Crossing paths

Today is my 150th post. Wife suggested I break the rules and post the following TRUE story. I wrote it up a couple of years ago. Some of our ministry partners have seen it. I think it’s worth a read. Thanks.
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Often times we do things expecting immediate results. And if the results aren't immediately visible, we may feel discouragement, or even think that our efforts were worthless.
It's always best just to do the right thing because it's the right thing. I was speaking to the church about their commitment to worship the Lord and their desire to build strong relationships with their brothers and sisters. I reminded them that these relationships are not only important for them today, but also for 10, 20 or 30 years from now. These relationships will allow them to grow in joy and God will use their "now" commitment to bless them in the future.

I received this unexpected blessing on Wednesday night, November 17, 1999. I'd jumped on the first train that was going to Geneva. My final destination was Marseilles and I'd left the house early, which would give me over an hour in Geneva to change trains. So I stored back-pack on the luggage rack and sat down. Two college-age girls were speaking English in the seats next to me and talking about their churches. So I interrupted and asked them if they were Christians. They said yes, so I asked them what they were doing in Europe. "We're students at Harding University and we go to the extension campus in Florence, Italy. We're on our way to Nice, France."

Well, we've had lots of students visit us from Harding—students who've come to distribute Bible course information in mailboxes—so I told them I was a minister for the church of Christ in Lausanne. What a coincidence to meet on the train, in the same wagon, going to the same place!

One of the girls was from San Francisco, one from Nashville. 6 other heads popped up from elsewhere in the same compartment. There were actually 8 girls traveling together. As we introduced ourselves, one of the girls said, "Hey, my brother's name is Brady too." (There aren't too many Bradys in this world, for a given name, anyway.) We talked about Europe and about the churches, where the girls could worship when they got to Barcelona on Sunday, etc.
While talking, I found out that the Harding student with the brother named Brady knew one of the girls in the Christian internship in Marseilles, where I was going to teach. She wrote a message for me to give to the intern, signing her name "Erin R____."

Halfway to Geneva, I asked Erin where here brother had got his name. She said her parents had known someone a long time ago and had liked the name and the person. That's how they'd found it.

Now my own name came from a wonderful man my parents love very much. I was hoping that Erin's parents knew the same person. "So you don't remember who this person was?"

"No. It was a long time ago. Just someone they knew before I was born."

"How old are your parents?" "52."

"And your brother?" "22."

It was evident that we weren't named after the same person. I learned that they'd lived around Sacramento for nearly 20 years and her dad was a preacher in a small town called Rescue. Her parents had gone to Fresno State University, but they'd never mentioned anything to Erin about the church there.

"And what's your dad's name?" "Phil."

"And your mom?" "Cathy."

Somewhere inside my brain, a bell, or at least a very dull thud, had gone off. When I asked if she had a picture, she said no. But then her friends reminded her of the ones in her Bible. They could tell that something really neat was happening.

Erin came back with the pictures… from 1971. (Can you believe she was carrying a 30 year old picture of her parents in her Bible? She let me know they didn't look anything like that anymore…) When I looked at the picture, I was staring into the face of my sixth grade Wednesday night Bible school teacher from the College church of Christ.

"Erin, I know how your parents got your brother's name. Before leaving Fresno, your dad told me that if they ever had a boy, they'd name him Brady. Their first child was a girl, and then they moved away. And that was the last I heard from them."

Erin kept repeating, "This cannot be true! This is incredible. This is NOT happening." (Well, she IS from California…)

So, at a Geneva pay phone, I called Phil R_____. "Phil, this is Brady S____. I'm calling from Switzerland."

No answer.

"Phil, this is Brady S_____. Do you remember me?"

"Brady, I've got the other Brady on the line. Can you hold just a minute?"

I held.

"Brady, how are you?" (It was the first time since the birth of his son that he'd ever called anyone else "Brady".)

"How did you get the name Brady for you son?," I asked.

"Well, we liked the name, and you've got to name the child after someone you admire. And he's a good kid…"

We talked for a couple minutes—he in California. I in Geneva. Then I told him there was someone he needed to talk to. I handed the phone to his daughter, Erin.

"Dad! Can you believe…?"

The right train.
The right car.
The right train compartment.
The right conversation.
The right question.
The right picture.

Boy! Was it hard to get to sleep that night.