Ernest came into our lives when he panhandled outside the
Georgia Pacific building downtown. Herb would try to help him out when he saw
him. At first food only, never money. Because in our white, suburban eyes, people who said they were hungry
but would only accept money were suspect. But whether it was a hamburger or a pair of socks Ernest was
always pleased, always happy.
After Wayne Gordon preached a message at Perimeter Church
entitled, “Who Is My Neighbor?” Herb and I looked at each other and felt a tug
from God. A call to minister to people in a depth of poverty we could not
understand. Not knowing what to do and not ready to move the ghetto as Gordon
had done, we felt stuck.
Then Ernest was laid heavily on our hearts. We may not be
ready to help change a city, but there is a person we know of who could use
help. We drove downtown and sought him out, unsuccessfully at first. Then he
reappeared outside Turner Field after a Braves game. He lived in a
dirt-floor room with no running water just a block away from that temple to
baseball, at which I have been known to worship.
Over the years, we befriended him and his common-law wife
Denise, visited him in his home, and helped meet immediate needs whether it was
clothing or food or rent money. Or just a hug. Always a hug. We also prayed for him, took him to church, and
reiterated to him that even in his circumstances there was a God who loved him
and Savior who died for him and had a plan for his life.
He had family in Cincinnati he hadn’t seen in decades. We
encouraged him to get in touch with them. To go back. To reconcile. He was
sober now and had been for years. And although he was old, he was physically
able to make the trip. But he was practically homeless, had no teeth, a bad
knee and a bad heart, no identification, and no opportunity to bathe or wash
clothes regularly. He wasn’t ready. Sometimes the devil that you know wins.
But not long after Denise’s death, God changed his heart and
his mind. He asked if the offer to help get him back to Cincinnati still stood.
“Yes, brother! You bet it does!”
We located his family and made sure they were ready to
receive him back and understood his situation. We reached out to our friends
and family and total strangers. Through the generosity of many, we were able to
help him regain some of the dignity that alcohol and illness and poverty had taken
from him. A new set of dentures. A new pair of glasses. New clothes. A haircut. A few days living in
our home getting cleaned up and fed and loved on. A neighborhood party and a
trip to the zoo. And then … he was ready to go home.
We took Ernest to the Greyhound bus station on May 23, 2009. It was early in the morning, and the boys went in their PJs. (Again, no pretense or self-consciousness. God love 'em.) But by the end of the day, he was home with his family, celebrating. Over the next
5 years, he reconciled with his wife — the mother of his children — and got to
hold his grandkids. He lived in an apartment with his mother. He was able to
re-establish his identity and get the Social Security benefits he needed. We
kept in touch, and it was always a joy to hear his voice on the other end of
the phone line. We were so blessed to know that he lived his final years in
relative peace and comfort.
Ernest crossed over Jordan on Thursday. We know that he is
walking without pain, basking in the glory of a Savior who never gave up on
him. We grieve that we never made it up to Cincinnati to see him again. But we
are grateful that God used us in his life … but more importantly used him in
ours. To open our eyes to a side of life — and a side of Atlanta — that we
didn’t know and couldn’t understand without walking alongside someone who lived
and breathed it.
Thank you, Ernest. Rest in peace, brother, until we meet again.
Heartwarming story.
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