Every family leaves a legacy of some worth that lasts three or four generations. Sometimes, one good man rises to see the need and wisely chooses his cases. If the man is strong enough in his teaching, then it most likely carries on for a few generations.
What finer thing can be said about a person: “She saw a need, and she helped.”
“He saw the wound and bandaged it back to health.”
My first memories of life were of going by my Dad’s mechanic/ paint garage. We weren’t in town more than monthly to pick up necessities like Crisco, flour, cornmeal, and both sweet milk and buttermilk.
From the earliest days, I sensed that Daddy’s shop was unique. Besides Daddy and my brother, there would be anywhere from four to eight others sitting around and drinking coffee. There were no lively debates, just the common man's common sense.
Once I started driving, I’d stop by at will to discover a think tank of men, educated little or not at all, and high-thinking, powerful men.
They knew the horrors of war, giving them insights many would never have known. And if they didn’t know the Lord, then Daddy began his sermon. Ninety percent of the times I stopped by, the Bible was opened in his hand, being taught with a discernment that only a Godly man can possess.
If he wasn’t preaching to those who are steadfast and world fast, that old King James, Schofield Bible was still no further than a finger’s touch away. I can promise that Ralph Satterfield never had to leave the seat and ask, “Where did I put my Bible?” He always knew.
What a cast of characters sat on that two-step stage in the back of that garage. There were ordinary men from the chewing gum company, auto parts place, the Water Department, or a preacher friend struggling with his Sunday sermon.
“Ralph, help me with this scripture.”
Often, the old-fashioned politician who wanted to make a difference and not just use the office for power was there. Sitting at Ralph’s figurative round table when I stopped by was a collection who would not have become close friends without the connection of Daddy’s business: judges, sheriffs, district attorneys, assistants D.A.s, FBI, and, once, a Secret Service man.
In the way of those times, when there was more concern in helping people rather than crumpling them up and throwing them away, Daddy would broker introductions and explain more about the situation than the court papers told. He’d ask a judge or D.A. to come by the shop.
“This ain’t a bad boy that’s about to come before you. If he’d had any upbringing, there’s no telling what he’d become. He just needs guidance. I’ll happily put my two cents’ worth in on that.”
Much good was done when men, who could have become hardened, became, instead, better men.
I had a similar experience with a man who had been in and out of jail for decades. The public defender told him that he would serve hard this time.
We were there that Sunday when he gave his soul to Jesus. We watched his baptism and saw a new man come up out of that Chestatee River to tell a hard-won testimony frankly.
I wrote the chief judge, asking that the man not be sent back to jail.
“I think it’s his only solid chance at sobriety.”
The judge listened.
“Someone I highly regard doesn’t want you to lose your sobriety. I’ll take that advice. But if you return to this courtroom, I’ll throw the book at you.”
That was years ago, and he is refined, sober, and hard-working. Others before me tried, but he wasn’t ready. Sometimes, it just takes the right person at the right time.
And I have been taught the importance of helping.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free weekly newsletter.