Early
one morning in March of this year, I woke up from a half-sleeping
and half-meditating state. I had an appointment to meditate with a
sister at her house in the afternoon. Perhaps it was an occupational
disease of mine to plan everything beforehand. Since it was too early
to have breakfast, I started to meditate, but could not continue after
a while.
Next,
for no particular reason, I went to Victoria Coach Station, where
I stood before the ticket counter with no idea of where I wanted to
go. I looked through the timetable for buses leaving London for towns
and cities throughout Britain, arranged alphabetically from A to Z.
After going through it many times, my eyes became fixed on "Nottingham."
I then walked to the counter, bought a ticket and canceled my meditation
appointment without giving the sister a good reason.
The
journey to Nottingham took three hours, and after arriving I wandered
through its streets without knowing why I had come to this boring
city. I walked past many shops but did not go inside because I had
no money to spend. Then one shop suddenly drew my attention. I entered
it, and when I climbed to its second floor, two Chinese men walked
towards me. They asked for my help in buying quilts, pillows, and
bedding. After we had finished shopping together, they invited me
to their lodging.
When
we got there, one of the men showed me a piece of paper with an attorney's
name and address on it. He looked worried and embarrassed to ask for
my help again, since we had known each other for only about an hour.
He had to meet the attorney in London the next day. He told me he
had just arrived in Britain and could not speak English, and was worried
that he might not be able to find the lawyer's office. He could not
find anyone to help him either. If he missed this only chance, he
might have problems with his residence permit. It was near closing
time at the ticket counter, so we rushed to the Nottingham Coach Station,
and bought the last ticket just before it closed.
The
following day, I met the man at the Victoria Coach Station in London.
I accompanied him all day until he left by bus in the evening. While
we were waiting for the bus, I asked him, "What is your religious
faith?"
"I'm
a Catholic," He replied.
I then
asked, "Do you pray to Jesus for help?"
And the
man answered, "Yes, I pray all the time. Since I left home six
months ago, I have prayed for Jesus' help every minute." Suddenly
his eyes glistened with tears and he asked, "Did Jesus send you
to help me?"
I smiled
and nodded.
A Good Tool for God
