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264 ˜ A Work of Hospitality, 1982–2002
went. He was blessing. And still is. Receiving his smile or taking time to shake
his hand and talk awhile was always one of the best gifts I can think of.
His frame of reference was not yours or mine. My only guess is that somewhere
along the line “reality” became too painful, and so Mr. Willie Dee moved
into another reality. Wherever it was, his reality was deeply spiritual and deeply
rooted in the dignity and survival of African American people.
The first hint of this came not long after Willie Dee came to us. Someone
reported smelling smoke outside his room. The day before, we had invited Paul
Turner, an older white man, to move into the same room with Willie. What we
finally discovered was that Willie Dee was rolling up newspaper, lighting it, and
moving to every corner of the room to burn out the evil spirits. He wasn’t so sure
about living close to white folks! He soon became the only person in the house
with a personal smoke detector installed over his bed.
His sense of place was rock solid. In 1985, Willie Dee ended up in Grady
Hospital with a kidney infection. When we took him he was too weak to
protest. But as soon as he was slightly better he began his efforts to leave the hospital
and to come home. The nurses responded by taking his street clothes away.
When Ed and I visited, we found him sitting on the side of his bed in a short
hospital gown and his hat. He was ready to go, and he returned joyfully as soon
as they checked him out and returned his pants.
When Willie Dee went to Grady again (unwillingly, of course) in February
of this year, the news was hard. Cancer had spread so far that there was nothing
to do but to bring him home and help him die. Hospice Atlanta came to guide
our care. But, as usual, it was Mr. Wimberly who helped and gifted us. He died
with the grace and dignity with which he had lived. He was in charge; his certainty
about what was coming next kept us laughing and crying, but always
grateful.
What a miracle was this little man, thrown out of Buckhead like a piece of
human garbage, given to us by God as one of the most golden and precious gifts
any of us will ever know.
On the Monday before he died, Eddie, Zig, Paul W., and I were in his room
as he perched on the edge of his bed, wearing a large pair of dark glasses. He interrupted
our busyness and said decisively, “Now we gonna sing a song—together.
‘Amazing Grace.’” And with a clear voice he led us through. As the song
hung in the air he nodded his head solemnly and said, “Thaaat’s right. Amazin’
Grace.”
And so it was.