I once met a man at the local church,
Strangely enough in the children's ministry.
He was an older gentleman of sixty, perhaps,
And after I introduced myself, I thought him kindly.
When I asked him his name, he said something odd
To the ears, that I could not repeat. Smiling, he said
To call him "G.R.", which I assumed were his initials.
But I silently vowed to learn to pronounce his name.
We were good friends, G.R. and I, despite our different ages.
Together we watched over little children in Sunday school.
How fondly I remember those days;
We would talk as the children played.
He once told me that he came from very far away.
He hailed from the land of Belgium, he said,
And he added, a bit mysteriously, that he was a spy.
I didn't believe him then, of course, but now I think I might.
Because one fateful day, my family moved away,
And of course they took me with them.
I lost touch with many friends, including G.R.
I didn't even get to say goodbye.
When we returned, perhaps a year later,
I revisited my old church haunts.
I inquired of G.R. expectantly,
Only to find that he had died.
I was told by his family that he had taken
A gunshout wound to the head.
They said it was suicide,
But they couldn't quite explain why.
I still remember the days we talked,
The times we laughed, the paths we walked.
G.R. was like an uncle or grandfather to me.
I was greatly grieved when I was told of his demise.
Remember, I never got to say goodbye.
Now I never will. unless...that was just a cover story.
I can still pretend that G.R. is still out there,
My kindly Belgian spy.
And now I can pronounce his name.