I was born the third child of a pastor, a preacher’s son. I grew up, married my lover, and had four children. Twenty-seven years ago, we had just moved to Jackson to take a new professorship as head of Union’s new 3-D program when we got a knock on our front door. I answered the door and two men stood on our front porch. I knew they were “visiting” as I had done so many times growing up with my dad. One, a tall, big man, with salt and pepper hair, quick to smile and speak, asked if they could come in. I really didn’t have the time, and we were a big family, but I knew the sacred ritual and pushed open the door and let them in. They sat on our couch, questioned us to know us, found common ground in our Savior, he a pastor, me a pastor’s son, and he invited us to church. The sacred was done, the King served, and they rose and left. We eventually joined his church, an average size that grew before we left to be big, me often referring to it as “Fort God.” I served as a deacon, received my preaching ordination, and he signed my license. We often saw each other, and he always stopped and spoke, many times putting his arm around my shoulder. He was a big man. He died yesterday. His body is brand new and glorified…he is a bit bigger man now. I never forgot him coming to our door.
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| Dr. Jett. The other man who came was Noble Grace, aptly named. |
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