James

We used to go to church once a month. On our first Sunday back after almost two months, this guy, James, passed out little purple flowers to everyone in the congregation. They smelled fresh, as he held them in a big clenched fist. He came by and said, “God bless,” as he passed me two tiny petunias. His dark hair was shaved close, and his feet were naked. He was new to me, but I instantly appreciated his energy.
During the singing, James stood in the back, alone—not near a seat. He kept his eyes closed and he rarely looked around, as he swayed and worshiped with the music. From time to time he raised both hands to heaven and cried out to God.
At the end of the service, the pianist played “Amazing Grace,” and the congregation sang accordingly. Instantly James made his way to the altar in front of the people. He hit his knees and sobbed louder and harder than I’ve ever heard anyone. All the kids in the building peeked from behind parents’ legs and arm chairs, shocked by the raw display of emotion.
I remembered the story of the man who wrote Amazing Grace. Until he came to God, he was the worst of the worst kind of man. He admitted to the most atrocious acts, and he wrote the song about himself, “a wretch like me.”