I remember being in the flurry of people that heaves through the New York City subway, one afternoon in October.
We were like fish in a crowded sea, everyone pushing and rushing and with a goal in mind.
We all knew where we were going. No one didn't know what they were doing.
And down the hallway I heard a deep voice, like a double bass being plucked with a gentle hand.
There was a man standing in the middle of all the oncoming people, holding his ground against the rushing flood, in a suit.
In his right hand he held a bible, in his left, a briefcase.
He boomed to the oncoming commuters, with deepest conviction and no detectable doubt:
"We need to come home to God." Slowly, with all the patience of time eternal.
"We have forgotten him, forsaken him. We must return home to God."
And I never forgot that man, the man who would otherwise have been ridiculed; but instead, he chose to speak and be ignored.
As long as someone heard him.
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