My first post-college abode was a house divided into three apartments: I occupied the upper level, another guy about my age lived right below me, and Don Brown lived in an apartment jutting off the main porch.

Don was an angry, bitter, disagreeable fellow. I met him one night as I returned from a church meeting. He stood at his screen door grousing about something–either about me or the landlord, I don’t remember which–as I approached the door to the upstairs.

“What did you say?” I asked with good humor, walking to his screen door. He repeated it. Whatever it was. I joked back, and it disarmed him. He calmed down a bit–just a bit–and I asked him if I could come inside and chat. He hesitated about that, but relented with a gruff “Sure.” Or something like that. It was 27 years ago. He opened the door, and I found a place on the couch while he settled into a recliner. He wore white shorts, probably boxers, but nothing else. No shirt, no socks. I remember his skin being very white and pale.

We talked. Don asked what my Dad did. I told him he was a pastor. “That’s a great racket,” he said sarcastically, trying to tick me off. Throughout that visit, Don tried to tick me off. But I just joked with him, and eventually, he was smiling as part of our banter. It was some of the best relationship-building I’ve ever done.

I was intentionally trying to be a witness. At the time I was involved with Evangelism Explosion, so I knew what I was doing. Eventually, I hoped to lay out the gospel message for him and give him a chance to respond. But first, some cultivating was needed. So he became my “project.” Today’s postmodern and emergent writers mock the idea of making someone an evangelistic project. Well, jolly good for them.

I returned another time. Don welcomed me in, but our conversation went pretty much as before. Don was a retired railroad engineer, divorced, alone, very bitter, and not in good health. He was mad about everything. He was also very smart. Not senile. Just a grumpy old man who made a formidable sparring partner. And I think he came to like me. Appreciate me, even.

Then he moved. One day his apartment was empty, and it made me frantic. I hadn’t gotten very far, hadn’t presented the gospel to him. I had been nice, but hadn’t told him why I was nice; for all he knew, I could be a Mormon. But somehow–I don’t remember how–I learned where he had moved, the upstairs of a house about a mile away.

One night I went to visit him. He was surprised to see me, but invited me right in, and we talked for a while. I probably witnessed in some simple way, but was mostly still cultivating. I was just an immature jerk a couple of years removed from college, 23 years old, yet my interaction with Don was tempered and wise, far beyond my years. Don’t know what got into me.

Life zips along way too fast. I didn’t go back for a long time. I thought about doing so, but I didn’t. Soon. I told myself. And then one day, I saw Don’s obituary in the newspaper. I cut it out and placed it on the credenza in my office. It was a reminder of my failure. A reminder that I hadn’t done enough. That because I didn’t go back, because I never presented the gospel, Don was in hell. I genuinely felt this way.

I kept that newspaper clipping in my office for probably 15 years. It always made me feel guilty. We evangelicals are taught to feel guilty–that we’re unworthy, we never do quite enough, we fall short, there’s always more we can do. But at some point I tossed the clipping, having evidently concluded that the statute of eternal limitations had expired.

At the Church Media conference Pam and I attended last June, one speaker, Paul Clifford, told about doing man-on-the-street interviews with people in his city to craft a video to use in a message. One fellow they approached was a Wiccan. They struck up a conversation, and the guy gave some comments on film.

Paul said, “We didn’t do anything. All we did was be nice to him.” But the result of being nice was that this young man began giving Christianity a second look, and on his own, he accepted Christ into his life. Then he led his brother to the Lord. And then both of them were killed in a car crash. Two souls now in heaven, all because they were nice.

I was nice to Don Brown. I regrettably didn’t get any further than being nice. But maybe nice was enough. Maybe Don gave Christianity a second look. Maybe I made some huge influence that I never saw. I definitely felt led by God to visit Don. I was obedient. That’s a good thing.

I’ve always viewed that as a failure. But now I’m thinking that’s hogwash. I should view it as a success. The Holy Spirit prompted me to do something, and I did it. I tried to befriend a guy the rest of the world couldn’t stand to be around. God knew how the story would end. He valued my role, but wasn’t limited by it. And maybe, just maybe, Don’s waiting up there in heaven for me. Wouldn’t that be something.

Now I’d like to get that clipping back. But this time, I would hang it on the wall as a success story. As something I did right. Lord knows I need more of those.