moment, when you didn't know where to run for safety; or even if there was such a safety place for you. Isn't it wonderful to have friends and loved-ones we can run to, that lovingly tell you, “Come follow me. I'll show you perfect safety.”

With muscled arms and large calloused fingers, Blaster pointed at the double entry doors and said, “Those teenagers out there will be our leaders tomorrow. They'll be making decisions that'll affect you and me.” Blaster Jackson tapped a nearby table a few more times, giving serious thought to his next few words. His gaze covered all the faces present and began, “With a nickname like 'Blaster', you'd think I'm tough and cold about everything. But it ain't so.”

This last week, I took a teen boy for cokes, and I'll never NEVER forget what I saw across the table from me. I looked into the eyes of a teen that were as dark and confused and distressed as anything I've ever seen in shaft 14 or any of um! Just like many of you, I've got Arthritis that pains me somethin' terrible." 

"But people, what pains me even more is there are so very few grownups that care enough about teenagers around us, willing to take the first steps to tell a teen, 'Come follow me. I'll show you perfect safety.' It makes things even blacker to think that church folks CHURCH FOLKS don't know how or don't care to reach out with God's light of truth and peace.”

[more from Blaster next time.]