By Sam Willis*
Have I got a story for you! It’s about how God reached me through the eyes of a little boy named Caleb.
My brother Rick and I were living in a small apartment in Seattle, Washington. We were attending college and trying to finish our education by working nights and studying days.
Rick went to church regularly. He had found Jesus during his time at a Christian high school. As for me, I had rebelled against my parents since their divorce and had been on my own for a few years prior to joining Rick.
“Hey Sam,” he said while we were sitting in the kitchen, “would you like to go to church with me?”
“Look,” I said, “I have told you a million times, if you want to go to church, that’s wonderful, and if you believe in God—terrific. But this religion thing is not for me, so back off.”
“Alright,” he said. “I tell you what—I’ll make a deal with you. You come to church with me once, and I’ll never bother you again about religion.”
The offer was melodic. Rick was relentless in trying to convert me. Every week it was the same question from him with the same answer from me. Now here was an opportunity to never again hear my kid brother drone on about how he’s going to miss me in heaven.
“You’ve got a deal,” I shouted. “I go once, and you never bother me again, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“One condition,” I added. “If I go, I go as I am,” pointing my finger at him. “I’m not going to be any different from what I normally would be.”
“Agreed,” he said again.
I wanted to throw the Bible away, but it had my name in it—in little-kid chicken scratch.
Sabbath came, and I was ready. I remembered one thing about church people: if you didn’t look like them, they left you alone. I had earrings in each ear, and to complement the presentation I wore my torn Levi jeans, black hiking boots, and a matching biker’s jacket. I left gritty stubble on my face—and a gritty countenance.
“Let’s go,” I said to my brother. Rick wasn’t overly surprised when he saw me. “OK,” he replied, “let’s go.”
When we arrived at the church, there were a few people who shook my hand. I wasn’t stupid—I knew these people had been prepped for my arrival. But overall, what I thought would happen did happen. The church just didn’t know what to make of me, and they left me alone.
As the sermon began, the pastor asked the church to turn in their Bibles to a passage. The rustling of rice paper pages began to fill the room as members were finding the book and the chapter. I sat quietly with my arms crossed against my chest and my back slightly slouched in the pew. There were only 30 minutes left, and I would be free from my brother’s nagging!
While the others were turning in their Bibles, I didn’t have one, nor did I want one. Suddenly I felt a tug on my jacket. I turned and faced a little curly-haired, light-skinned young boy no more than 10 years old. “Hi,” he said to me. “My name is Caleb.”
“Hi,” I snapped back. I then quickly turned toward the pastor again, trying to make clear that I was not interested in getting to know anyone. The tug came again. This time I scowled and said, “What?”
“What’s your name?” he asked, unabashed.
“Kid, if I tell you my name, will you leave me alone?” I said rapidly.
“Maybe.”
I was prepared for adult attempts at conversion but I found myself helpless against this curious little nosy kid!
“My name is Sam,” I said. I looked closely at him and whispered, “Now listen carefully to the sermon. You might learn something.”
Caleb then turned away from me and faced the front. He pulled out one of those plastic ballpoint pens. From my side view I saw little fingers tightly pressed around the pen and a tongue hanging out of his mouth in determined concentration. He was writing something in his Bible, and I knew his attention was away from me. But the writing soon stopped, the tongue was back in his mouth, and he turned toward me again and nudged my shoulder with his Bible.
“It’s for you,” he said as both our hands held the book at the same time. “I wrote your name in it,” a big toothy grin flashed.
I looked at the Bible, then held it back out to him. “I don’t want this, kid. You keep it.”
Caleb began shifting away in the pew. “No, really, it’s for you,” he said.
I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everybody over why I didn’t want this Bible, so the exchange was made, and we both sat quietly.
The service ended, and I made a sprint for the door. I was in the car waiting for my brother.
“Whadya think?” he asked.
“I hated it,” I said. “I told you, if you believe, that’s great, but it’s not for me, and I want no part of it. I’ve kept my end of this deal. Now I never want to hear any conversion stuff from you anymore.” The rest of the ride home was silent.
When we got home, I walked in carrying that Bible. I didn’t know what to do with it. I wanted to throw it away, but it had my name written in it in little-kid chicken scratch. So I placed it on top of the fridge. When I returned in the evening and sat in the kitchen to eat something, the Bible was still there. I felt bothered by it, so I tossed it in the living room. When I went into the living room to watch TV, there it sat again.
Over the next four days, that Bible moved from place to place to place in our apartment, depending on which room I was in. On Thursday night, I was lying on my bed. It was one of those nights when the air stood still and you could see the street lights filter through the raindrops on the window. All was quiet, and I just lay there. I looked over, and that Bible was sitting on my dresser. It cast a shadow on the wall in the dim light of the bedroom. I gazed at it, and the thoughts started unfolding in my mind:
Does He really exist?
Where did I come from, and where am I going?
Is this all there is to life—the garbage I have lived through these past 22 years?
If Jesus Christ doesn’t exist, if He is just a myth, why do I hate Him so much?
What possessed a kid to give me his Bible when I looked the way I did?
The questions kept coming as I lay there. I had been running all my life. From what? I didn’t believe, so why run? I had to get some answers, and now was the time.
I walked across the kitchen to my brother’s bedroom.
“Look,” I said to him sternly. “Don’t flip out on me, don’t get all excited, or even think this really means anything, but I have a few questions I need answered. I guess I would like to ask your pastor about them.”
Rick looked back at me, grinned, and said, “Sure.” A year and a half later, I was baptized.
I stared at the Bible and wondered, Did God really exist? If He was only a myth, why did I hate Him so much? I had been running all my life, but from what?
Even now as I sit to write this story and go over it again, I am awed at the length Jesus would go to save me. I am amazed at how much He really loved me when I hated Him. It has changed my life forever.
A little while after I was baptized, I made a small presentation. I told my story to the entire church as the “Amens” and “Praise Gods” echoed through the sanctuary. I called Caleb up front and talked about the power one person can have when they live by faith and not by sight. I handed him a present. It was a brand-new, black leather-bound Bible with his name in gold letters imprinted on the front. “Thanks, Caleb,” I told him. “Thanks for being the glimpse of God that changed the way I saw Him forever.”
Epilogue: Jesus told three parables about seeking the lost: The Lost Coin, The Lost Sheep, and The Prodigal Son. He loves to have us help Him find them like Caleb did. Sam Willis went on to become a pastor.
*All names in the story are pseudonyms.
The original version of this article was published in College and University Dialogue 10:1 (1998) and is available on https://dialogue.adventist.org/409/for-eternity-i-shall-offer-applause. Used by permission.
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