Oh, I know, all the Christian media people and recording artists are airbrushed and perfect. And I know God uses them to varying degrees. But I'm convinced there's two worlds running here - the one we see in glamorous Christian magazines and on TV and in flash-and-pop exciting Christian concerts , and the other one where most of the work gets done through ordinary people whose hearts are sold out to Jesus. I've met a lot of them, and they're not remarkable in their appearance or gifts, but they are remarkable - and shaming - in their commitment, in their determination, in their love. Like Reverend Glenn, a hulk of a guy who was my pastor, an Okie who got stuck in a little hippie community to preach Jesus. Not remarkable. Just astonishing, as is his wife Frankie, in their relentless dedication to whatever God put in front of them to do. Or Lauren, who best describes to me the scripture "of whom the world is not worthy" - she is not remarkable in her occupation nor her community- but to me, and countless people I know, she is one of the most loving, Jesus-like people I know, who is given totally to intercession for the hurting - that is, when she's not buying out card stores to continue to encourage, love and counsel by mail those God has given her to love. Not remarkable - just more like what I know the true ministry of our Lord to be like than about anything I've ever seen. In the end, the biggest reward on judgment day will likely go to a little old black maid who did nothing but care for people and pray them into the Kingdom of God.

While at Bible School, I met some great men and women of God. I heard dozens of them speak. Frankly, very few of them made a big impression on me personally. I can't tell you what any of them said, really. I do remember a grown up preacher's kid speaking about what a hell his life had been - not a very "positive" message for a school that specialized in speakers with miracle ministries - but as he talked of once beating his head against the wall just because he was so lonely, I heard a man who spoke to my heart...to my hurt. I cried through his whole message about hope and healing. Then I sought him out, and he took time to pray with me, make me feel I was worth something. Him, I'll never forget. Not remarkable - just real.

My first glimpse of God's "hidden treasures" came during that time at school. It began with watching a deaf boy from Columbia talking to a friend in sign language. The next day, I saw them praying for him to get healed. He didn't. It broke my heart, and suddenly I was absolutely consumed with the desire to learn sign language so I could talk to him, be a friend to him. His name was Rodrigo, and he had a friend also from Columbia, Leonardo. I asked someone to teach me, but ended up instead with just a book to teach myself. I studied every spare moment.

My heart burned to learn. I wasn't even sure why. One day, I walked into the school auditorium after classes, and from the balcony, I watched about 15 kids, hands all in motion, signing to a canned song on a tape. "Here am I, there are you...searching the universe to find the truth..." In front of the kids were two ladies too far for me to see clearly, but they were obviously the directors of this little group. I sat for an hour, cold chills the whole time, listening and watching. After it was over, I shyly approached the choir leaders. "Yes, hon?", said the one middle aged lady in a thick east Texas drawl. "I was watching you", I said quietly. "Can people join the choir?" Now I had the others' attention. They looked at each other, then at me. "We're having a party for the deaf tomorrow", the tall one said. "At Dave & May Sheriff's. Why don't you come if you can and we'll talk to you there." "Sure", I said, not really sure at all they would want me.

I slipped into the nearest corner shortly after arriving, and stayed there, hoping they would all ignore me. As always, I felt out of place, a misfit. So I quietly slipped into my own world, strumming worship songs and whatever else came to mind. Who knows how much later, I noticed everything got very quiet, and as I looked up, I saw these two ladies staring at me, and so were all the other choir folks. "Go ahead", the shorter one said. "We want to hear." So I played, and I sang. The shorter one looked at the taller one, looked at their arms and the goosebumps they were getting, and said, "That's him." Him what, what did I do? Great, Reid - they think you stole something or worse. "Hon, can you come to practice tomorrow?" I grinned. "I sure can!" I didn't understand what they were doing, but I wanted to be part of whatever this was.

That began my year long adventure with the Signs of Love choir, as signer and sometimes song soloist. We performed for small groups and medium ones at churches. But it's the rehearsals I remember most. We began with prayer. Not just church prayer, but deep, heart prayers, often tear and intercession prayers. I saw the heart of these two ladies so clear - Claudette, the shorter one, full of fire and love and passion - Rosemary, the tall one, the practical one, deeply compassionate and visionary - they were a team unlike anything I'd seen until then - or since.

It was a terribly difficult work. Because the school at the time believed all those afflicted should be healed, they only grudgingly supported this mission in the beginning. They gave us a small room to practice in, which was frequently moved to another smaller one, and they were given enough gas money to drive the 75 miles from Denison, Texas to Dallas - and sometimes not enough to get back. Three times a week and perhaps more, these dear ladies came to the school to teach us, train us, pray with us, love us. No problem was too small to escape their tender care. They always had time for those problems, and if practice had to be put off for a good prayer session for one of us, well, to them, that was just as important. We all felt like royalty in our Father's house with them.

One day I walked into their little room early. They didn't hear me. Claudette was crying, broken. "Why, Rosemary?", she sobbed. "I don't understand! Why don't they see? I don't know if I can take this much longer!" Rosemary cried with her. I finally made myself known, and rather than put on a brave face, they took me into their circle of confidence and told me what was going on.

Rosemary spoke. "The Lord told us someone would be coming to campus soon. The Lord has chosen him to take the choir, and he will take it around the world. We've got to give it to him and our time will be over." All three of us cried. Yet I wasn't willing to let them go, and I protested. "How can you do that?", I objected. "You've poured your life into this choir! It's you're vision, YOUR ministry!" Claudette smiled through the tears and took my hand. "Hon, it's the Lord's will, and it's his work", she said quietly. "It's the way of the Pioneer. There's those who build the roads. Then there's those who ride on it. The ones who ride it never know the blood and tears that went into it being such a smooth road. That was our job. The road's finished. Our work is done."

I stayed in touch with Claudette and Rosemary, and the Lord opened up new arenas of work for them in Dennison, Texas. I visited them often. They always had time for me, and prayers, and love. They may have been a distant memory to those who didn't know them, but for those of us who were taken into their circle of tender care, they were heroes, pioneers, and mentors. They still are.

In 17 years of ministry, I too have been a pioneer of sorts. I have started things, and the Lord has moved me on before I ever saw the full fruit of what I had labored to see grow. I helped start a counseling organization which began so small it was barely a dream, but soon skyrocketed into a major force - at which time I was moved on. I recently saw one of the new directors of this group. I was with a friend who knew him and had known me from the beginning. "He's one of the founding fathers of this work", my friend said proudly, and the man just chuckled, as if to say, "Him? Right. Tell me another one." I don't fit the corporate profile. Roadbuilders seldom do. It's all sweatwork. Can you imagine Iacocca addressing a convention all sweaty in blue jeans and workshirt? At first, the man's reaction hurt, but just for a moment, because I remembered Claudette and Rosemary's words: There's those who build the roads, then there's those who ride on it. Those that ride it never know the blood and sweat that make it such a smooth road. And I was at peace. Through the example of these two saints of God, I learned the way of the Pioneer. "I must decrease, but He must increase." After all, does it matter that our names are on the roadsign? Only that it is a life-giving, good road.

Being a sometime public person, I understand the fickleness of human nature, that you can be loved one day and vilified the next. No matter. I understand that the very people that may praise you till you blush one moment are ready with knife in hand to mutilate you when you do not meet their expectations. No matter. Because here too, I have carried the words of these two very unlikely, ordinary warriors in His work: "Play for the coach, hon, not for the crowds." What does it matter if you are loved or hated? Wasn't Jesus hated by most? All He did was love, tell the truth and heal, and for this He was killed. Why should I care one bit about my popularity? Only that I would obey no matter what the cost. The Head Coach's opinion is all that matters in the end.