Grapevine

Picking up Juice meant leaving Los Angeles and venturing through the steep Tahachapi Mountains of the Grapevine. The adventure happened during the cool of night not only to avoid traffic, but to converge into the stream of white light towards the produce that feeds the world. The pace seen from behind blurs like afterburners increasing the thrust to trust. Handling the covert mission would require a weekender to Portland, Oregon. The words of affirmation were delivered to me by Rick the firefighter while attending Luis Palau’s Next Generation Alliance Conference. Inside the hardcover journal I wrote what he said, “You’re Special Ops now.”

The mile markers seemed to pass faster during the climbing ascents and coasting descents; the long road means lending a hand. Pensive thoughts leave a trail from Los Angeles to Bakersfield for the purpose to prevail. Leaving the California State Route 99, for the destination point with Juice, took me down dusty brown streets off Highway 58. Lost souls wander the wide and long streets for a fix like farm trucks awaiting the next haul on the heavy-duty hitch. Diesel fuel tanking through their veins shifts their mechanical bodies day and night. Fight to stay awake, durably wandering between pick-ups and stations. It’s much safer once you’re inside. The freightliners rumble now and continue past daylight. Working the land by hand could make you humble while others grumble, “He takes in sinners and eats meals with them, treating them like old friends.” Trigger my led foot to act on what others would frown upon. There’s only One who wears the crown.

Jesus said, “Suppose one of you had a hundred sheep and lost one. Wouldn’t you leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the lost one until you found it? When found, you can be sure you would put it across your shoulders, rejoicing, and when you got home call in your friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Celebrate with me! I’ve found my lost sheep!’ Count on it—there’s more joy in heaven over one sinner’s rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue.”

The wooden steps I shuffled up in the wee hours of the night led to a meager apartment supported by earnings from McDonalds. It was home to his family. The thought occurred to me as we walked down the wooden steps like the sound of hooves in a horse stable. Take a portrait of Juice and Leilani on the staircase. We all had four eyes.

The blinding brightness of the external flash caused dogs to bark and neighbors to peak behind their curtains. The adjustments to the placement of the camera made the framework perfect. At the top of the staircase is Juice’s freshly braided hair is closely woven together like Leilani’s hands holding her father’s hands. She’s placed between his blue jeans with a concord grape colored shirt. She is the fruit of his line. A gift from the Vine puts his hands to work. A harvester in the furrows’ rows provides baskets full of labor for the family to grow.