It was the summer of 2004 and Melissa and I had only recently moved to the small town of Keokuk, Iowa, to take a youth and worship pastor position at a church there.

There was one particular day I remember vividly. It was a good day. And I was feeling positive about the headway we were making in the youth department amongst the young people. I spent the majority of the day remodeling the youth room to make it more, well, “youthy.”

In addition, Melissa and I were starting to feel a great connection with those involved in the music and worship department. We felt like, though things were still somewhat new for everyone, we were making progress and things were starting to flow together nicely.

All throughout this specific day I had been thinking on these things and I was starting to feel good about our new role and the progress we were making. But just as I was leaving the church parking lot for the day, I felt an urge to go a different route home. At first I wasn’t exactly sure why I did this, especially since it was completely the wrong direction in which I was supposed to be heading. Regardless, I just started driving, turning left instead of right. And as I turned left, I immediately knew the reason for this illogical prompting.

He was a large man in a powered wheelchair cruising down the sidewalk on Main Street. I’d seen him before and, though he didn’t look poor or in immediate need, my heart still went out to him. I felt bad but never really did anything about it or asked him if I could help in any way. You know, never being Jesus in the flesh. I wanted to but didn’t. And knowing all this, I felt another urge – an urge to stop and ask him how I could help.

So I did.

Well, first I pulled my car into a parking lot on the other side of the road and told myself, “If he crosses the street right here, then I’ll get out of my car and talk with him.” He crossed the street but I stayed in my car.

I pulled back onto the street and into a different, more secluded parking lot down the road and told myself, “If he passes by here, then I’ll get out and ask him if he needs anything.” He did. So I did what felt natural. I stayed in my car and pulled back onto the road – such a risk-taker, I know.

Then I pulled into the Burger King parking lot. When I say “the” Burger King parking lot, I mean the “only” Burger King parking lot – validating my earlier point that Keokuk is, in fact, a really small town. I’m sure you can guess what I did next. I told myself “If he goes into Burger King, then I’m definitely getting out and talking to him about Jesus.”

He wheeled past my car, up onto the ramp, and drove his wheelchair into the front entrance of Burger King. I watched him the whole way, praying that he would go somewhere else – anywhere besides Burger King. But he did not. And so I got out of my car and walked in.

If you’re hoping for a nice ending, well, this story doesn’t have one. I was as nervous as could be as I walked through the door. God had called me to this point, the opportunity was there, but I was petrified. I was so nervous to present Jesus, if even by actions only, to this man.

He was short a quarter for his meal. I reached into my pocket, found a quarter and handed it to him. The door opened. He thanked me. I acknowledged politely, “Of course, no problem.” I ordered a burger and stood fairly close to the man as we both waited for our orders – the door still wide open. He turned and thanked me again. It would’ve been so easy for me to simply say, “I’ve seen you around town a few times. My name is Bo.” or “Man, I’ve had a pretty decent day. What about you?” Something, anything could’ve been my first step through the open door. But I let it slip away.

He grabbed his order. I grabbed mine. He cruised away in his wheelchair while I got in my car and drove home. That “great day” I had was robbed right from under me and I was the one who stole it.

It’s unfortunate, and ironic, that I had a hard time reaching out to one person when now I have been given the opportunity to reach out to thousands of people each month with our magazine, Rethink Monthly. Who’d of thought, as the hymnist penned, that a wretch like me, a guy who couldn’t even follow the simplest urge, would be given a task such as this.

Bo & Melissa Lane have two beautiful kids, Benjamin and Bella Lane. Besides having the privilege of printing this wonderful magazine, they enjoy long walks on the beach, listening to Hillsong United, and will pay virtually any amount for a quality babysitter.