Uncle Hilbert used to stand at the front door of the church every Sunday morning and greet everyone as they came into worship. He always had a big smile on his face as he called all of us by name, and he had a special handshake for us kids. It was a rare day when he wasn't there, and when he was absent church wasn't the same. You had the feeling that something essential was missing.

I don't know why we called him uncle. He was nobody's uncle as far as I know. He had a couple of married sisters who lived in the city, but neither of them had any kids. The little kids called him Hilly, but to everyone else he was Uncle Hilbert or just plain Uncle. "Good morning, Uncle," Mr. Tolbert would say when Hilbert stopped in at the grocery store each morning after walking with us kids to school. He had regular rounds that he made every day. He would meet us at the corner at 7:30 a.m., walk with us as far as the playground; then he would stop at the store, visit with Mr. Tolbert for a while, buy some candy or a pop; then he would head over to the feed mill to watch them grind corn and oats. Sometimes one of the men would let him ride along on the truck while he made a delivery to one of the farms outside of town. Just before noon, about the time the curd was beginning to set, you would find Hilbert over at the cheese factory. They always gave him a white hat and let him watch as they cut up the curd. When they were done, Mr. Sweeney would give him a bag full to take home to his mother so they could have fresh curd for lunch.

In the afternoons Hilbert would get out his bike. For some reason his mother wouldn't let him ride it in the mornings. It was a beautiful red and white Schwinn with headlights, reflectors, rear view mirror, side baskets, an oompah horn, a license plate that said Packer Backer, and long bushy squirrel tails dangling from each handlebar. It was the envy of every kid in town. Hilbert used to let us ride it sometimes on the way home from school, until his mother found out, and then that was the end of that.

Hilbert claimed to be more than 50 years old. None of us kids believed he could possibly be that old until one Saturday morning, when his mother was gone, he invited some of us up to his room in the second story of their house and let us watch while he shaved. He also showed us his collections of old comic books and baseball cards. He had hundreds and hundreds of them, many of them over 20 years old. We decided that maybe he was as old as he said he was. I think it was around that time that I asked my dad why Hilbert had never grown up and he said something about some people being born that way.

That was also about the time that we got a new preacher, the one my folks never liked. His sermons were way too long and from the tone of them you would have thought we were the most wicked congregation God had anywhere in the world. The new preacher didn't want Hilbert to stand by the door and greet people on Sunday mornings. He always sent him on some kind of errand about the time people started to arrive, just to get him out of the way. This was the same preacher who refused to let Hilbert take communion. He said he didn't understand what it meant and it would be a sacrilege for any one to approach the altar under those circumstances. It must have been a long three years for Hilbert, until that preacher finally left and we got one who wasn't quite so particular.

It was about a year after that when Hilbert's mother died and he came to live with us on the farm. We put him up in the spare room, where the hired man stayed when we had one. We kids thought it was great fun to have him around all of the time. He went berry picking with us, and fishing and swimming in the creek. He also liked to help us with our chores, and we were glad to let him. We had to watch him though. One time he hopped on the tractor, started it up, put it in gear, and was headed straight for the barn before Dad saw him and somehow managed to climb on from the back and get it stopped before it crashed into the barn. I'll never forget how mad he was. He yelled at Hilbert for quite a while, and when he was done with him he yelled at us for allowing it to happen. That was the last straw. Dad said it was too dangerous for Hilbert to stay on the farm. He said he was going to make arrangements for him to live somewhere else.

They had a big community meeting at the church on a Thursday night to decide what to do with Uncle Hilbert. Hilbert was there, too. He sat in the back pew with us kids. He didn't greet people at the door when they came in that night, and he didn't smile much, either, as he usually did. We could tell that he was upset. He just sat in the pew and pretended to read one of his comic books.

The general consensus was that Hilbert should be sent to the county farm. Since he had little money, no relatives and no friends who were willing to take him in, it seemed the only logical thing to do. Someone said that Hilbert would be happy there once he got used to it, said they had crafts that he could do and there was bingo on Fridays. Surely he would enjoy that. Why, he would probably be a lot better off there than he could ever be in town where there was nothing for someone like him to do.

It seemed to be all settled when Mrs. Drury stood up and said in a loud, emphatic voice, "I will not let you send Hilbert away!" Mrs. Drury was the widow of the blacksmith, a quiet little woman who rarely said anything to anyone. She was the last person anyone would have expected to speak out at a public meeting. The church became very quiet. Everyone waited to hear what she was going to say.

"When I was sick last year," she went on to say, "Hilbert came to see me every day. He fed the dog for me and watered my plants. I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't been there. I'm not faulting the rest of you. I'm sure you would have come if I had asked you. The point is, Hilbert was there. No siree, I won't stand by and allow you to put him away. He will come and live with me."

Hilbert lived with Mrs. Drury until he died, about 10 years later. It all seems like such a long time ago now. But I still see Uncle Hilbert's smiling face when I walk in the door of the church on Sunday mornings, and in the quiet time before the service, as I prepare myself for worship, I thank God for all that he gave us.

Author's Note: In loving memory of my uncle, Max Long, my aunt, Mary Long, and our neighbor, Donald Moore. They are the Uncle Hilberts for whose lives I still give thanks.