In my local congregation w-a-a-a-a-ay back when, there was a brother who was certainly an Uber-Witness.
Brother H. T. Jones, as I recall.
He was built like a cast iron furnace. When he shook hands, your own hand disappeared into his hairy paw
and a sickening crunch soon followed.
His specialty was cornering members and subjecting them to an intense conversation about some aspect of
their service with a view to creating discomfort, no doubt. At least, few came away with joy in their heart but him.
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These sudden appearances were blitzkrieg. Before you could shout inwardly,"OH SHIT!" Brother Jones had you
withering under his steely dolls eyes like Spielberg's shark. There was no wiggle room, only inevitable surrender.
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One day I was walking down the street minding my own damn business when a large truck slowed, made a U-turn and
puttered up beside me as I strolled. My policy--to ignore such predations, of course.
There was a minute of me walking and the truck ominously creeping beside me along the edge of the street.
Presently, the truck sped up just enough to cut over in front of me!
The window rolled down and the monstrous head of Brother Jones appeared like a storm cloud full of thunder and bolts of
crackling electrical malevolence.
He glowered silently. I paused with the no doubt, classic deer-in-the-headlights realization I was doomed.
I waited for a greeting. I could have waited till the sun went down. Nonesuch occurred.
His clipped monotone was abrupt and imperious, "Get in, Brother Walstrom"
"Oh, thanks for the offer, Brother Jones. You see, I'm out getting some refreshing exercise and. . . "
"GET IN."
And I did. (You would have as well!)
It felt to me like how a victim might well feel if their soon-to-be murderer tossed them a shovel and
ordered them to dig a hole. . . and make it deep!
Once inside the cab of his truck, he turned only his head on a neck the thickness of a tree trunk.
The impression was like that of an enormous owl.
"Have you made out a daily schedule?" His voice was flat, without a trace of human feeling.
My mind's computer sorted, collated and presented me with context; which was more than Jones had done.
At the previous Service Meeting, a talk was given telling all JW's to create a personal schedule to manage their
every waking moment. The purpose, it was now suddenly clear to me, was to prevent idiots such as myself from
wasting time walking down the street instead of knocking on doors.
I had to decide in a flash of an instant whether or not to play this game with Brother Jones. Some part of me
bristled. I got angry instead of defensive!
"Sure. In fact, I'm scheduled to be about a block from here at this very moment--had you not stopped me." I grinned.
No trace of emotion on his side of the truck!
"When you sit down to make your schedule do you know how you are supposed to start it?"
This was pure condescension. Now I was getting steamed and my better judgment was about to take a hike. I don't
like people whose intention is intimidation!
"Of course. First things first. Second things second. Third things third--well, I think you can see where this is headed."
His eyes narrowed only by a millimeter or so. He had no sense of humor or sarcasm or--well, he had nothing personable to offer.
"You put the things you HAVE TO DO first. Our service to Jehovah is what goes to the top of the list. Everything else goes second."
Parsing this flash of infinite wisdom in my head, I pursed my lips thoughtfully.
"Hmm, where do FOOD, SHELTER, CLOTHING go? All number two? Does it matter which order? What about bathroom breaks?"
I guarantee you, this man did not detect for an instant of time that I was anything but serious . . . and clueless!
He sat there. He. . . just. . . sat there.
I just sat there. I. . . just. . . sat there. That is, until I couldn't take the torture any longer.
"Well, thanks Brother Jones for this little chat!" I grabbed the door handle and swung my escape route wide. Inches away
was sunlight, fresh air, and FREEDOM. . . if only I could make it out alive!
Jones' hairy mitt--I was soon horrified to notice--was now on my elbow. He had SOMETHING ELSE to say!
His voice changed. Perceptibly. I can't say how exactly.
"I have an hour sermon this Sunday at the congregation in Denton. I have to go out of town. I need for you to give it in my place.
The outline is in the glove box."
The expression, "What the fuck" was not in my vocabulary. At least, not at that time. If it were, I could scarce restrain it from my lips
at that moment! I did manage to compose myself long enough to utter the word, "Huh?"
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So, that is why he stopped me. The pretext of counsel on how to make a schedule was just bullshit. It was a Friday and the
sermon was two days away. Lucky for him he saw me.
I delivered the talk in Denton. The title was, as I recall--"HOW PRACTICAL IS THE SEARCH FOR WEALTH."
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Now I ask you, who was the REAL uber-witness in that situation?
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(edited to add: After the hour talk that Sunday in Denton, I was approached by several JW's who praised the presentation
and I particularly recall one brother saying, "How long did it take you to work up that talk, a couple of months?"
I deflected a direct reply. If I told him the accurate answer I'd be accused of showing off. I think I said something
like,"I just followed the outline.")
