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invited me into his backyard, which was filled with an herb garden, roses, and a small wa-
terfall that trickled into a pond.
As we sat talking, Willy explained that he had been living in Colorado for years. Then
he had what I soon realized was a natural response to my own journey: He dropped his
mask and shared his life story with me.
Willy grew up in the coal mines of Scotland. He worked there for eleven years before
finally getting out of those dark and miserable tunnels. His cousin lost an arm in them, and
he had once seen a man killed. When he left his home for America, he dreamed of a differ-
ent life.
As he gestured to his tranquil backyard, he said, “I dreamt of this.”
But Willy imagined more than his yard, he dreamed of helping people.
He sat back in his chair as he explained, “You know, we get the chance to be a lot of
people in life. For me, everything changed in 1984. . . .”
He paused before explaining, “You see, I went to hear Billy Graham speak, you know
the famous pastor.”
“Sure,” I said, having heard of Billy Graham long before coming to America.
“I guess, before that day, I had always felt a bit lost. I mean, I would go to work, I raised
my children, but I wasn't really living the life I thought I should be. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. Some people call it a rut. I call it one of life's greatest tragedies. But Willy had
found his way out of that rut just as surely as he had found his way out of the mines.
Willy continued, “After I heard Reverend Graham, I just, well, I had this feeling like I
knew why I was sent here. I was here to help people.”
I found out that after that day, he started working with the homeless, and then he found
himself at a suicide hotline. And now he worked with the elderly. He smiled softly as he
shared with me, “My mother used to say, 'We all can find ourselves disconnected from
love.'”
We can. And sometimes all it takes is that friendly Scottish voice on the other end of
the line or sitting across from us to make us feel connected again. He told me how his sons
now lived in England, and we both talked about how hard it was to leave behind those we
loved. I understood that longing. I had felt it as I went to bed on Maurice's futon the night
before, only six hours away (at least that's how long the trip took on good old Kindness
One)—and yet so far—from home. Though I had met many great people already on this
journey, I realized that in Willy, I was meeting a friend.
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