The man and the promised land

It started about four months ago. I made the 40-minute drive to Espanola in rural Flagler County and approached the Reverend about doing a story on his small, insular world. He said yes. But it wasn’t always that easy.

We’d actually met for the first time in early 2008 for a story I was working on, on the restoration of a former black burial ground that his Masonic Lodge owned. He brushed me off then, but I kept at it, showing up at related community meetings until he agreed to talk.

Since then, we’ve had a strange kind of friendship/regard. For me, he’s the well-meaning, respected sage with a soft heart. To him, I’m the pretty wordsmith, tough and wise beyond her years. (I know because he told me.)

He spent hours these past few months walking me through the county’s oldest community, introducing me to the town’s elders and restless young, setting up interviews, letting us into his church to observe and shoot. He was my seasoned guide through a world he’s held together for more than half a century.

Without him as my gatekeeper, there would’ve been no access, no story. It became about much more than the area’s history or segregation, change or development. It became out him. A selfless man at Espanola’s heart.

In between my varying shifts and planned and unexpected daily stories, I found myself out in Espanola at the Reverend’s, interviewing at his dining room table, trekking through bush and historic sites nearby.

Intimidated by the sheer amount of information and finding an authentic way to tell the story, it took me weeks to finally give it birth. And another few days to go through edits.

At its end, I felt lighter. And in its publishing I felt like I had been part of something great, had been invited to get to know and share something special with the world by a very special man.

He called me today to thank me and I thanked him for letting me tell his story and the story of Espanola. For the first time, I was truly happy with what I’d done and the words I’d written. Because I’d touched someone else. I’d touched him. And I’d made him happy. That’s always the best part of the job.

It started about four months ago. And it ran Sunday. But it doesn’t end there. He will never forget. And neither will I.

Photo by Sean McNeil from The News-Journal