Where does the Mercy Go?

The smell of burgers and Marlboros were a smell that sixteen-year-old me was very acquainted with when I worked my first job at the McDonalds by my high school. I would attend school from 7:45am-3:30pm and then I would clock in weekdays to work 4pm-10pm at McDonalds as a cashier and do it all over again the next day. It taught consistency and discipline and gave me money of my own to spend. (It also taught me unfair work environments but that may be a topic for another time) 

One evening a man came in. He was covered in grease stains or dirt, I could not tell which, but his eyes were kind. He looked to be in his thirties and like he had seen better days. As he approached the register, his eyes almost brightened asking, “Do you go to Zion Hill?” (The church I have attended since I was a twinkle in God’s eye) 

I answered a cautious “Yes…” and he informed me that he had attended our New Years seafood boil and remembered seeing my face there. Still erring on the side of caution I engaged in vague small talk with the man telling him how my father led the men's Sunday school class sometimes and that they would love to have him attend. I recall that next Sunday that he was seated next to my dad in class. My dad told me that he rode his bicycle (nearly 25 miles) just to attend our little country town church, despite there being many churches in the city he traveled from. 

Word spread throughout the church of the man traveling that far on bicycle every Sunday and everyone answered nudges from God to help the man. One helped him find employment, One drove him to church on Sundays, One bought him a new bike, and it was laid on my heart to supply him a free coffee in the evenings when he would visit me and ask questions about the Bible. As a sixteen-year-old girl I felt special being asked these questions and my opinions. I felt like my entire life had been preparing me to minister to this man, every sermon poured into me had led me to these moments and in return the kind man would walk me to my car at the end of my shift because “It was dangerous for me to walk to my car by myself that late at night”. 

Weeks passed, months passed, and my mom had come across a post on Facebook that shook my family to its core. The man I had known as Mike Hurts, the man visiting me nightly at my job, kind enough to walk me to my car, sit by my father in Sunday school, and accept guidance and prayers from our congregation, was not actually Mike Hurts. He was a man on the run for attempted murder and failure to register as a sex offender. An offense against a minor even younger than I at the time. 

I had not told anyone the extent of our spiritual relationship and the guidance we offered each other but that Sunday in the pew I remember listening to our pastor discuss the matter and pieces of a puzzle clicked together leaving me with more questions than answers. “Mike” frequently asked me about good deeds, if they could undo bad things. I would tell him that we all fall short, we have all done bad things, and God is aware of all of it. We cannot hide a single facet of our lives from His love and grace. 

The months following the revelation I felt like a fool. As if my breath had been wasted and I had been taken advantage of. I was so naive that when my mom raised concerns about this man before, I had accused her of being small minded and judging a book by its cover. This revelation begged the question I still find myself asking at times today: 

Where does the mercy go? 

After I extended it, after this man was caught for these horrific crimes, what happened to the mercy poured into him? It is so uncomfortable to come to terms with the fact that we may never see the flowers that bloom from the seeds we plant. The conversations we have still cross my mind from time to time, I wonder if God allows them to cross his mind, too. I pray every day that he will revisit the memories of the good people from Zion Hill Free Will Baptist. 

I came across an article of his real name that revealed in 2022 that he was involved in an accident and struck by a passing vehicle back in his state of Maryland. He was taken to the hospital and survived, however the comments under the article all read along the lines of ‘It serves him right’, ‘It should have killed him’ because of his past and criminal record. It makes me nauseous. He is a child of God, just as we all are. He has fallen short, just as we all have. It has taken me nearly six years to realize that I had done everything right. 

I was merciful, just as my Father is merciful. (Luke 6: 36) 

I withheld judgement. 

For judgement is without mercy to those who have shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgement. 

James 2:13 

I clothed myself in compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. (Colossians 3:12) 

The most difficult part is choosing to forgive someone who deceived me. If I choose to view that experience as a cautionary tale instead of what was an opportunity to minister, I will use every excuse not to answer God’s nudges the next time he calls me to speak to someone about His word. God never promises that situations will always be in our own hands, or we will see the fruits of the seeds that we plant but I think that is the beautiful thing about mercy. 

Mercy moves in tenderness and silence; its presence is all around us. We are coated in His mercy, and it pours itself into us through the Holy Spirit’s presence in other people.