One Last Chance

Names have been changed for privacy.

I got off the phone a few hours ago with a friend of mine at work. He was calling to tell me that something was broken with our model. I was just about to walk out the door to go see some Christmas lights with my family (I came home for the weekend) and then he called. Needless to say, I was a bit perturbed. Work has a way of calling at the most inopportune moments with urgent issues. Thankfully, I had a coworker already working on the problem, so I wasn’t left to dry.

”Hey man, before I let you go, I have some bad news”, he says right as I’m about to hang up. “Yeah, what’s up?”, I respond. “Tony passed away last night. His wife found him unresponsive at their house. I don’t have all the details, but…” He just trailed off. Needless to say, I went from being aggravated to floored. I had just talked to Tony yesterday. He was a gruff man. In fact, it took me months before I had the courage to befriend him. He looked to be in his late 40s/early 50s. He was hard. He loved his booze and he loved his women. He’d cuss you out with a cigarette dangling from his lip in a heartbeat. His go-to look was a half-buttoned mill uniform, a 5-day hung-over stubble, a sweat-stained bandana, and a cigarette. All the guys loved him, and he’d do anything for anyone. He was the definition of a good ol’ boy. Work hard and party hard. And now, suddenly, he had died.

It hit me like a punch in the stomach. I thanked the guy on the call for letting me know, hung up, and spaced for a minute or two, thinking back to not even 24 hours ago, when I had stood across from a very-much-alive Tony , talking about life and plans. I had come in early for work that morning, to catch some guys on nightshift about some issues. I was walking towards the exit door when I had the sudden desire to talk to him, as I hadn’t caught up with him in a while. So I turned around at 5:30AM, and walked down to his pulpit station.

I asked him something dumb about one of the HMIs, just to get the conversation flowing, and then I quickly switched to general topics. As we talked, we somehow got onto life plans. He told me he had 5 years and he was going to be out. He’d been out here for decades, and he was tired. He told me the first thing he was going to do in retirement was smoke some weed, as he had abstained for years on account of the Nucor drug policy. He laughed, saying the stuff the kids were smoking today wasn’t like the weed of his day, and it may kill him, but he was going to chance it.

He talked about his daughters, and how he wanted them to excel in college and get a good job. He didn’t want them to have to work like him. He said he was fortunate to get such a high-paying job at a place like Nucor, considering he hated school and had barely finished high school. Word around the mill was he’d had too much fun and didn’t get a certified high school diploma until his mid-twenties. He told me he started smoking and drinking in the 8th grade. He wanted to be cool, so he was.

He knew with his education level that he’d landed a golden ticket at Nucor, so he worked to keep it. He had worked hard for decades. He told me stories of running the mill before there was all the shielding and safety measures in place. He used to have to stand right beside the mill entrance, manning an operator control board, as a strip of steel flew by him at thousands of feet per second. When the mill wrecked, he would have to duck and run for cover, as the jagged metal, with a deafening crashing sound, crumpled and flew through the air all around him. It was dangerous, but he did it day in and day out, 4 on and 4 off swing shift, for years on end.

I laughed and told him he must have some kind of luck to come through all of that unscathed. He nodded his head and said he had plenty of stories like that, but they’d have to wait because he had to pee. I said I’d catch him later. Nodding his agreement, he picked up his hard hat, placed it on his head, opened the door, and then proceeded to begin walking down the bay to the restrooms. My last image of the man is him lighting another cigarette and strolling towards the bathroom.

If something drastic didn’t happen in his life and make him reconsider his relationship with God, then that same man I saw nonchalantly strolling towards the restroom has since lifted up his eyes in hell. With tears streaming from those hard eyes, and guttural screams reverberating through his chest, he has come to the realization he squandered his life. All hope has been lost for him. And I didn’t take the one last chance I had to warn him.

There was an urge to talk to him yesterday morning, but I thought nothing of spiritual implications. I just wanted to check on him and shoot the breeze for a minute. Witnessing to the man never crossed my mind, and I doubt he would have listened to anything I would have said, but now it matters not, because I lost the chance.

I’ve often wondered why when we get to heaven we will cry. Why will God have to wipe tears from our eyes when we are surrounded by eternal peace and beauty and joy? The context of Revelation 21:4 would seem to imply that God is not wiping away tears of joy… so then what would we be so distressed about in the presence of our Savior?

It is my personal belief that, when I see my Jesus face to face, and more fully realize the extent of sacrifice He made for me, I will cry for all the chances I ignored to share The Gospel with others in the time He gave me. I wonder if Tony’s face will flash in my mind even then. I had an opportunity that I ignored. In the end, Tony made his choice for himself, but I didn’t even attempt to dissuade him from running off the side of the cliff. I didn’t take a stand against the life of sin he often glorified and exhibited. I didn’t lovingly call him to task, or ask questions to get his attention. In the time the Lord gave me, I didn’t stand as I should have.

I didn’t know it, but as I left that pulpit, the Lord closed a door in my life. A door to ministry and witness in the life of another man. I could have done better. I should have done better. Why didn’t I do better? If Tony could talk to me now, he would ask me why I didn’t. He would tell me I should have ignored his hard edge and his biting tongue. He would tell me I should have soldiered through my discomfort and told him anyway. I see it in my mind’s eye.

It reminds me of the story of the rich man in Luke 12:16-21. Tony, in an earthly sense, was a very rich man. He had carried a six-figure salary for years and he had a penchant for nice things and a good time. But, sometime yesterday, the Lord required his soul of him. Tragically, it would seem that Tony’s life verse was Luke 12:19. He had no cares or wants. It seemed the grand goal that he was working towards was to sit and smoke weed. Now, he was by no means a deadbeat. He did a lot of “good” in his time here. He provided for his wife and daughters and he held fundraisers for needy families at Christmas. His jokes, although somewhat bawdy at times, put smiles on hundreds of faces. Still, if you look at the big picture, is that enough to consider life well-lived? What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul? Why did I not take the relationship the Lord allowed me to have and use it for His glory? I SAID NOTHING.

I know so many men and women just like Tony. Each of us is a breath away from eternity, and we choose to ignore that fact because it makes it easier to justify a lack of enthusiasm and action for the things of God. Nonbelievers and believers alike suffer from this cancerous mindset. It is a mindset that stiffens the heart and muddies the mind. It paralyzes us towards the commandments of God. It desensitizes us toward the reality that it is eternity.

Who will be the next Tony? Will I allow them to just pass on in the same manner? I have resolved to be intentional with the Holy Spirit. I want the Lord to lay moments on my heart wherein I can point people back to Him. If God can create the opportunity, I want to take it. If God opens the door in other relationships he’s allowed me to build, I want to walk through it. Warning someone of the dangers of eternity is worth a little awkwardness at the moment. Take the chances, for you never know when it’ll be your last.