Jack would always sit near the front. When the service was over, he would amble over to the pastor who had taught that day and begin talking in a low mumble. His brown hair would be tousled, his clothes disheveled, his tie askew. His face would have stubble and his thick glasses would be smudged.
I don't know the diagnosis of Jack's condition, but for the most part his thinking is unfocused and much of the time his speech is a string of disconnected thoughts. Although he's an adult, talking with him is similar to communicating with a child.
Then one Sunday, when Jack came over to me after the service, I saw that his right arm was in a cast and sling. I pointed to the injury. "Did that hurt?" I asked.
Jack glanced at his arm and then at me. He replied in his halting voice: "I come here...and hear...about Jesus...and I think about...all the pain...he went through...for me...and I think...this was nothing!"
That's when I knew that he understood. "Jack," I said as I reached out to hug him, "that's the most profound thing anyone has said to me for a long time."
I don't know the diagnosis of Jack's condition, but for the most part his thinking is unfocused and much of the time his speech is a string of disconnected thoughts. Although he's an adult, talking with him is similar to communicating with a child.
Then one Sunday, when Jack came over to me after the service, I saw that his right arm was in a cast and sling. I pointed to the injury. "Did that hurt?" I asked.
Jack glanced at his arm and then at me. He replied in his halting voice: "I come here...and hear...about Jesus...and I think about...all the pain...he went through...for me...and I think...this was nothing!"
That's when I knew that he understood. "Jack," I said as I reached out to hug him, "that's the most profound thing anyone has said to me for a long time."
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