I asked for a volunteer during one of our speaking engagements in a church last week. Rimmy’s* hand shot up.
“I’ll do it!” he smiled.
“C’mon up,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Rimmy,” he said in a thick Southern accent. His dark brown hair stuck out in three directions. His long, teenage arms stuck in the pockets of his jeans.
I smiled. My mom’s whole side of the family is from Arkansas and I love to hear the drawl.
Rimmy, 13, rail-thin, but tall and proud, helped me demonstrate the proper way to wear a Sudanese turban.
Everyone clapped and he returned to his seat.
Following our presentation, the group invited us to join them for lunch. Rimmy pointed us to the room where we’d be eating.
“There’s good food waitin’ for ya!” he exclaimed. He motioned for us to go ahead and start the line.
Later as I sat at a table with a mouth full of BBQ, a lady next to me began talking about Rimmy.
“He’s basically homeless. His mom’s on drugs. He’s pretty much left to his own. We all try to keep an eye on him as we can. Since he started coming to church, he’s here all the time. He doesn’t know much about how to do church except to praise Jesus.”
Her words stopped me in my tracks. I felt a lump forming in my throat.
This young man who had seen so much in his life…too much…greeted me warmly, participated when asked, showed me where to be fed and praised God with his whole heart. Rimmy knew more about the meaning of church than most.
These dear people had welcomed him, loved him, fed him, taught him and he was now demonstrating what he had learned.
I looked over at him. He was laughing through a mouthful of cake.
I breathed a prayer for him and asked God to give me fresh eyes for the Rimmys in my path today. They have much to teach me.
*Not his real name
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