A nice gentleman stopped by the JB Cain Archives at Millsaps College this week. He wanted whatever he could find about the church he attended when he was young. So I pulled the records.

He pulled up a chair and began to read. Anytime he came across the name of a pastor or congregant, he started into a personal story of his youth, how he knew the person, what were they like and some other memories he could relate about the person. Some of them were small memories, such as, “Sis. So and So always sat in the third pew from the front on the right.” Others were tales about his family, such as an uncle who was appointed as the pastor of his church.

After the third or fourth story, I stopped him and asked, “Should I be recording this?”

He looked me straight in the eyes then. Red-rimmed. Watery with tears.

“No, I think I pretty much have it written down. Unless I find something new here today. I’ve been telling my wife for years we were going to come down to Millsaps and see what you got.”

“I was serious. I can record your stories if you’d like me to. It’s a good way to preserve them. Or I can just sit and listen as long as you need.”

“Listening is fine.”

He read more of the records. At every new name he stopped to tell me a story.

Finally, he finished. I walked him and his wife out of the building.

“Thank you,” his wife said. “You’ve been very kind.”

“I’m glad to help. I’ll let you know if we find anything more.”

“We’ll hope we can come again. He’s got surgery down this way next week.” Then she whispered low, and a little hesitantly. “Cancer.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave me an awkward smile. “It’ll be okay,” he said.

“Yeah, he’s already beat it,” she said.

But it didn’t stop me from wishing I had recorded his stories anyway.