Yep, that’s his real name. Nothing in this story was changed to protect the innocent. Besides, Henry was not innocent.
He was one of the “frequent fliers” at our police department. That’s cop jargon for someone who has to be dealt with over and over.
I arrested Henry many times. He was usually intoxicated and sometimes mean. The last time I arrested him he was lying on a sidewalk . . . drunk . . . in the middle of the day. He had arrest warrants.
On the way to jail Henry went into mean mode. He screamed profanities at me, ridiculed me, and threatened to kill me and my family. I gladly turned him over to the deputies at the booking desk.
Soon after that, I was appointed chief of police in a smaller city about a half hour away. I was excited to be in my new role, and happy to be away from Henry.
Or so I thought.
The Impression
A few months later one of our patrol officers reported that Henry had just moved to town with Kenny, another chronic alcoholic who had once shot and killed a man in a bar fight. Their arrival and misdeeds came to the police department’s attention almost immediately. I was, to borrow a biblical expression, “sore displeased.”
My role as police chief came with many blessings, though. One of those was being invited to speak to a Christian youth group about alcohol and drugs. I eagerly accepted the invitation.
As I was preparing my message, I felt a strong and very uncomfortable impression. I told my wife I felt God was calling me to broaden my presentation and to have Henry and Kenny assist me. As I said it aloud it sounded ridiculous.
I was convinced it was a bad idea, but the impression was strong. I prayed about it, hoping I was misinterpreting some divine signal. But the prompting didn’t subside.
I decided I would leave for the church a half hour early and stop by Henry and Kenny’s place. They probably would not be home. If they were home, they would surely be inebriated. And they certainly would want nothing to do with helping the police chief talk to teens about alcohol and drugs. I figured that with a little luck I’d be arriving at the church alone.
Henry taught one very reluctant police chief to trust God’s call—even when it seems ridiculous.
Luck, though, has no role in God’s will.
Henry and Kenny were home. They weren’t drunk, although they did have alcohol on their breath. Oh, boy. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. “You guys want to make 20 bucks?” I asked.
They were every bit as uncomfortable as I was—wary of the man at their door in a police uniform asking for help. But they said yes.
The Impact
We rode together in my unmarked squad car somewhat awkwardly—they asking dozens of questions, and I trying to gain assurances that this wasn’t going to get out of hand.
I was welcomed as the speaker, and I introduced Henry and Kenny as my helpers. I did not sugarcoat my affiliation with the pair, even describing my last arrest of Henry. He had no memory of it. Then, still fearing the outcome, I asked them, “Would you say alcohol has had a negative effect on your lives?”
Henry reached for the microphone I had been controlling. I yielded to God and let it go. Henry bowed his head as if in prayer. He spoke slowly in a voice coarsened by years of self-abuse. “I’m a chronic alcoholic. The doctor says if I don’t stop drinking I’ll be dead in a year.” He paused. “And I can’t stop.”
The room, full of boisterous teens and preteens, went dead silent. Every eye was on Henry. He went on to tell them of the horrible experiences he had had because of his affair with alcohol. He told of passing out under picnic tables in parks and waking up to find his clothes frozen to the ground. He’d been abandoned by friends; a girlfriend died of an overdose. He spoke of losing control of his bowels and how people wouldn’t come near him because of his awful stench. He held nothing back.
When it was Kenny’s turn, he told of the deadly altercation he had been involved in. With insight and clarity he told his listeners that no part of that awful night would ever have occurred if not for alcohol. He had so many regrets. Henry and Kenny both begged, genuinely, for the young people never to start down alcohol’s path. Their raw message was: “Don’t be us.”
I can’t count the number of presentations and articles I have delivered on the topic of temperance. But I never impacted an audience with the surgical effectiveness that those two precious scoundrels achieved.
They earned their $20. They may have spent it on beer—I don’t know. But they taught some young people important, gritty lessons about the consequences of life choices. And Henry taught one very reluctant police chief to trust God’s call—even when it seems ridiculous.
