Chuck

There was always a lot of bravado and swagger with Chuck. When he wasn't driving his yellow Corvet, he was driving his lime green hot rod. When he wasn't fighting with his neighbors, he was shouting inappropriate things at me when I went running past his house. That man had more plumage than a peacock.

Rumors went flying around the neighborhood about an unfortunate violent episode that happened within the four walls of his brick home. Whether they are true or not, I do not know. Having heard from his own lips the disdain he held for his wife, I'm afraid I'm inclined to believe what I heard. 

Chuck disappeared for a while after that. I suspect he might have been in jail. 

He's home now, has been for a while and he is a very subdued version of his former self. Gone are both of his fancy cars and he no longer struts around. I can run past his house without cringing at the rude or borderline vulgar comments that were once hurled at me. I think he thought he was being funny or flirtatious, but he was neither. He was pompous and repulsive. 

My last stop on my cookie crusade yesterday (<--click here to read about it) was across the street from Chuck. His own neighbor described him as a "crabapple" and I know she was being generous and tactful since she was speaking in front of my kids. She advised me to leave him alone. I really want to. But I can't. 

The same urge that sent me and my son door to door with packs of cookies and invitations to church, compels me to visit Chuck's house too. The same conviction that this man deserves the important message of Jesus as much as his well-dressed soft spoken neighbor means that next weekend I will pack cookies for Chuck. Maybe I'll even give him a full dozen. I'll walk up to his front door, and I'll deliver my plea. A plea for this unhappy man's eternity. 

Pray for me. My heart says go, but my feet really don't want to.