I guess I never really thought of it like that.
I mean, I always knew what the story meant.
And I’ve always seen myself in various characters at various times.
Usually, I’d be the priest or the Levite that walks around the wounded.
But on few, precious few, occasions, I’d be the Samaritan.

And that’s incredibly shallow.

Especially when more times than not, I’m the guy beaten and bloodied.

So many times I’ve lost my way.
I’ve gone down roads that were just stupid.
And unsafe.
Sometimes without really knowing any better.
Sometimes intentionally putting myself in harms way.
And on most of these occasions, I’ve been robbed.

Robbed of my strength.
Robbed of my integrity.
Robbed of my passion.
And yes, robbed of my faith.

Yet, as I lay there hurting, too weak to get up, people have come.
There have been more people than I can possibly name.
People that really barely knew me reaching out to me.
People welcoming me into their circles.
People inviting me to their churches.
People calling me just to hang out.
People believing in me, and making it well known.

So, to all the Samaritans in my life…
You know who you are.
You know the impact you’ve had on me.
You know that friendship can lead to discipleship.
And you know that I love you.

Each and every one of you.


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