There is a man named John. He is an older man. Gray hair. Happy wrinkles by his eyes. He hadn't walked with the men who serve Sunday communion, not for the little more than two years I'd attended the church. John was the last man in line as the group walked down the aisle, which gave him the center seat in the front row, on the left side. His gait was a bit wobbly, but his enthusiasm was contagious. He sat at the same time as the other men, all donned in Sunday suits, and listened as the pastor spoke. At the correct moment, John struggled to stand. The man to his left grabbed hold of John's arm and helped. The pastor handed each man a tray. He stopped when facing John, and whispered. From the look on Pastor's face, I assumed it was words of encouragement. John took the tray and waited for Pastor to sit. The other men fanned out, serving the people with their trays. John served the Pastor, looked at the other men then did as they did, serving th...
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