The Unlikely Story of Warren

“Warren can be a bit hard to talk to,” I said as I pointed my rake toward his house, “but he said we could do trimming and weeding.” A singles group from our church was doing free yard work in our neighborhood. My husband, Ken, and I had been surprised when Warren accepted the offer, since he was usually quite guarded. In the year we’d been neighbors, our limited communication had been filtered through his screen door.

While we worked, Warren seemed apprehensive — pacing on his porch, scrutinizing our efforts and watching that his garden tools weren’t being stolen. But by the end of the day, with a weedless yard and every tool accounted for, Warren had become our friend. His smile was as pleasing as his landscaping.

From then on, Ken and I began stopping by Warren’s house on our neighborhood walks. Pushing a baby stroller, we didn’t have a lot in common with a retired purchasing agent who had served in the Marines during World War II. But we found him interesting and detected loneliness in his weathered smile.

An invitation

Over dinner at our house, we shared God’s story with Warren. With his usual skepticism, he tested our beliefs for weak spots, calling into question the Bible’s validity and the authenticity of Christ. We continued talking with him, but Warren was old and hardened. Neither Ken nor I thought it likely that he’d ever accept Christ’s salvation.

One day we saw people carrying boxes out of Warren’s house. Warren had moved to a local nursing home. When we visited him there, it was disturbing to witness the effects of dementia. He didn’t remember us. Agitated, he would look for his keys, insisting that he had to get home. Sometimes he would talk as though World War II was going on around us.

On one visit, the nurse told us it was a good day for Warren. Seeing us, he said, “I was wonderin’ when you’d come.” The clouds of confusion had parted, and our old friend was back. That evening, he asked us to explain the Gospel again. Eagerly, we recounted the story of Calvary and the reconciliation God offers through His Son.

Beside his bed, I sobbed while Warren swept clean every corner of his heart, recounting with mournful regret his life of sin and hard-heartedness. Earnestly, he clung to Christ as his hope of salvation.

That was the last time Warren ever recognized us. But in those moments when God put dementia on hold, I realized how muddled my own thinking had been.

Change of mind

I had always supposed a lost soul was like a missing child. When a child goes missing for two days, then three . . . hope of finding her diminishes. So the longer a person would wander from God, the less hope I had for his salvation. If he passed certain “boundary lines,” I’d hang my head in resignation, as though he were now out of earshot of the Good Shepherd’s voice. That’s what I thought about Warren.

But our hope doesn’t teeter on whether something’s likely. Though it’s agonizing to watch a loved one stumble further and further into darkness, our hope needn’t shrink as sin tightens its grip. Our hope isn’t based on probability! Our hope is contingent on what God can do, and His strong arm has no limitations. He who split the Red Sea can split the darkness surrounding any captive soul.

What may not seem likely is most certainly possible for Christ, who came to seek and save the lost. His voice can carry beyond the farthest boundary line of probability and cause ears like Warren’s to perk up.