It was a sunny, spring day in 1983. I was a sophomore at the University of Missouri-Rolla. Walking along the Quadrangle, I happened upon a lanky black man seated on a bench. He was dressed in holey, high-water pants, an off-color, formerly white T-shirt, ratty army fatigues jacket, and well-worn tennis shoes, a few sizes too big, with more than just a few toes showing. At his feet was a rumpled, paper grocery sack. In his lap, an open Bible.
I walked by him and wished him a polite “What’s up?” He was quick and eager to respond. . .
“I’ve been jest sittin’ here and prayin’ ‘n aksin’ the Lawd so send someone by to invite me home fo’ dinna and a showa.” Through the thick drawl, it was clear– He caught me and there was no escape. I agreed.
Robert Taylor was down-on-his-luck, illiterate, homeless. He sat in my sparsely furnished college basement apartment later that day and began to tell me his story:
“The Lawd is a teachin’ me to read and He’s a teachin’ me to write.”
He opened his tattered Bible and began “reading” out loud. Not the words on the page in front of him but rather memorized Scripture from elsewhere in the Bible. He then reached into his rumpled, grocery sack and pulled out a dog-eared spiral notebook. The first page had the child-like printed scrawl of the same repeated sentence over and over again: “I love God.” The next page was the repeated sentence: “God loves I.” The next page: “Africa loves God.” And the next page, “God loves Africa.” The letters were printed mimicking his Bible’s font—e.g. the a’s and g’s were written to resemble the actual printed font as opposed to typical hand-written letters.
His simple dinner and shower turned into an extended three-week stay. One evening, he was cooking dinner. Pork chops. The chops were sizzling in the pan and Robert was preaching, his bible in one hand, wildly swinging the the grease-coated spatula back and forth with the other. Pointing at me with the greasy utensil, he exclaimed:
“Yo Christians grab yo perty Bible and goes to church. Yo comes home and puts it on da shelf. Yo picks up yo perty Bible and goes to Bible study or Wednesday night church. And yo comes home and puts it on da shelf. And yo does it all da time, ovah and ovah, week after week!”
And with tears streaming down his dark cheeks, he continued, still pointing the greasy spatula at me. . .
“But you know what bugs me? Yo Christians don’t know da Word. And you know what REALLY bugs me? YO can read and YO can write!” He began to cry bitterly, slumping to his knees, clutching his old tattered Bible.
Sinking into the couch, I felt pretty small.
Conviction.
Robert left without so much as a good bye a few days later.
Dash Stories 