“I’d like to shake your hand”: The unintentional ministry of my friend Henry

His voice took extra strides to reach my ears, nasal and droning, like a playlist pitched down half a step.

“Hi, I’m Henry. What’s your name? I’d like to shake your hand.” 

Throughout my childhood, I didn’t know what to think of Henry when I’d see him at Walnut Grove Assembly of God each Sunday morning. 

“Why can’t he remember my name?” I’d ask myself. 

I’d watch him repeat the same process with others, mostly the fresh faces who had just begun attending.

As for the lifers at Walnut Grove, those who measured their membership in decades and changed my diaper in nursery once upon a time, Henry remembered their names.

Walnut Grove has been my church since I first darkened its doors as an infant in 1996.

Henry has been one of the constants since then. 

For years, I’d enter the sanctuary, spot Henry at the edge of the third row, and wait for it. 

“Hi, what’s your name? I’d like to shake your hand.” 

Taking his limp hand, I’d muster up a respectful squeeze. “Hi Henry, I’m Kevin.” 

“Nice to meet you, Kevin. Did you know it’s communion today? First Sunday of the month, just like always.” 

“That’s right.” 

Growing up, I’d prepare communion with my father each first Sunday of the month in the church kitchen. While I poured grape juice into the cups, Henry would be on his way to Walnut Grove in an ACCESS cab. 

He would usually take his seat in the sanctuary by the time I carried out the trays holding the mini plastic communion cups and wafers. 

He’d shuffle in, his left arm tucked into his chest and his wrist bent almost ninety degrees down.

Taking his spot at the far edge of the third row seats, he’d pull a tithe envelope from a pocket on the back of the chair ahead of him, and pull out a pen.

Swooping scribbles and elliptical swirls of ink imprinted the lines on the envelope designated for name and address. After the makeshift signature, you’d see pennies, nickels, and even a few quarters plunk into the envelope.  

I soon understood Henry had a developmental disorder of some kind.

Before service would start, I’d straddle the seat in front of him and make small talk. The weather. His new haircut (he likes it buzzed down close). Him visiting his sister for Christmas and Easter. 

Yet to this day, he’s no slouch when it comes to certain church routines.

He’s always one of the first members to arrive; always knows we take communion on the first Sunday of each month; and always remembers the church clock on the right hand sanctuary wall needs changing twice a year for daylight savings.

After all these years, I’ve never been able to confirm his age. I’d estimate it’s around mid sixties or early seventies now. 

I haven’t had many rites of passage in my life, but I remember one in particular involving him. 

One Sunday during my middle school days, I strode into the sanctuary, waiting for his customary greeting and unmistakable cadence.

But he caught me by surprise. 

“Hi, Kevin.” 

Henry just put me on a first-name basis.

Genuine pride splashed in my stomach. Seriously.

Many church kids found other pursuits Sunday mornings as they neared high school. So for Henry to remember my name meant something.

He kept remembering too each Sunday afterward, ruling out a fortunate fluke.

The years have jogged by, and Henry and I still find ourselves at Walnut Grove.

But we aren’t able to talk as much now. 

After graduating college in 2019 and returning home, I got roped into running the media system each service that projects the worship lyrics, Scripture verses, and other media onto twin screens above the sanctuary stage.

This job came not because of any technical acumen on my part. The ultimate disappointment to my screen-savvy generation, I’m a klutz when it comes to troubleshooting technology.

But the average age of our congregation skews relatively high, and since I’m one of the handful of twenty-somethings that attend, it’s assumed I’m technologically proficient by design.

This role puts me up on the sound booth in the back of the sanctuary, elevated above the seats. That means when Henry strolls in, I’m getting things situated and dealing with whatever dastardly plots the system has in store for that morning. 

Unfortunately, we don’t see much of each other after service, either.

For three quarters of the service, Henry is locked in as any veteran believer before or behind him. But he does have a hard out, a precise time when he departs service each Sunday, between 11:15 and 11:30 a.m.

This happens to coincide when our pastor’s message hits its peak. With watchmaker’s precision, Henry will shuffle to the sanctuary doors to the right of the stage. Just before pushing them open, he’ll turn around and say goodbye to one of our congregants. 

“All right, see you next Sunday!”

Our pastor will seamlessly pause, wave, and say goodbye to Henry too. So will other members.

In his defense, I’d like it on record that Henry doesn’t exit out of anger with the content. He’ll sit quietly right through the crescendo, but once he gets into that range, it’s time to exfil.

He’ll usually sit out in the foyer and wait for coffee, donuts, and fruit to be placed out for after-service fellowship. 

Precautions for COVID-19 has placed coffee and donut platters on hiatus, which understandably frustrates him.

Combine that with the difficulty of recognizing people with masks on, and I wonder, if you would interview him now, whether he’d remember me by first name these days.

We’ve heard lots of tinny cliches over the past year, the ones oft-spoken but not as credible.

We’re here for you.

Unprecedented times.

New normal.

These glossy phrases got me thinking about Henry, especially because I earn a salary as a writer in the world of advertising, where meaningless gab like that gets shoehorned into an honest, wholesome sales message, often ruining the entire thing. (That’s a grumble for another day though.)

What’s important for this story is that where I work, everything is due yesterday and tomorrow is already too late.

Lingo like process, efficiency, automation, churn rate, and conversion optimization dominate meetings. 

In its relentless chase to expand, network, and connect, our world sometimes leaves people like Henry far behind, who can’t keep up, viewing them as an interruption, an inconvenience.

I wonder what his life would have been like had his body not betrayed him. Would he have a doctorate of theology and be teaching all of us? Would he have a wife and gaggle of children in tow each Sunday? Would he run a business, torment all-comers from three-point range in church basketball, or cook the perfect steak? 

I’m not sure if Henry’s asked himself the same questions, whether he’s aware of what life could have been.

But those questions pale with one truth that resolves all others.

Psalm 139:16 reads, “Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them (ESV).”

That’s why Henry’s spirit has no such developmental disorder, no handicap to speak of.

If you attend another church, you won’t see Henry this Easter Sunday.

Since you’ll miss out on something golden, I’ll give you the preview of how he’s living out Psalm 139. 

During worship, he’ll stay seated, left arm tucked across his chest, hand drooping.

As the music resonates and everyone sings around him, he’ll close his eyes and sway back and forth, bobbing like a Pentecostal buoy, grinning.

Then he’ll take his good hand, and point his right index finger in the air, pushing it to the rafters like he’s punching a divine button again and again with heavenly access.

No one else makes the same kind of movements. And this isn’t a case of him watching someone else display a similar passion, then mirror it to get attention.  

You see, Henry’s got it. He has the resurrection power of Jesus Christ.

You only come across so many truly golden moments in your life, and I consider that worthy of making the list.

And although he can’t articulate every bit of theology or write his testimony, Henry has asked forgiveness for his sins and has confessed Jesus Christ as His Lord and Savior. In my best estimation, I believe his spirit is responding to the call.

Many times I’ve been guilty of trying to make up lost ground for Henry’s disabilities and heap on extra pleasantries out of pity, knowing he’s likely been passed over and downright ignored for much of his life.

It took me some time as I grew up to grasp that he just needs someone to look him in his eye, remember his name, and enjoy him for who he is.

Skeptics would use Henry as a loaded .45 leveled at God’s heart, demanding furiously, “How could a benevolent Creator permit this?”

All the while, Henry’s pointing his finger in the air during worship, rocking side to side, contented, making it clear: I’ve been reborn.

Watching him worship, I’ve learned he has lived a full life, because he’s kept the faith.

Look at what he’s accomplished.

He oversees an unintentional ministry, his worship touching a run-of-the-mill writer like me enough to ponder such things.

Resupply your faith with overlooked insights from Scripture-based stories. 

Henry’s resupplied my faith with the way he worships. 

And overlooked describes him to a tee.

That’s why he serves as the centerpiece of this first scripture-based story from Replenish. 

There will be more stories to come, some like this in feature-article format.

Others will explore Biblical events and characters through longform narratives.

A few will examine notable figures in current and contemporary church history, 

Yet there’s no man better than Henry to weigh anchor and chart a course through the first story from Replenish. 

Sneaking glances at him during worship puts me in an eternal frame of mind, like when you read Revelation 21:7.

He who testifies to these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon.“

Both of us are still alive and kicking down here, but with Resurrection Sunday on the horizon, I’ll admit I wonder what it will be like to meet him in heaven one day.

Not the metaphorical heaven.

Not the halls of Valhalla.

Not a cultural archetype passed down from generation to generation to cope with unexplained mysteries.

I mean the heaven signed, sealed, and delivered by the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Henry will look much different, fully transformed from what had formerly robbed him.

No one will feel the need to tiptoe around him.

Most of all, I’ll see him as Jesus always has and hopefully thank him for teaching a foolish writer so much.

I can’t be sure of the exact protocols in heaven. But if permitted, I plan to pose one request to him, a way to show him how grateful I am that he made Walnut Grove his home church.

“Hi Henry, I’d like to shake your hand.” 

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Kevin Cochrane is the creator of Replenish, the site to resupply your faith with overlooked insights from Scripture-based stories. Share your thoughts by commenting below or dropping a line to kevin@replenishstories.com.