Worth the Risk
I peeked through the crowds at church dying to catch a glimpse of who would be our new youth pastor. I saw dark, cropped hair and two very broad shoulders. His suit coat boxed him in as the most perfect definition of short and stocky. When he turned around, I noticed gray hair sprinkled into his thick goatee, along with an alarmingly jutting jaw. He smiled and rubbed his hands together while he talked and laughed with his newfound friends. His name was Brother Jimmy and I was in middle school when he started. In the years to come I would nickname him Papa J and run to his side to bother him before youth group on Wednesday nights. At some point he introduced me to “ant bites”, a pinch under the arm that hurts like the dickens. If he was lost in conversation, I would sneak up behind him and squeeze the tender part of his skin. As he howled and swatted, I ran away giggling. During my junior year of high school, the youth group held a solemn meeting in a back room af