Chasing Intimacy

Chapter 1

The Chase

It was a clear, crisp morning as I walked out the back door of the Royal Oak Police Headquarters. I was assigned squad car 802 that morning. It was Sunday morning, and most often, it would be a quiet morning with maybe a report or two. Sundays were a special day for me since I usually would tune in to my favorite preachers on the AM radio in my police cruiser. Since I usually rode alone, the radio choices were up to me. I liked riding alone, and most of my fellow officers preferred it that way—that is, me riding alone—since I had become a Christian. My brothers in blue had a hard time accepting my newly found Christian faith, and truthfully, they didn’t want to know much about it. I guess I was partially responsible since I kind of shoved it down their throats, but it wasn’t intentional. I found myself being quite enthusiastic about my faith in Christ, and I lived it openly. I guess their real beef was that I didn’t seem to fit in anymore with the guys, and they were right. Living in Christ makes one seem as though fitting in is impossible—except with other Christians.

The restaurant that morning wasn’t too busy. The church crowd hadn’t arrived yet, and I really preferred it that way. I didn’t like to sit in a crowded restaurant wearing my uniform because people always seemed to gawk at me. Most uniformed police officers experience “fishbowlitis” wherever they are, especially in restaurants.

During my coffee breaks, I would usually sit at the counter and read my Bible. Perusing through a psalm or reading through a chapter in Proverbs was a great place to start the day. Quite often, in the morning, some street drunk would stumble into the restaurant and sit down next to me. It was always interesting to watch their response when they observed me reading the Bible.

The conversation would go something like this.

“How ya doin’, Officer?”

“Fine,” I would answer. “How are you?”

“Oh, a little rugged, I guess,” he would say as his hands shook.

“Rough night last night?”

He’d then give a half-effort chuckle. He would always glance down at my Bible sitting in front of me on the counter next to my coffee and ask, “Whatcha readin’?”

I would smile and tell him about what I was just reading in my Bible—no matter where I was at—and then I would begin to share my faith with him.

Some of these people would gulp down their coffee, even though it was very hot, toss some coins on the counter, and go away, but some would ask more questions.

As my coffee break ended, I would give them a tract and ask them to consider Christ. I would shake their hands, tell them that God loves them, and say that I hoped to see them again. Some would wag their heads in disbelief as I walked away. Some of the patrons who overheard our conversations would shift about in their seats and look away.

It was time for some of my favorite Sunday-morning preachers to air. Dr. J. Vernon McGee would broadcast his Sunday Sermon, and I didn’t want to miss it. Local station WEXL AM 1430 was tuned in as I called back into service and continued my patrol duties. After a few routine calls—a noise complaint (a dog was barking and disturbing a neighbor who wanted to sleep in because it was Sunday morning), an abandoned auto (I marked the tire for a twenty-four-hour check back), and a larceny report (a man had two hubcaps stolen off his car in his driveway during the night)—it seemed like a typical Sunday tour of duty.

At eleven o’clock every Sunday morning, a local Baptist congregation aired their morning worship service live. I liked to hear the preacher speak since I thought he was a good speaker. He was very articulate and had very thought-provoking messages. Little did I know that day, as I listened to that preacher’s sermon, that God would interweave our lives a bit more personally.

As the preacher was delivering his sermon on the air, a young Black man entered the rear lobby of the church. He asked the ushers standing in the back if they had a phone.

They told him that there was a pay phone downstairs.

He asked if they could loan him twenty cents for a phone call.

They cordially gave it to him, and he thanked them as he walked down the steps to the telephone. Little did the ushers know that he had previously hot-wired the pastor’s car and had it idling in the drive just outside the door.

When he got downstairs, rather than making a phone call, he grabbed an armful of coats off the coatrack next to the pay phone and walked back upstairs. He excused himself, brushing by the ushers and deacons standing by the door, tossed the coats in the back seat of the pastor’s car, and drove away.

One of the deacons who happened to be an auxiliary police officer with our department started to put things mentally together. “That looks like the pastor’s car!” he said.

“Hey, that guy just stole the pastor’s car—and our coats,” one of the ushers said.

“Call the police,” said another.

I was sitting at the light on the corner of Fourth and Main Street. A high-pitched radio tone was transmitted indicating a BOL broadcast (“be on the lookout”) broadcast was about to air. The dispatcher said, “BOL for a late-model Ford, two-tone brown in color, driven by a Black male occupant. Last seen heading southbound on Rochester Road”— radio squelch— “occupant believed to have stolen this vehicle and coats from Central Free Will Baptist Church”—radio squelch— “vehicle may belong to Pastor Milton Worthington.”