I haven’t been back to the Hill Country Senior Citizens Activity Center since being unceremoniously booted out by the manager three weeks ago. (Read what happened by clicking here.)

But today, I returned.

After getting yelled at and having the door slammed on me by the Center’s manager for talking to her about Jesus I thought it would be wise to wait a week to see what would happen. In the meantime, I tried to arrange a mediation with a common friend, but that never materialized.

I considered my legal options, and thought about having a lawyer send a letter, but changed my mind. A good friend told me, “This is Texas. We try not to use lawyers if we don’t have to. We deal with one another one-on-one.”

So, that was my plan: One-on-one.

I waited one week.

The next week I was on vacation, so I couldn’t make it.

The following week I was sick.

After a 21 day hiatus, (Hey! Didn’t Daniel wrestle in prayer for three weeks before his request was answered?), I arrived at the Seniors Center with two of my friends—as witnesses, just in case.

The whole issue revolved around my handing out Gospel tracts or displaying them for all to see on the table. Should I bring them in? That’s what I’ve always done.

I did.

I put some trillion dollar bills in my vest pocket, and, after sitting down at the table, put a few “Are you a good person?” tracts on my bible—like always.

Then I waited.

There was no hushed silence. No dramatic music swelled in the background. No conspiratorial whispers could be heard. No one averted their eyes.

Spotting the manager, I smiled; it was not returned.

I engulfed my hot chicken-fried chicken and endured a cold shoulder.

An uneasy peace. Detente.

Romans 12:8 says, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.”

And that I will do. But I will not be silent about my Savior.

Ever.