College and seminary was all very fine, but there is no teacher like experience. The best and safest way to get experience in the pastoral ministry is to be another pastor’s assistant. I spent some time as an assistant to a few pastors and I learned from each, But one stays in my mind in a special way. The Reverend Doctor William Wilkes. The good Reverend Doctor pastored Sunset Heights Baptist Church in Hialeah, Florida, which is a suburb of Miami. Actually, from Miami to Fort Lauderdale it is all one big, sprawling city, and Hialeah made up a big chunk of that metro area.

          I learned a lot from this man, some good, some not so good, but I loved him dearly.

          Dr. Wilkes was a dignified man who had little use for humor in the pulpit, although sometimes he did give it a try. You could tell it took a lot out of him and that it made him uncomfortable. I have wondered sometimes if my whole purpose there was for comic relief. He recognized the need for humor; he just couldn’t bring it off himself. One bright and glorious Sunday morning the good Reverend Doctor was really getting into his sermon when a young lady, a visitor to the church, stood up and moved down the aisle, going from the back of the church to the front of the 450 seat sanctuary. As she walked past the pulpit she stopped and looked up at our stern looking pastor, who was clearly not amused. "I gotta go pee" she announced. The pastor's mouth dropped open and she continued on her way, leaving a speechless sanctuary behind. The really bad thing about this was that when you opened the door leading out of the sanctuary, the lady's restroom was right there. She left the sanctuary door open, went into the restroom and left that door open, too. She really did do as she had announced to the pastor.

          We had a racetrack ministry at that church. On Monday nights, my wife and I would take a few of our youth, load them into the church van and go to a horseracing track that was in our city. Most don’t know this, but there is a fairly large community of people who live at the track, at least in Florida where they race year-round. Grooms, handlers, stable hands. The unseen portion of horse racing. Of course, these people need Christ in their lives just like anyone else, but they were mostly forgotten. At this track, however, there was a chaplain. He and I became friends and we went out on Monday nights to help. My wife would play the guitar and sing, the kids would do puppets and I would bring a short message.

          One week, Dr. Wilkes got it in his head that he would like to go with us, which was great. We arranged that he would bring the message to the folks there. He showed up at the appointed time to get in the church van and go with us, but he was wearing his best three-piece white suit, (this was 1979 and white suits were snazzy) diamond tie pin and expensive shoes. The rest of us were in jeans, pullovers and sneakers.

          “Uh, Doctor Wilkes, sir,” I said. “You might be a little over dressed. We have to park next to the stables and the room we meet in is really more like a bar.”

          My dignified mentor looked over at me with his best senior pastor look.

          “Nonsense. When a man puts himself into the position of proclaiming the Word of God he must look the very best he can look. You must never dress down to lift up.” Which I believe to this day. But it was a race track.

          He was the boss, after all, so off we went.

          By the time we got home he had stepped in horse manure twice, been nuzzled by a couple of horses, stood next to a beer on tap dispenser to preach and had suffered the indignity of having many of the people walk out on him. He never went back.

          In time, Marsha and I and our son Adam (one year old) left that church and moved to the panhandle of Florida to a little country church as pastor. Sandy Creek Baptist Church was a long way from Hialeah, both in distance and in culture.

          It was really a country church. We were so far from any town that the paved road ended at our church's driveway. It was a thirteen-mile drive just to get to where I could buy a morning paper. But I was Sandy Creek’s pastor and I was loving it. However, I felt that our little church needed some spiritual fire, so I contacted Dr. Wilkes to see if he would come and preach a revival. He happily agreed and he and his wife came to do so. I had arranged for us all, he and his wife and my family, to eat at a different home each night of the revival.

          I felt good about the eating arrangements, except for one place. I was worried that Dr. Wilkes, who was kind of prissy, would be uncomfortable. The home was a group home for mentally and physically handicapped adults. A widowed woman ran the place and did an extremely good job. Without much money, she kept her four or five charges looking good and in good health. The house was old and somewhat run down, and like most homes in that part of the south, did have a problem with cockroaches, but she managed to even control that issue. She was a fine, country lady doing the best she could.

          I shouldn’t have worried about Dr. Wilkes, or his wife Bonnie. They had such a good time that I was a little ashamed of myself for having such fears. It was really fine, until..........

          We had gone into the living room and were visiting with the residents of the group home while our hostess was preparing dinner. Dr. Wilkes and his wife were fully involved in listening to and sharing stories with the residents. My wife, knowing of my fears, looked at me with a smug look as though to say, "See, I told you not to worry." I began to relax.

          Then, the most wonderful smell began to waft out of the kitchen. Dr. Wilkes and I both got up and headed for the source of that smell. We were, after all, preachers. Preachers love to eat, dignified or not. Entering the kitchen, we saw our hostess making little cornbread cakes on a large griddle. She would fry one side then flip it over and fry the other side. If you have never eaten real southern cornbread (not that mix stuff with sugar in it that they sell at Kroger’s) made on a griddle, you have yet to eat. Dr. Wilkes was overjoyed. He told our hostess that his mother had made cornbread cakes in exactly the same way and he hadn't eaten them in years. Since I had enjoyed her cornbread on several occasions I assured the good doctor that it was just about the best cornbread I had ever eaten, right next to my own mother's. Our hostess was beaming with the praise she was receiving while trying to be humble. But, you could tell she was pleased with our very true words.

          Just then, a cockroach scurried out from behind the griddle. Without missing a beat, she took the spatula in her hand that she had been flipping the cakes with and smashed the cockroach flat. Then she went back to flipping. The good doctor didn’t say a word. When supper was served he manfully took a couple of the cakes, looked over at me and told me to eat up and we sat there and ate cornbread. Good eatin’.

          Both Dr. Wilkes and Bonnie have been in Heaven for some time. I have so many stories! But for now, I will end by saying that I can’t think of them without smiling. Every young wannabe preacher should be so fortunate as to have a mentor who impacts him so greatly. Dr. and Mrs. Wilkes make Heaven look so much sweeter for me.