Rich Dixon is back.

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We need to pause a bit in Jackson, Mississippi.

By the time we reached Jackson, we’d learned that we couldn’t script the important encounters. Still, I wasn’t prepared for what happened at historic Galloway United Methodist Church in the heart of downtown Jackson.

My cousin Rachel arranged for me to speak twice at her church. Sunday morning, we gathered with a group from several adult Sunday school classes. Sunday evening, we laughed and had a great discussion with a high school youth group – my sweet spot!

The morning group asked great questions and offered lots of encouragement. We met kind, gracious people who seemed to grasp the heart behind our project.

This encounter was familiar and comfortable.

Afterward a lady approached and asked if we’d consider staying in Jackson on Monday morning. She directed the church’s homeless ministry and invited me to speak to their guests.

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Early Monday morning brought a remarkably different audience. Sunday’s group was polished, well dressed, a “typical” church environment. I was shocked that the same room in the same building could attract such radically different gatherings in the space of twenty-four hours.

Sunday we were part of the family. Monday morning as I circulated and introduced myself, I was clearly an outsider.

This was a tough-looking crowd, about how you’d imagine seventy-five guys who spent a cold, hungry, dangerous weekend on the streets. They showed up for a hot meal and a safe place to rest for a few hours. They didn’t expect an old guy and his weird bike.

Suddenly my presentation about a bike ride seemed woefully inadequate. I wasn’t sure I knew how to speak words of comfort to men from a world I couldn’t possibly understand.

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Before I speak, Becky always whispers a little prayer: “Jesus, speak through Rich’s words.”

I promise…you’ll smile when I tell you what happened.

To be continued…