Our doorbell rang at 11:45 p.m. Sunday night. That's abnormal, even for us late-nighters. I climbed out of bed and snuck to the front door. There, standing under the porch light, was a pirate! His T-shirt featured a skull and crossbones, he was smoking a fiery cigarette, his tattoos rippled across his muscles, and his face was festooned with silver piercings. Ear, ear, nose, eyebrow ... and his red beard was a gnarly Fu Manchu. As I peered through the small "see what's out there" window, I saw him take another drag on the cigarette, flick the ash off into mom's flowers, and then smile. What to do? I reviewed the options quickly: turn off the light, call 911, or open the door and invite him in.

I called out, in as strong a voice as I could muster, "What can I do for you?" Redbeard leaned down, picked up a Toro leaf blower, and held it out toward me. "You left your leaf blower on your lawn, and I didn't want anybody to steal it from you." His words processed slowly through my worried brain. It was my leaf blower. I had left it out. The tanned, honest pirate had brought it home. Why had I been so quick to judge? Many "Thank You's" and handshakes later Redbeard ambled away down the street, and I returned the blower to its place.

I told the story to my friend, Emory, as we covered Hurricane Frances' damages on a friend's roof. He laughed, put down his hammer, and told me about the demon. Emory, it seems, was taking a theater make-up class and was on his way to his final test when the car behind him slammed into his bumper at a stoplight. Frustrated at the delay, Emory got out to talk to the driver, who turned out to be a 90-lb., 75-yr-old lady on her way to church.

There, under a streetlight, Emory suddenly remembered the test. The test required full facial make-up, and Emory was a demon — complete with wonderful little pointy horns! Emory was in full face, and she was terrified! He was as kind as a demon could be. She apologized (wide-eyed) again and again, and the two of them agreed to the "no harm, no foul" rule of bumper relationships. The tiny Sunday school teacher didn't smile as she quickly retreated to her car — and rolled up all the windows.

Emory and I sat on the roof and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Somehow it made the rest of the work easier. "So," God says, "rather than worry about what others look like, worry about the memory they take from an encounter with you" (see Romans 14:13).

Dick Duerksen is an assistant vice president for mission development at Florida Hospital.