Days two and
three sort of blend together. I woke up
on day two with the street preacher still fresh in my mind, and an unusual,
ministerial energy that I hadn’t felt before.
Like there was purpose today and something was going to happen; like
maybe I was supposed to make something happen.
I intended to use part of my interruption-free time to work on some
other writing projects that I had been moving too slowly on and sat down at the
desk in our hotel room (I don’t mind saying it was a NICE hotel room) to do
just that. I ended up beginning this
series instead.
As I was
wrapping up the first post it was around lunch time and I decided I would take
my laptop somewhere with Wi-Fi and post the first entry while I had lunch. As I was saving and closing down,
housekeeping came to the door. I smiled
at her and assured her it was ok to come in, I would be leaving in a few
minutes anyways. Her name was Olivia and
her smile and demeanor were friendly and confidant and not at all subservient
or like she had to pretend I was better than her. I was glad for that; I hate it when people
act like that with me. And I felt that
this was something. I decided to strike up a conversation. An oddity for me since I hate conversation
because I feel so inept at it, but this day was anointed and I planned to press
in and find out why.
As I packed
up my stuff to head out I made small talk (which I don’t generally know how to
do, so it MUST have been God) and asked how long she had worked at the
hotel. She had worked there since
August. She had been blessed to get the
job with no prior experience after the printer she worked at let her go after
many years of service. She had developed
fibromyalgia and so they had found a reason so as not to incur extra benefits
costs.
Her biggest
worry was her oldest son. Her 24 year
old son had started doing drugs some time back.
It started with marijuana, and she had learned that it had progressed to
heroin. She had a hard time not blaming
herself and wondering what she had done wrong.
She had tried everything but the boy didn’t really want help yet. She had taken him to a treatment center but
he left after only four hours.
Brian (that
is her son's name), had two little girls who are old enough now to know that
something isn’t right with daddy, and his girlfriend (the children’s mother)
has given up on him. The thing that
Olivia found to be both perplexing and an assurance was that Brian had always
been the one most in the Word and knew his Bible inside and out. He had taught her everything she knew about
faith and had been the one to make her faith strong. And yet here he was now telling her to stop
praying for him, that God wasn’t going to help; that he was already lost, had
sold his soul and now had to worship Satan. But it also meant that he had a
foundation. He knew the truth.
Her church,
Victory Church, had a strong recovery program with a smart pastor. He was there for her to lean on and was
helping her to realize that nothing would help Brian until he wanted help. But she should keep praying and not give
up. She wished she could get to church
more but weekends were the busiest time for the hotels.
I knew her
room quota and schedule were probably tighter than UPS’s and I didn’t want to
get her in trouble, so rather than pray with her there I assured her that I
would pray for both her son and her fibromyalgia (which the doctors had said in
2009 was so bad she wouldn’t be able to use her hands much longer (but look at
her now, praise God). So I parted
company with Olivia.
To get where
I was going I had to leave the hotel and head up to a pedestrian overpass to cross
Las Vegas Blvd. These bridges were
spacious, wide and full of people pedaling things. On these bridges, as well as on every street
corner, were people promoting the bars and clubs. They did so by trying to hand out drink coupons
with pictures of naked girls provocatively posed. Only about half of these promoters where male. Many of the females were short, squat little
old ladies. Maybe somebody’s
grandmother. But there were younger
girls, too. And they were usually
dressed for the part.
As I came to
the other side of the bridge I started down the escalator. But as soon as I stepped onto it my mind
finally registered the girl I had just walked by and seen purely in my
peripheral vision. I didn’t notice her
until it was too late to stop, and turning back would have made me look
creepy. But once she registered, the
image was clear. She had been standing next
to the escalator leaned up against the bridge rail, one foot up against the
wall behind her like some gunslinger in a clichéd western. She was young, mid-twenties maybe, with long,
straight dark hair down to the middle of her back. She had on aviator sunglasses, was holding a
fake police baton, wearing a fake badge, a police-looking bikini top, black bikini
bottoms, fishnet stockings and mid-calve boots.
As soon as
she registered in my mind (Vegas is kind of keep-your-eyes-to-yourself kind of
place unless you want to get taken for something), I realized I missed an
opportunity for another something. It
was quite windy out and the temperature was just barely on the positive side of
comfortable for me in a long sleeved shirt and sweater. Had I seen her sooner I would have asked
jovially, “Aren’t you cold?” In my mind
I could see the smile. It would be the same
one all the girls wore. It would be full
of well-practiced genuiness. Not
flirtatious, but with warmth and seemingly sincere happiness to see you. Vegas girls could make money as smile
consultants, teaching service staff around the country how to flash that smile.
She would have answered honestly enough. “A
little.” “How long do you have to stand
out here?” I would have asked next. And
she’d have answered. “What do you do in
December?” Answer. “How long have you lived in Vegas?”
Answer. “Are you going to school or
something? Must have an important goal
to be standing out here freezing like this.”
This is how the conversation would begin, and I would have learned her
story. What it was that made her do what
she did. No little girl says that when
she grows up she wants to stand on a crowded walk-way in next to nothing,
getting ogled, mentally undressed, and probably ‘accidentally’ groped by guys
‘accidentally’ getting jostled into her by the crowd. Maybe it was the only way
she could find to pay for school. Maybe
her parents had shuffled her out of the house as soon as she turned 18. Maybe she got pregnant at 16 or 17 and her
parents had thrown her out and now she had a kid at home to feed. Maybe she ran away from home, to get away
from the abuse, and found that exploiting her only known asset was the only way
for her to survive. I would have learned
all those things about this otherwise anonymous girl, who was standing on the
Vegas strip and hoping that this would be as far as she would ever have to go
in using her body to make money.
How much
would she have appreciated that conversation?
A conversation that was about her as a person. A conversation that didn’t begin “hey baby,”
or end with “When you gettin’ off tonight?”
A conversation with someone who looked her in the eye the entire time
and then moved on, no motives. What kind
of hope might that have left her with?
There were many girls like her along the strip, but it was only her that
I had had a strong conviction that I needed to start a conversation with. A something
missed.
In the end
the day played out pretty much like that.
I had places to be that evening and I needed to get back and get
ready. I should have had more than one
Olivia that day but I missed the other opportunities. The day had been anointed but I wasted that
anointing. Not too big a deal; it
happens from time to time. Especially
when it’s for something totally new to you (like talking and conversing). Upon reflection I know that I didn’t give in
to my wife asking me to go with her – I had given in to God. Upon reflection I know that the
disappointment a couple months before at deciding not to go was really that
feeling you get when you have just made a decision that was opposite what God
was telling you to make. Upon reflection
I know that it was a vacation that was not supposed to be a vacation.
They say
that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
But something about Vegas didn’t stay there. Something about Vegas nags at me, and I can’t
quite put my finger on it. Jesus looked
out at the crowds and said that “the
harvest is so great, but the workers are so few.” (NLT. Matt. 9:37 [or, if you don’t like Matthew,
Luke 10:2; but who doesn’t like Matthew?]).
For three days I walked Las Vegas Blvd and saw so many sheep in need of
a shepherd, and none in sight.
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