You know Dargan boy never had much interest in going to church as a youth. I was too busy running, playing and enjoying the nature of trees, honeysuckles, fishing and swimming in the river.
It was almost a holy experience, I thought, just being alive and enjoying my neighbors and happenings in a small town.
But you know, there is always something awaiting you around the bend.
Marie Johnson was a neighbor and jolly lady, great cook and dear friend of my grandmother, Gen. One day while Marie sat in Grandma’s kitchen drinking coffee and chatting, the subject came up about me going to church with her one Sunday.
My grandma, Gen, thought this suggestion wasn’t a bad idea for a “little mischievous” kid; I was around 9 or 10 years old at the time; an agreement was made, and the next Sunday I would go to church with Marie.
I put on my best duds, washed my face, applied some My Knight hair dressing, combed my hair and walked to church with Marie, and she loved to sit on the front row bench.
The preacher was tall, with shiny black hair, and began to speak about bad behavior, and how those who violated God’s words would end up in a deep pit of burning fire.
And as he began to raise his voice and quote scripture, he looked down from the pulpit directly at me. I knew he had heard about some of my mischievous deeds and was “calling me out” by his staring.
I was getting a little warm down here in my seat!
I heard a few “amens” from the church and was ready to leave this house of worship. As the sermon concluded, I made one promise to myself — “I ain’t never going back there again, and I didn’t.
I walked Marie home, stopped for a piece of her delicious peach pie and walked down the path to my house. I told my grandma, “I won’t be going again to that church; that preacher done heard about me.”
Fast forward to 1967, I found myself with the Army and stationed at Long Binh, Vietnam, in war. Uncle Sam permitted his soldiers stationed there to go on leave for a week. My buddy, Clancy, and I decided to fly to Sidney, Australia.
The first night in Sidney I got the most drunk I ever been at a Whiskey A Go Go. The last day there I went to church and listened to an Apostolic Pentecostal preacher tell the story about a lost sheep, and how this holy man went looking for that missing one. He and the churchgoers there treated me very well. Each gave me a hug as I left the church to return to Nam.
Upon my discharge from the Army, I returned home and went to a local church with my wife. A young preacher had replaced the old preacher. I listened to his words, and some of the elderly folk took exception to some of the things he said.
One particular lady had voiced several concerns to the preacher, and there was a little friction between them. Not long afterward, this elderly lady became sick and ended up in the hospital.
I remembered one of those verses, from my Australian visit, about visiting the sick and looking after that lost lamb of the field.
Many folks went to visit the lady in the hospital; others sent cards. The preacher, however, seemed a little reluctant to go to the hospital.
One day, I sort of got up the courage to ask the preacher if he had visited the old lady and he replied “No.” I asked him if he was going to visit one of his sheep.
He was taken back a little and said to me; you don’t know what’s in my heart,and I’m not sure about the nature of your question.
I replied, “I don’t know and can’t see what is in your heart, but I can surely see the direction of your feet. And I heard once about a holy man, in sandals, going to look for one of his lost sheep.”
I think the Preacher man became a little upset with me, and I don’t know, for certain, if he ever did visit the lady in the hospital.
Sometime later, however, he left as the preacher of that tiny church.
I guess the moral of this story is quite simple; people can’t see the inside of one’s heart, but often they sure can see the direction of one’s feet.
Amen.
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