We're huge track & field fans, my dad a former coach; my sister and I former distance champions.
We strolled a lawn near the Olympic village and pondered how to spend a couple hours before our evening session in Olympic Stadium. Suddenly, my dad held up a hand and said, "do you hear that?" Some Peruvian flute music drifted above the multi-lingual conversations swirling about us. Sure, we heard it, there was a stage across the mall and down a flight of stairs. We made our way through the throng until we were close enough to see the smiling, brown-skinned band of musicians - still quite a ways off. "I know those guys!" my dad exclaimed.
My sister and I exchanged a glance.
"Dad, there are dozens of bands like that," I explained. And indeed, in the Midwest we frequently enjoy this ubiquitous brand of music at the many summer festivals and craft fairs. Long pony tails, pan flutes, guitars and a portable sound system. Standard fare.
But my 69 year-old dad was already making a beeline for the band.
Even cloaked in the anonymity of the Olympic setting, my sister and I smiled weakly.
"Oh dad..." but we followed gamely after him, wondering what he intended to do and whether we'd somehow have to endure every child's public spectacle-phobia for a parent drawing unwanted attention.
Then something marvelous happened.
To this day, I would not have believed it, had I not seen it for myself.
From our vantage point on the stairs, we watched my dad cross the final yards to the stage.
"Oh no," I muttered, "he's walking right up to the stage."
And then, as we watched in slow motion, first one, and then another of the band nudged each other, obviously recognizing my dad, and with big smiles - even as they kept playing - gave friendly nods of welcome; seeming quite pleased to have him their to appreciate their big Olympic moment. And there he stood, so sincerely enjoying their music that he had no idea that hundreds of people were asking themselves - "who is that gentleman so well known by the band...?"
"How in the world..." my sister asked incredulously.
As it turned out, this was the same group that my dad had seen many times in the Central Wisconsin fairs and festivals he loves so much. And, typical of my dad, he had taken the time to say hello, compliment their music, and then renew the acquaintance on more than one occasion. And on that day in Atlanta, they rewarded his friendship.
Three things stick with me from that Olympic moment.
1. My dad is one of the most fascinating, beloved persons I have ever met.
2. We can, in fact, recognize the voice of our Shepherd, Jesus -- even in the craziness of this world and all its noisy, frenetic distractions. We can hold up our hand and say, "Do you hear that?" And recognize the Word of God, even the Truth. Then walk towards it to be greeted with the warmth of friendship and acceptance.
3. It isn't at all difficult to believe that the Apostle Paul - with all the other disciples of Jesus - could have made their way through the cities of the first century and connected on a personal level with almost every inhabitant. Imagine someone strolling through Olympia in 68 A.D, centuries after the first Olympics, hearing a voice loudly proclaiming Jesus in the public square. Maybe a returning traveler turned to their family to say..."I know that man." Sure, their companions might have just rolled their eyes and cringed - like my sister and I did.
Or maybe....
What do you believe?
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