No. 204 - A Gentle Knock

It was ten years ago, thereabouts, early in the morning. I was parked outside Peachtree Presbyterian in Atlanta. I can't remember why I was there—wish I could, but my memory doesn't serve me.

As I sat in my car, I heard a gentle knock on the window—it didn't even startle me. I rolled my window down to see an old man with handsome grey hair, a cable-knit green sweater, and the collar of a smart-looking plaid shirt.

His smile was trustworthy. He looked like someone’s wealthy grandfather: dignified, warm, with piercing eyes. He asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I didn't think twice when I answered, "Yes, sir."

We walked the grounds of the church, talking about our lives and our relationship with Christ. I trusted this stranger enough to confide that I was living a decadent life; he seemed to understand my vices.

Over the next several years I saw him weekly at men's Bible study. We'd meet for lunch at the old Henri's, attend a men's weekend at Callaway Gardens, and talk on the phone.

I was eventually baptized by Ken Boa in the backyard of a Tuxedo Park mansion, all because of my run-in with this man.

A few days ago I got a message from a mutual friend who told me Henry was going to die. He had fallen, hit his head, and was in the intensive care unit at Piedmont Hospital.

I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I visited him. He wasn't responsive but was surrounded by family. His granddaughter sat by his side with tears in her eyes.

I thanked him for being in my life and told him I loved him. He died later that night. Henry Wood was 84 years old.

*Composed, Edited, and Published at Whatley Wines in Fredericksburg, TX