Visiting a different church this morning, we were approached in our pew by a greeter. After his welcome and a bit of small talk, I asked his name. When he told us, we asked if he were related to a Blackwell family by that name. Turns out he was, and before I knew it, my husband, who knew practically everyone in his old hometown, was matching him with family members he had known.
When the greeter mentioned "Uncle Jack," Howard asked, "Jack, of Jack's Bicycle Shop?" It was the same man, who had been disabled and rode around town on a modified, scooter platform of some sort. "We used to take our bicycles to him!" he said.
"Once my older brother had something on his bike that needed to be repaired, and my mother told Jack to fix whatever was wrong with it," he reminisced. Then with a guffaw, he recalled, "And he did just that! Fixing things we didn't even know needed fixing. He even gave the bike a new paint job!" It seems his mother was presented with an astronomical bill!
"Do you remember 'Aunt Judy?' my husband asked the man, who looked thoughtful, but shook his head. He'd been born in Tulsa and was of a younger generation. "Everybody knew Aunt Judy," Howard went on. "She would welcome all the little kids into her house, give us candy and hug and kiss us. My friend took me there once."
Expanding on these memories at the Sunday dinner table, Howard brought up "Corn Cob Bill," another local character. "He did all the odd, dirty jobs around town," he explained. "My dad would get him to dig the garden or clean the chicken pen."
He continued by saying that the eccentric figure wore multiple layers of clothing, winter or summer, and was reputed to carry a lot of cash. Sure enough, once he was taken to the hospital where emergency workers had to peel off layers of clothes and found them stuffed with wrinkled and wadded currency. I told Howard he should write a book.
Every town has its characters, usually sad souls who are highly visible as they walk the streets, but others seemingly having not a care in the world, just living their own lives in their own way. When we lived near the Gulf Coast in Mississippi, we were involved in a beach ministry to the homeless and indigent who gathered there. Many were highly intelligent people, even former professionals, who had dropped out of society for one reason or another.
They welcomed the love, food and worship services they found in the casual, accepting atmosphere. Howard describes it as one of the most rewarding times of his ministry there, second only to ministering to the victims of hurricane Katrina. No one turned us away as we visited the FEMA trailers, often perched on slabs of the owners' former homes, bringing food, supplies and always, prayer. In many ways, we are to be our brother's keeper.
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