Marion and I are visiting the Columbus Public Library’s main campus on Macon Road. The massive building sits among sidewalks flanked by groupings of mature trees spread out across a sprawling lawn.

I can hear the scuff of our shoes on the pavement. Marion is carrying a homemade pie. As we step off the curb, she clutches it closely, taking care not to squash the filling or break the crust.

“I can bet you one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“I bet you’ll be the only person showing up here tonight with a pie.”

The program this evening is not until 6:30pm, and even though we have arrived a half hour early, we both have the feeling that we are late. There is already a herd of people flowing into the building from all sides. Some with the tell-tale sign of a book tucked under one arm.

I open the front door for Marion, somewhat because I am a gentleman, but mostly because I am helping protect the pie. I have been charged with making sure it gets through to its intended recipient unharmed.

Just inside the main entrance, we walk into the rotunda. The sounds of activity around us are echoing off the ceiling fifty feet above us. The feel of the vertical space makes me aware of my smallness.

A good friend of ours is being interviewed tonight in the Reading Room. His book, his life, his story are all going to be on stage tonight.

Marion saw the announcement and informed me that she was going with or without me.

“You’re welcome to come with me if you want,” she said.

This is my life.

We make our way up the staircase to the upper mezzanine. Each footfall echoes. I can hear the distant chatter of voices like rain lightly falling on a tin roof, the sound coming from an unseen room overhead.

A man with an official badge hanging around his neck gestures toward us. “Are you here to see Allen Levi?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way.” He points us toward the entrance to the Reading Room.

Marion had made it clear that she did not want to be late. In fact, she wanted to be early enough to get seats on the front row. But, as we walked into the hall, I swallowed hard thinking I had miscalculated our arrival time.

The place was packed. I forgot that everybody wants a good seat. The steady flow into the room looked like salmon headed upstream. I spotted two empty seats, darted around a slow-moving elderly lady, zigged past an elderly gentleman, and laid claim to the last two chairs anywhere close to the front.

I looked back to Marion, pointed to the seats and breathed a small prayer of thanks.

The vibe here is electric. The chatter in the room is cheerful and gentle. Smiles and laughter abound. “This,” I thought, “is a reflection of the man we have all come to hear tonight.”

I’ve known Allen for a long time. I first met him when my kids were involved with Young Life. He and his brother hosted the teens at their farm in Harris County. Gary is gone now, and Allen will tell you that he aspires to be like his brother, gentle and kind, unique qualities for a man in our American culture of spirited pursuits based on power and aggression.

He spends three mornings a week at the high school holding the entrance door open as kids pass by heading to their lockers before first period. “They all deserve a friendly good morning,” he would say. He doesn’t make a big deal out of this gesture. It’s just who he is.

He is also a lawyer. I’ve seen him in action as a Probate Judge. He listens. He thinks carefully. He knows that his words and actions can affect the trajectory of the young man standing in front of him, which is why he tends toward mercy in his verdicts.

“You’re too kind for your own good,” the Sheriff told him one time.

I could go on. Singer/songwriter. Poet. Storyteller. Philanthropist. Christian. Forester. Naturalist. Preservationist. The descriptives one might use to define the man are many.

What brings us all to the library tonight is his recent venture into writing. His first novel, “Theo of Golden” is a remarkable story of how tragedy and kindness find common ground in the lives of total strangers. Portraits on the wall of a coffee shop. An anonymous donor. Hesitant conversations on a park bench. Anyone who has read the book almost automatically wants to be a better person.

Allen and his interviewer are seated on the small stage. Casual dress. The author is being cross-examined about his work. Ironic for a lawyer, I suppose.

“What did you have to do to find the motivation to write a novel?”

Allen talked about the long days and months of writing. “I thought about this story for a long time, but at some point, I had to quit thinking about it and put it on paper.”

“It’s like this,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to be a real artist. Paint and easel.”

A talented artist friend visited one time. Allen told him about his dream. He had all the right kinds of paper. All the right kinds of paint. A full pallet of brushes and pencils and colors. The easels and the world as his subject.

His friend asked him, “What have you drawn?”

His answer was, “Nothing.”

In response, his friend told him to go to the office supply store and buy one ream of plain white paper and one box of #2 pencils. “For less than $20 you’ll have all you need. Sit down and draw something every day. It doesn’t matter what it is, just draw. Throw it away and draw something else until you use up all 500 sheets of paper. That’s how you become an artist.”

Of all the interesting subjects covered on stage that night, this one spoke to me the most, because the discipline of actually doing anything begins with one crude attempt. You can think about doing something challenging with your life all you want, but there comes a time when you actually have to do the thing, whatever it is.

You have the ability. You can build. You can write. You can travel. You can forgive. You can knock on a door. You can reach out to a friend. You can change. You can try something new. But eventually, you have to quit thinking about it and do it.

I needed to hear that. There are yet unfinished dreams in my own life. I suspect we all have them.

The line for the book signing afterwards was long. We made our way to the book table outside in the hall to look for his niece, who was working the table. We gave her the pie, knowing that she would take care of it for us.

My phone rang this morning. It was Allen calling to say thanks for the gift. He wanted to know if it was okay to have pie for breakfast.

“Yes, it is”, we said. Absolutely.