I Bummed a Ride on Como Avenue

“How far ya goin’?” he asked, as he flung open the door of his ‘41 Chev four-door.

“To south Minneapolis,” I cried gratefully, “if yer goin’ that far.” I scrambled in to the passenger seat.

The sun bathed the street with eye-squinting brilliance this spring afternoon. I thought I had talked myself into the idea of walking home. It’ll take over an hour. You could use the time for study. So I opted for a lift.

“Ya got some books,” said the man who responded to my thumb, “goin’ to the U?”

Como Avenue looked abandoned. “Nice of you to pick me up. No. I’m in the school on the hill. Couple blocks back. A seminary. Luther Seminary.”

“So yer into theology. Like it?”

“We do a lot of study on how to run a church. Church history, stuff like that. Languages. Greek and Hebrew. I wouldn’t call myself a theologian, with the little I know.”

“How far ya ‘long?” Queried the smiling man behind the wheel. I liked him instinctively. My age, round thirty. Smooth shaven. A twinkle in his eye, and a voice that said, “I’m lookin’ for the funny side.” His car was as manicured as he was.

“Second year. One to go. Three year course, obviously.” My face flushed in embarrassment. Too much talk centered on me. I glanced off to the south to see massive clouds of steam arising from the Waldorf paper mills.

“So in 1951 you’ll be ordained a Lutheran minister. Am I right?”

“Yer right.” I replied weakly. I felt vulnerable. I’ve got to do something. I know, I’ll put him on the stage. He can have the spotlight for a while.

“How ‘bout you,” I said, trying to sound peppy, “I would guess yer a salesman.” Immediately he enjoyed my speculation. His laugh filled the car. I smiled along with him.

“Why’s that,” he forced out while still laughing.

“Yer ease round people. Yer interest in people. Ya strike me as a man who is not bothered by a lot of things.”

“Well, thank you,” he acknowledged in a high voice. Now I could see a slight pink glow cross over his features. I glanced at the huge marshaling area under our overpass on Raymond. “Funny you should say that.”

“How come?”

“Well,” he paused to concentrate on a driver from a side street. Other drivers did not upset him. Was this his maturity? Perhaps his temperament. Could be consideration for others. “I manage a superette,” he continued.

“I wasn’t far off,” I said with confidence in my insightfulness. “I can see you in that role.”

He talked about the challenges of being a manager of a superette. Picking good help. Stocking the correct merchandise. I felt my shoulders relax as he shared his life with me.

“Did ya grow into this,” I sought to know, “like it’s in the family, that kinda thing?”

“No, no,” again he laughed easily. “My dad makes cabinets, kitchen cabinets. Works with his hands, ya might say.”

I didn’t interrupt him. He quickly grasped that I was interested in his story. I waited for him to go on.

“I took business in college. At the U. Always wanted to own my own business. Ever since I was a kid, I guess.”

“I identify with you,” I inserted.

“Had you dreamed about ownin’ yer own business some time?”

“Only in passin’. I come from a family of entrepreneurs myself. Our home filled itself with talk on different ways to make money. Sometimes it got pretty hilarious.” I replied.

“How was that?” he enquired.

“Oh, like the winter Dad got carried away talking about a turkey farm out on an island.”

My new found friend laughed hysterically.

“Forgive me for laughing,” he apologized, “I wasn’t laughing at your dad, I got a kick out of the way you said it.”

“Yer goal is a going grocery store,” I surmised as our laughing subsided.

“Takes capital,” he said with a dreamer’s look in his eye.

“Ya know,” I reflected, “any success you can point to started with a dream. There are always those with a wet blanket. Ya know what I mean?”

“I suppose,” he deduced, “those are the ones who say we should play it close to the vest. Why take chances? Right?”

We sat in a holding pattern for the stop light at University Avenue. “Keyes Restaurant,” said the sign on a building. He didn’t wait for me to answer.

“Faith hits Fear,” he said laughingly, “on the side of the head, and sends him reeling.”

I easily picked up the sense that one was not taking a chance when he followed through his dreams with faith.

“Every once in a while,” he continued, “I have to take myself by the nap of the neck and say, ‘What are ya scared of? Why don’t ya simply accept what God pledges in His Word, as true?’ I live by faith, ya see. Everything I do, I act by faith. Any decision, or challenge, yes, any dream, passes through the filter of faith. I’m sure you know all about that.”

“No, I don’t know all about that. Yer the first person I have ever, and I mean ever, come across who speaks straight forward about his faith. ‘N that’s including ministers I have known.” I paused. Town and Country golf course came into view on our left. My candid friend remained silent. “I confess I’m supposed to be a professional. I put that ‘professional’ in quotes. Yer the courageous one, I have never told anyone I live by faith.”

“Do you? Please excuse my audacity.” He laughed off his embarrassment.

Who has the guts to ask a seminarian if he lives by faith? You wouldn’t ask a doctor if he knows anything about medicine. I knew the question was couched in love. He had a bare knuckle kind of faith. A fist-swinging faith that survives brawlings in the market place of life. Unadulterated. Unaffected. Authentic. I immediately knew it sprang out of God’s Word, the Bible, the only source or fountainhead for genuine faith.

“Sure, I live by faith,” I answered, “but it’s more private, concealed. Like I’ve heard someone say, ‘closet faith’.”

He waited at the red light at Marshall Avenue. Off to the right I could see the Lake Street bridge. “We were talking about opening a business,” he wanted to go on, “and the financing needed. A verse in the Bible (See! I told you his kind of faith would come out of the Bible) guarantees that God is able to accomplish far above what you and I can ask or think.” He chuckled, “And certainly this would include my dream of owning a supermarket.”

“Yer not expectin' somethin’ out of the blue?” I said, not hiding my incredulity, “ ... like ten thousand dollars plopping into yer lap, or some guy walkin’ up to you and saying, ‘God told me to give you this ten thousand dollars’.”

He listened to what I said. A few seconds passed. I could almost see the cog wheels turning in his head.

“If I did that, I’m afraid I’d be walkin’ by sight, rather than countin'’ on what God says.”

“You refer to yer Bible,” I observed.

“Sure,” he countered, “where else would faith come from?”

“I don’t follow.” I smiled lightly.

“Take light,” he gestured with his free hand, “where does it come from?”

“Simple.” I answered. “From the sun, of course.”

“This follows then, just as the sun gives light, the Bible gives faith.”

His logic reminded me of a story. I said, “A small boy stands at the top of the cellar stairs. In the darkness below stands his father with outstretched arms. ‘Jump,’ says the father, ‘and I’ll catch you.’ But the boy says, ‘Daddy, I can’t see you!’ A preacher I know says the blind leap of the boy pictures faith.”

“If we say God has to make something, we’re wrong. God has already made and kept ready what you and I believe for. You can check the Word on that.”

“So what’s yer comment on the illustration?” I asked.

“If God has already made what you and I believe for, then He has already caught us!” He explained.

“No leap is involved at all,” was my conclusion.

“What you and I have to grasp is that what we believe for has already been made. That’s grace. Makes believin’ easier.”

“I get the point,” I assured him.

“Forty-Third Avenue,” said the sign on the corner.

“Here’s where I get out.”

He pulled over to be curb and stopped. I jumped out. He extended an uplifted palm through the open door.

“Todd _______.” I didn’t catch his last name. Our hand-shake was like the coupling of freight cars. I gave him my name.

Still holding my hand he said with a big smile, “Norm, this has been great. The best to you in your studies.” He released his grip, and I slammed the door.

“Thank you, Todd,” I hollered through the door glass. He pulled away from the curb and joined the traffic flowing west on Lake Street. I watched his car until it disappeared out of sight.