By Don Graves
Special to the EAN
It was the week after Christmas at the height of the 1960s racial tension. I was a student at Samford University. From time to time some of us did nighttime street witnessing in downtown Birmingham. Seldom was the scenario the same as each encounter presented its own challenge.
On this occasion I wandered onto one of the “off” streets. People were everywhere, a little undisciplined, but not out of control. They were running back and forth with a loud “in your face” attitude. Shouting slogans, creating chaos. No violence, but just making strange demands!
The noise makers slowly, finally, moved out of sight … with the exception of one man.
A large, muscular, imposing, black man. He sat quietly on the curb about midway down the block. Both legs had been amputated above his knees. I kept my distance, walking slowly behind him … back and forth, forth and back. His physical disability reached out and grabbed me. I was certain he was a candidate for the Gospel.
Suddenly, his booming bass voice rang out “Young man, tell me what it is you’ve got on your mind. Come over here and sit with me for a few minutes.”
Wow! An open invitation … personally offered! I felt strangely safe and protected as I sat down slowly and shared the Gospel with him. I felt rather ashamed because of his response. He relaxed, asking questions, and giving affirmation.
When I extended the invitation to receive Christ as his Lord, he burst forth with large and loud laughter. “Thank you, child, but I took care of that long ago. I sat right here many nights to do what you’re doing right now.”
He pointed to a car parked directly across the street. “That’s my wife sitting in the car keeping watch over me … because of these,” he said, pointing to what remained of his legs. “She never takes her eyes off of me. She stays ready to protect me should I be threatened in any way.”
We talked well into the night, sharing our Jesus stories, unaware that the shouting had stopped and the bold threats had faded away.
Suddenly, we were alone, sitting on the curb of a troubled street. New brothers, sharing the Joys of the Lord, amplified by the sudden and strange “goosebump” moment of this deserted war zone. He turned toward me with a huge smile on his face, humming, then booming out his beautiful bass voice the words of “Silent night, Holy night, all is calm, all is bright .. “.
I left to find my car with those words echoing through everything about me. I looked back and he was gone.
Don Graves grew up in Holtville, Alabama and today lives in Childersburg.
