“I never thought the doors of a church would be locked,” said Danny Kincaid. But locked they were. So Danny spent the night on the church bus. It was the only place he could find to put a roof over his head.
Danny was in his early 20s; I was in my early college years. I met Danny after some other people (who weren’t exactly thrilled about his accommodations) met him first. They introduced him to our youth pastor, who led Danny to faith in Christ. He also offered Danny a place to stay – his own home – until he could get on his feet. That’s where I came in. I was a youth ministry intern, and got to know Danny as he hung out with Willard and the rest of us. Way too old for the youth group, Danny was a fixture around the youth staff as we practiced a version of “discipleship by hanging out.”
One day Danny and I were driving around town looking for him a job and place to live, and he told me a story that haunts me to this day. When he was very young, through a series of circumstances beyond his control, he came to live with his grandparents. I don’t remember why. Maybe it was a divorce. Maybe his parents died. At any rate, Danny wound up growing up in South Carolina with a grandmother he still referred to as “Mommy.”
As Danny became a teenager, he went through the typical rebellious stages that most adolescents encounter – made all the more extreme because his generation gap was times-two. He had a temper. And a mouth. And he knew how to flex both.
One day Danny and Mommy got into an argument, and it got pretty heated. She said some things. He said some things. They got madder and madder. Finally, Danny screamed out, “I wish you were dead!” And he stormed out of their mobile home and slammed the door.
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