Then Layla said it again. “It’s my happy birthday!” And as he wiped the tears from his eyes with his long-sleeved shirt, he put his arms around them both and continued to cry like a baby.

As we watched this happening, we all just stood there in amazement.

He held them both for a few seconds and then some of the men came and led him away.

The party started back up and we went on to sing the birthday song. We had the cake and as far as I could tell Mama and Layla were totally unfazed by what had happened.

I was in shock and so was Maggie, but once again we were present to something that was totally unexplainable.

We saw the miracle of how love took over in the hall and how it reduced that angry, drunken, raging, violent racist into a weeping and wounded child.

Later I heard some men had taken him outside and given him some coffee and sat with him for awhile. They reported that he never said a word and had continued to cry for quite some time.

He never came back in and we never saw him again.

And, as far as I know, Mama must still have his gun.