John A. Wilson

 

I turned seven the summer my family moved to Springfield.  We immediately began church-hunting.  We stumbled across this rather large church; First Christian Church.  Mom wasn’t sure about it.  She didn’t think a large church could make you feel welcomed or “at-home”.

But my sister and I begged to differ.  Because the phenomenal children’s department cuddled us right in.  We were “at home” immediately.

Every Sunday became a battle.  We would visit a different church, then return to FCC the following Sunday.  Our parents were eventually won over too, mostly by a certain gregarious white-haired man with a contagious smile.

I was absolutely starry-eyed over Mr. Wilson.  He looked so old, but he acted so young.  He took my sister and me out to lunch, all by ourselves—without our parents! And he talked to us the whole time, just like we were real people who counted.  He marveled over my dimples, taking every opportunity to stick his fingers in my cheek-holes.

I knew that when I got baptized, he would wear his white overalls, and I would wear a white robe, and we would walk out into the baptismal, and he would pray over me, and I would become a full Christian just like him.  And when I was ten, it happened.  I stood in the doorway, and he was there, in the water, smiling at me, holding out his hand.

Mr. Wilson ushered me into my new life, as he did for countless others, yet I was no number for him.  I was a very special little girl to him.  But I don’t know of any little girl, or little boy for that matter, that wasn’t special to him.

And one day, I stopped him and told him unequivocally, that when I was old enough, I wanted him to be the preacher to marry me and my husband.  I was still just a kid.  And he took my hand, patted it, and told me he didn’t think he’d be around for such an event.

So, after Chris and I got engaged, before we set the date for our wedding, we called Mr. Wilson.  I wanted to make sure he’d “be around” for my wedding.  Not only did he officiate my wedding, but he hung around for nearly nineteen more years.

My children had the privilege of knowing Mr. Wilson, of having lunch with him, and laughing with him.

My husband also grew up knowing Mr. Wilson, but instead of the cute little dimple poke, Mr. Wilson would give him a punch in the ribs!  Ah, well, Chris loved it!

Mr. Wilson passed away yesterday.  He was 100 years old; and eagerly awaiting his arrival to his Father’s house.  He was a singular individual, loved by many.

Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for your life and your legacy.  I will miss you.  You were my first taste of Jesus.  Not just the words of the Bible, but the attitude of the heart and the actions flowing from it.