Words are hopelessly inadequate to express the safety and security of this solitary reality.

Jewitt Christian had a younger brother, Bobby. Neither man was what you call big. Maybe a little on the short side of medium. Bobby was a powerful man, physically. Somewhat of a kitchen gymnast, he could swing himself a full 360 around the workout bar that he and my brothers built in our back yard. Bobby's muscles would bulge when he lifted the barbell that he and Gerry, Billy and Phil made out of two cardboard ice cream containers, concrete, railroad spikes and a length of 1.5 inch galvanized pipe. Bobby had red hair and freckles. Jewitt's hair was cold black, brown eyes for both men.

I call them men, here. They were maybe 17, 18, 19 years old. Jewitt was a cartoonist. He could draw the funniest pictures I ever saw. He later became an architect. To a four-year-old, these guys were men -- real men!

Jewitt and Bobby lived three and one-half blocks away. I lived with my two brothers, two sisters and Aunt Annie on Third Avenue. You could take the alley path behind our house between Professor Weaver's victory garden and ours, walk down behind the Smith's and Davis's house, dog-leg to the right, and come out on second avenue next to Mr. Perdue's grocery store. Down second avenue to Boulevard Drive, and on down Boulevard to First avenue and they lived three houses down in the big, dark brown house with the white trim on the right hand side. It's seventy years later now, but I can walk the whole way in my mind, and tell you every delicious detail, June bugs and all, but . . . well, that's another story.

We traveled back and forth to Jewitt and Bobby's house, walking. Problem was, the sidewalk wasn't all that great. It had browned with age and roots from the trees had lifted whole sections of it above the Georgia red clay where it had once been freshly installed. It was hard walking for a four-year-old. Not only that, my brother Billy took what was for me great big strides. Great big strides. (Why do I feel the tears rise in my eyes as I write this?)

As I said, it was hard on my little legs. Sometimes, Billy would let me ride on his shoulders, but mostly I walked alongside, trying to keep up. I held on to Billy's hand for dear life. When the sidewalk was uneven, I tried to keep from tripping. Often, I did not not succeed and I could feel the instant when my grip on Billy's hand slip. I was headed for skinned knees for sure.

That's when it happened.

That's when Billy's grip on my hand would grab mine and hold on to me, lest I fall. It all happened quicker than you can wink. It was instant, firm, and uncompromising. I thought I was holding on to him, but all the while he had in his mind to hold on to me. No matter how messed up the sidewalk was, Billy already knew about it. No matter my clumsy four-year-old legs, I wasn't going to fall. With Billy there beside me, I just wasn't going to fall.

Well, I grew up and came to Christ as an adult. I've been an adult a long time now. Life as a grown-up has been tough, wrought with bad decisions, health issues, domestic issues and pain. I told God on the night I came to Him that if this was going to last, he would have to hold on to me because I knew I could never find the strength to hold on to Him. In all these years, I haven't skinned the knees of my faith.

Words are hopelessly inadequate to express the safety and security of this solitary reality.