MR. JONES'S HUNCHED-OVER, ox-yoke shoulders framed a body once six-feet-three inches tall, but after ninety years gravity was winning. You couldn't have rendered a teaspoon of fat from his trim physique. His bull pine arms clung tightly to their shoulder sockets; years of bucking bales left them permanently angled at the elbows. His powerful hands could slam-dunk the earth.

His strength was intact, but his joints didn't cooperate. His hearing was shot; and he saw only shapes, no details. I never heard him sing, but when he spoke, his bass voice sounded like it originated from the center of the earth. A nurse cared for him full-time, including bringing him to church. The piety was hers alone.

In personality, Mr. Jones was as subtle as his frame.

The pretty white country church held about 120, but we felt blessed to gather forty-five on a Sunday. We hoped for new families. Some visited, few stayed. To remain, you had to like Mr. Jones as much as we did because at any point in the service he ...