him.
Many who have become Christians later in life can point to that one moment when they
surrendered to the idea of a Creator and his eternal plan. Bohannon had no such epiphany.
He just realized one day that he believed what he was reading—this whole, crazy, seemingly
confusing story of God’s love and redemption. Not much changed except that, over time,
he became less heathen and more like Christ: kind, forgiving, gentle, hopeful. Certainly
not perfect—he was Irish, after all—but better from the depth of his soul.
So he and Annie pursued their faith, pursued their God, while they pursued their lives.
They came not only to believe in God’s providence but to experience it. And to believe
that there was a purpose, there was a plan, for each of them.
Needing answers, Tom Bohannon went to God and sought his plan. What Bohannon heard—that
intimate sense of receiving an answer, direction—distressed and confused him even
more. He had a job for which he was responsible. A family to care for. A daughter
attending Fordham and tuition to pay. And each time, God kept telling Bohannon,
This is my plan for you. I have called you to this time
.
God’s voice, or my voice?
That was always Bohannon’s tripping point.
God’s direction, or my own wishful thinking . . . how will I ever know for sure? God,
how can I know for sure?
“Here’s the monthly financial statement.”
Bohannon nearly fell out of his chair.
Stew Manthey held the package just out of Bohannon’s reach, forcing Bohannon to look
up as he collected himself. Stew, his mentor and colleague for ten years, was CFO
of the mission. He was also a man of wisdom and discernment. This morning, Manthey
wore a look of concern along with his pale brown tie.
“Are you okay?” Manthey asked.
Tom stretched and took the packet from Manthey’s hand, avoiding his eyes. “I’m fine.
How did we do this month?”
“Revenue was good,” said Manthey, sitting in one of the chairs that flanked Bohannon’s
desk. “The repairs to the street outreach truck were unexpected, but other expenses
were down. So it was a good month. Marcus and the board will be happy.”
“Good,” said Bohannon, tossing the packet on top of an overflowing in-box. He tried
to turn his attention back to the performance evaluation, but Stew wasn’t moving.
Reluctantly, Bohannon looked up.
“Stew?”
Manthey got out of his chair, closed the office door, then returned to his seat and
faced Bohannon.
“Tom, what’s going on? What’s wrong? The last week or so, you just haven’t been yourself.
Ever since the accident, you’ve been withdrawn, distant. You’ve been out a lot, and
when you are here, most of the time you’re only here in body. I’m worried about you.”
Stew Manthey was a few months short of retirement, his full, grizzled gray beard a
testimony to his hastening transition to gentleman golfer. More than friends, more
than coworkers, they had prayed together for this ministry to the homeless and addicted
men God placed in their care. Like his wife, Annie, there was little Bohannon could
hide from Stew Manthey. He needed to tell somebody.
Twenty minutes later, the sound of singing voices drifted up from the mission chapel
below as the morning service began in earnest.
“Wow, that’s quite a story,” Manthey said, massaging the space between his eyebrows.
“What are you going to do, now?”
Bohannon wearily shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t know what
to do. What do you think, Stew?” Bohannon grimaced at the pleading in his voice.
“I think you’ve done the right thing. You’ve asked God what he would have you do.
And it appears you’ve received an answer.” Manthey paused, apparently weighing his
response. “Now, I think you have to go tell Marcus and the board what you’ve found
and that you’d like to pursue the meaning of the scroll. See what they say. If God
Many who have become Christians later in life can point to that one moment when they
surrendered to the idea of a Creator and his eternal plan. Bohannon had no such epiphany.
He just realized one day that he believed what he was reading—this whole, crazy, seemingly
confusing story of God’s love and redemption. Not much changed except that, over time,
he became less heathen and more like Christ: kind, forgiving, gentle, hopeful. Certainly
not perfect—he was Irish, after all—but better from the depth of his soul.
So he and Annie pursued their faith, pursued their God, while they pursued their lives.
They came not only to believe in God’s providence but to experience it. And to believe
that there was a purpose, there was a plan, for each of them.
Needing answers, Tom Bohannon went to God and sought his plan. What Bohannon heard—that
intimate sense of receiving an answer, direction—distressed and confused him even
more. He had a job for which he was responsible. A family to care for. A daughter
attending Fordham and tuition to pay. And each time, God kept telling Bohannon,
This is my plan for you. I have called you to this time
.
God’s voice, or my voice?
That was always Bohannon’s tripping point.
God’s direction, or my own wishful thinking . . . how will I ever know for sure? God,
how can I know for sure?
“Here’s the monthly financial statement.”
Bohannon nearly fell out of his chair.
Stew Manthey held the package just out of Bohannon’s reach, forcing Bohannon to look
up as he collected himself. Stew, his mentor and colleague for ten years, was CFO
of the mission. He was also a man of wisdom and discernment. This morning, Manthey
wore a look of concern along with his pale brown tie.
“Are you okay?” Manthey asked.
Tom stretched and took the packet from Manthey’s hand, avoiding his eyes. “I’m fine.
How did we do this month?”
“Revenue was good,” said Manthey, sitting in one of the chairs that flanked Bohannon’s
desk. “The repairs to the street outreach truck were unexpected, but other expenses
were down. So it was a good month. Marcus and the board will be happy.”
“Good,” said Bohannon, tossing the packet on top of an overflowing in-box. He tried
to turn his attention back to the performance evaluation, but Stew wasn’t moving.
Reluctantly, Bohannon looked up.
“Stew?”
Manthey got out of his chair, closed the office door, then returned to his seat and
faced Bohannon.
“Tom, what’s going on? What’s wrong? The last week or so, you just haven’t been yourself.
Ever since the accident, you’ve been withdrawn, distant. You’ve been out a lot, and
when you are here, most of the time you’re only here in body. I’m worried about you.”
Stew Manthey was a few months short of retirement, his full, grizzled gray beard a
testimony to his hastening transition to gentleman golfer. More than friends, more
than coworkers, they had prayed together for this ministry to the homeless and addicted
men God placed in their care. Like his wife, Annie, there was little Bohannon could
hide from Stew Manthey. He needed to tell somebody.
Twenty minutes later, the sound of singing voices drifted up from the mission chapel
below as the morning service began in earnest.
“Wow, that’s quite a story,” Manthey said, massaging the space between his eyebrows.
“What are you going to do, now?”
Bohannon wearily shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t know what
to do. What do you think, Stew?” Bohannon grimaced at the pleading in his voice.
“I think you’ve done the right thing. You’ve asked God what he would have you do.
And it appears you’ve received an answer.” Manthey paused, apparently weighing his
response. “Now, I think you have to go tell Marcus and the board what you’ve found
and that you’d like to pursue the meaning of the scroll. See what they say. If God
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