Over the years I saw the man mow his yard, get his mail, and leave for work, but he never got involved in our neighborhood get-togethers. In fact, if I ran into him at the grocery store, I wouldn’t even recognize him. He kept to himself and was often gone all weekend.

The other day he stopped his truck at his mailbox. Instead of getting out in the normal way, he sort of slid out and slowly, shakily made his way to the curb. He looked like he had aged twenty years. I felt a God-pang in my heart: The man is sick. God nudged me to tell him about Jesus. But Lord, I protested, I don’t even know his name! How can I even begin, since I’ve lived across the street from him so long?

That was two weeks ago, and I’m still trying to decide what to do. Should we take him dinner? Leave a gift in his mailbox? Offer to pick up groceries? While I’ve been playing this mental game with myself, his car has disappeared, and I’ve seen no signs of life at his house.

I hope God gives me another chance to tell him about the One who loves him, about the Savior who died for him, about how he can live forever with the Author of goodness.