I knew there was something different about this place the moment we drove past the sign to our left. It was a cowboy on a horse and the words, “Welcome to Circle C Ranch.” Somehow, I knew that summer as a staff member at this Christian summer camp would be unlike any other I had experienced. Directly across from the sign, and to the right of the gravel road stood a trailer. As I gazed at it, wondering who might live there, something curious caught my eye. It was an old red Moped motor scooter parked at the front steps.

A few feet later the road curved to the left and we drove past the “Longbranch” on the left into what resembled an old western town. It was like something right out of a John Wayne movie. The Longbranch was the dining hall. It was firmly planted at the bottom of a long narrow hill, and it faced up the hill, standing at attention as if to salute the chapel that poised itself boldly at the top of the hill. The two were connected by a dusty gravel road, lined on both sides by several other buildings. All these structures were wooden replicas of the typical old west architecture. It was so reminiscent of that time and place that I half expected to see a tumble weed blow across the road ahead of us.

During the hot summer months, the winding dirt road leading into that old west town could get very dry. On those days the movement of a vehicle or even a slight breeze could kick up quite a cloud of dust. On an exceptionally dry day in the summer of 1992, standing on the north side at the camp’s entrance I was hard pressed to see anything on the south side across the road through that thick cloud. Once the dust settled, what I saw would still seem unremarkable at first glance. Nevertheless, I brushed the wind-whipped hair out of my face, looked both ways, spit the dirt out of my teeth and proceeded across to the trailer on the south side of the road.

On the walkway, leading to the front door of that trailer my friend Butch stood next to the old red Moped. The owner of that little red scooter was known to “Circle C Ranchers” far and wide as “Red the Sheriff,” an older man with a gentle spirit who occupied the trailer with his wife, Pat.

Red had an important job at Circle C Ranch. On Monday mornings, as the kids were coming in to begin their week at camp, Red was there. Dressed in full western garb, complete with a gun, vest and “official” sheriff’s badge, he would ride his horse “Charlie Brown” through the streets, accusing children of stealing Charlie’s toothbrush. Red, with his outfit that included a cowboy hat, perched atop of his snowy head and a mustache to match reminded me of Richard Farnsworth.

The horse was no less of a character. According to Red, Charlie Brown believed that he was a tuna fish! Red often complained about the amount of energy he allegedly expended each morning, trying to pry Charlie out of his can.

When he wasn’t riding Charlie, Red was riding his beat-up old Moped through “town,” with his feet on the pedals and his hands simultaneously gripping the scooter’s handle bars and a rake… or a hammer, or some other combination of tools. He did as much to help as he was physically able, and more.

Another of Red’s trademarks was “Wa Wa”. It was what looked like a furry little animal that he carried around. Exactly what Wa Wa was remains a mystery, a great topic of speculation and conjecture. Whatever it was, Red spent many afternoons teasing kids with Wa Wa, sneaking up behind them with it and making them scream. The kids loved this game, and they loved Red the Sheriff.

We all loved this sweet old man who frightened us and made us laugh. We loved his jokes and stories. We loved him for his character and compassion, and because he knew how to pray. Red loved his King James Bible. As a young man he had copied his bible over and over. That was how he learned to read, and that was how he learned of Jesus and His saving grace.

Red had led countless ones to Christ and kept a record of them and all his special friends in an old scrapbook full of pictures, articles, tracts and signatures from years of collection. Everyone he met who’d had an impact on his life had the blessing of signing that book. I am truly honored to be among them.

Red had a room full of old bibles, commentaries, concordances, tracts and assorted other books. His stories of faith and devotion and his willingness to share himself with all who would listen made him as special to his friends as we were to him. Red was selfless, loyal, and kind. But he was also stubborn. Early in the summer of 1992 he’d become quite ill and refused to go to the hospital. We were all praying for him, deeply concerned for our beloved “lawman.”

I met Butch in front of Red’s trailer, and we went in to visit. We found him asleep in his chair, and thought we should leave rather than disturb him. But Red woke up and expressed his appreciation for our presence. We talked a bit and prayed with him, but quickly excused ourselves in the hopes that he would return to his rest.

That night the dryness turned to rain. It became dark and dreary, and I felt a deep sadness at watching the rain pour down on the little red Moped as it sat outside Red’s trailer like a lonely puppy left out in the cold. I shuttered at the knowledge that there was a real possibility we might never again see our friend ride that scooter through town.

There was a somber tone throughout the camp that evening as all the staff thought and spoke of their fondness for Red. Most of us were expressing thoughts of guilt over having been so blessed by this man yet feeling that we had given so little in return. Then someone decided to do something about it. About 20 of us gathered outside Red’s trailer, umbrellas in hand, and began to sing for our dear friend Red the Sheriff. We sang choruses and hymns, any song we could think of that would be an appropriate serenade for Red.

I sang with my whole heart as never before. Then as my eyes flooded with tears, my ears were flooded with the sound of what seemed like perfect pitch from the others, and the sweetest harmony with the backdrop of the steady rain as our accompaniment. It was positively the most beautiful music I had ever heard, and God was present like never before in my life.

Butch went inside to be sure Red was hearing us and came out with the account of a man so sick and so exhausted, yet so determined to stay awake to hear the choir outside his window. With tears streaming down his wrinkled, pale face, Red had expressed to Butch his silent effort to determine whether he was dreaming.

The Lord blessed our prayers and Red recovered. Some weeks later he shared with me that he would never forget the night God’s love embraced him through a choir of “angels.”

In May of 2017 after nearly 25 years of remembering fondly those summers at Circle C Ranch and occasionally reminiscing on the phone with Red, I received news that he would be leaving soon for his heavenly home. On the evening of May 6, 2017, I wrote about my last visit with him:

“Today a man looked me in the face and told me he has two weeks left to live, yet I saw no fear in his eyes. There were no tears of sadness, at least not from him, only tears of joy and appreciation for a life fully lived in service to his Lord, and fond memories of the lives that have touched his throughout the years.”

When I walked into the room at the hospice, I saw a man on his deathbed, still ministering to people, still loving people. I waited to see him as he talked to a lady about his Jesus, and how He could save her from her sin and her self. I went there to minister to a dying man but left there having been ministered to.

He told me I had been one of the most special people in his life, but I found that hard to fathom. All the souls he had crossed paths with surely included multitudes who were better men than I, better writers, better preachers, better teachers, better husbands, better fathers, better Christians. Yet, there was something about me that spoke into his life.

The moments of life we had exchanged so many years ago were but a spec compared to all the other moments of our lives. Yet, he counted them among his most valued. I felt as though I had given so little to those moments that I gained so much from, yet he spoke of me as a special friend.

This dying man took my hand and prayed for me; a moment I will cherish till I meet him again. The last thing I asked “Red the Sheriff” before I left him that day was, “Did Charlie ever find his toothbrush?”

He chuckled. Another moment, another spec to add to my life. I got to see him laugh one last time. I had never seen a man so close to eternity laugh with such joy in his heart, but I guess that’s what happens when he’s got Jesus living there.

On Wednesday, May 10, 2017 “Red the Sheriff” met his Savior face to face. “

Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints (Psalm 116:15).

Very few men have had the kind of impact on my life that Red had. He taught me that it’s possible for a man to be both strong and gentle at the same time. And he taught me that a man need not fear death when he is old if he has already died to himself when he was young.

I sang another song in my heart that day. A song of sorrow to my Jesus, but a song of love for my friend. One last love song for Red the Sheriff.

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