Wilfred the Indian

 

The girls and I just finished running some errands a few Saturdays ago – library, dry cleaners, supermarket, and take-home lunch to eat together watching some shlocky TV – when the doorbell rang. I had some delicious wings all primed to go and was changing into some comfy clothes when the one of the girls yelled, “Dad, there’s someone at the front door. I think it’s a neighbor.”

OK, I thought, wondering why they didn’t address whatever was going on. I peeked out the window, saw one man standing on my porch, and went outside.

“Hello,” the man said. “May I pray with you?”

Uh-oh.

I immediately flashed back to early April. Little One and I drove into town to visit a PC repair shop in search of any hope for my malfunctioning laptop. Parking was tough so I found a spot a few blocks down and we hoofed it over. We passed a Baptist church, which had a dozen members milling about outside, some holding a huge banner, others handing out free donuts in their parking lot.

We were assaulted in a hail of requests to pray for us or for us to pray with them. One thing about Christians down South, they are persistent. I’ve lived the vast majority of my life as a Catholic in the northeast US, where religion is kept firmly indoors solely between close friends and relatives. So I was somewhat unused to the head-on guns-blazing proselytization so common below the Mason Dixon line.

Plus it’s a touchy-feely culture down here, and I don’t like to touch other people’s sweaty hands.

Back to my front porch, and the prayerful man on it.

He introduced himself as Wilfred. He lives about four blocks away and first moved into the neighborhood twenty years ago when the vast surroundings were wild and untamed. Apparently he spends his Saturdays walking the streets ringing random doorbells and, uh, asking people to pray with him.

My guard perked up immediately. I was in no mood for a discussion about personal relationships with Jesus, especially how such a relationship is viewed quite differently in Catholic life as opposed to the Protestant view. While I approach my salvation with Kierkegaardian fear and trembling, I am relatively secure in it, and I go to confession on average every two months. I was in no mood to be steamrollered or sparred with.

To my pleasant surprise, Wilfred did neither. Instead, we had a quite pleasant discussion about what brought us to (or back to) the faith. He told me of his younger life in India. Married with a successful business. Then he got involved in drugs, his marriage failed, his business tanked. In an attempt to kill himself he overdosed but someone found him and brought him to a hospital. In the emergency room, he said matter-of-factly, he heard clearly and distinctly the voice of Jesus Christ commanding him to change his life. Then he lapsed into a coma for several days. At one point he came out and announced to the attending doctors and nurses that they were each individually saved, though he has no memory of this. Eventually he left the hospital and gave his life to Christ, and found his way to Texas, USA.

We chatted for about twenty minutes. I mentioned how my hospital stay nearly fifteen years ago fueled my return. Denominations were discussed where I stated my firm beliefs in the teaching, if not the governance, of the Catholic Church. He emphasized he was currently non-denominational – all and everything focused solely on Jesus – but initially he started out as a Methodist on the other side of the globe. We wrapped up talking about the pros and cons of Texas and our children.

My buffalo wings were getting cold. I told him I enjoyed the conversation, shook his hand wishing him good luck, and told him to stop by next time he found himself back on my block.

But we never prayed together, I realized later that day, thinking back on his initial request. Which is okay, because now I pray for Wilfred every night.