The barber shop, two doors down from Victrola, is owned and operated by a stout, bald, gruff-voiced father and his tall, lanky, handlebar-mustached son. The shop itself is a throwback, complete with a striped pole out front, offering eleven dollar haircuts and a magazine rack stacked with testosterone-laden magazines from Field and Stream to Maxim to Playboy (oddly countercultural in my significantly gay neighborhood).
This morning, their playful banter centered on the father chiding the son for spending all of his money on supporting hookers and other women of ill-repute: bailing them out of jail, caring for them as they tried to get off drugs and off the streets, having them steal from him and run away, only to rescue them. Neither father nor son appeared to know or acknowledge that, even in his brokenness, the son is living out the heart of God, walking in the footsteps of Hosea— a path of only tragedy without the gospel.
He is telling His story, our story, everywhere.