Ranger Ron

Salsarita's on Wednesday night. The place is so empty I think it's closed. But there's a couple with a baby inside in a booth and a man with a gray-haired ponytail walking in the door.

I order a burrito with ground beef, hoping the guy behind the counter will get a little heavy-handed with the cheese and the sour cream. The fellow with the ponytail pays and drops a couple of bucks in the tip jar.

When I'm trying to pick a table, I notice the man with the ponytail is sitting by himself like I'm about to do.

"You should sit down to dinner with that guy," I think. He had kind, lonely eyes and was wearing a Texas Rangers hat.

Let's talk for a moment: I can't tell you what the voice of God sounds like. Growing up, I heard these called "promptings," as if God would give you a poke. But as I got older, I realized that's not always God because that "little voice" has told me more than a dozen times to marry someone, and it was never right. So now I don't really listen to that voice.

I sat down by myself. The first table had a wobble, which annoys me to no end. The second one had the wrong light. So I gave in and sat at the table next to the guy. But I didn't say a word to him.

There was a painting of relief work on an Aztec pyramid on the wall. I stared at it.

"Why won't you talk to that guy?"

Let's talk again for a second: I used to listen to that voice because I didn't want to upset God, as if he'd get real disappointed if I didn't interpret a subtle poke right and then do the hard thing I didn't want to do. But as I got older, I realized God talks differently than we talk to ourselves: gentle and subtle are different things.

The man had on a Texas Rangers hat. And I am fluent in sports.

Well, why not.

"You a Texas Rangers fan?" I asked.

He wiped sour cream from his mouth. "Sure am."

"Last year was a good year then."

"Sure was. I was just glad the Astros didn't win it."

"Oh man, aren't we all?"

His name was Ron. He worked construction and was waiting for his ex-wife at a nail appointment, and I was right: he did have kind eyes. He was from Texas and grew up in the hill country but moved into town to play football. Now he's bounced around a bit.

"So you did the ranch thing growing up?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, horses, cattle, everything," he'd finished his tacos by now. I was still working on my burrito (which did, in fact, have a generous amount of sour cream, praise be).

"I actually got hit by a bull last week," he said.

"I'm sorry?" Texans.

"Yep, I swear he snuck up on his tiptoes. I turned around, and there he was. About killed me. I used my shirt to lead him outta there. I still had to finish my work," He smiled at that, a few of his teeth missing right in the spot where a dip of Skoal might sit.

Ron and I had a nice conversation, and neither of us had to eat alone. Then he walked away into the sunset (if he'd had a horse, I'm sure he'd have ridden into it, Texans).

As I walked out, I thought about God's voice.

"I didn't tell you to do that." It felt like a different voice than mine.

"What?"

"You wanted to talk to him."

I guess I did.