The Coin

A few Wednesdays ago, I shared an evening of laughter and wonder with the good folks at Crestview Baptist Church in Lakeland, Florida. Their summer series runs every Wednesday night in August, bringing in a family-friendly comedian for a fun night. I love that idea. Just love it. My friend, comedian, and fellow Lakeland-er Mike Williams asked me if I’d be up to being one of the guests this year, and I jumped at the chance.

Lakeland is my hometown. I moved there from Kansas in the fifth grade, and I did my very first magic shows there. That was my place to “be bad.” It’s also my place to come back to and say, “Look, I got better!” So I was looking forward to being back. And given the church’s location, plus my mom and dad’s Polk County roots, I figured I’d bump into somebody who knew my family or me.

The show ended, and we had a great time. People came up afterward, as they usually do, to talk and meet. I love that. One guy came up and said, “Did you ever do anything over at Lake Gibson Nazarene Church?” “Oh, yes,” I responded, “a few times.” “You did a straitjacket escape, right?” “Yes, that was me. About 35 years ago.” (He didn’t know that I have that night on videotape—it’s also when the dove I magically produced decided to fly off after appearing from the handkerchief.) Ah, I told you this was my place to be, bad. I DID get out of the straitjacket that night, though. Houdini, eat your heart out.

A few short but meaningful conversations in, a man, a bit older than me, came up and pulled a coin from his pocket. It was a challenge coin. Do you know what those are? Many military, police, and similar groups have coins they give out, and you’re supposed to carry them every day. The “challenge” is that if you are ever asked for it, you must show it. I have been given a few over the years from friends and fans, and have been shown more.

“Do you recognize this?” the man asked me, as he brought it closer.

“It looks like a military challenge coin,” I responded.

“It’s from the National Guard unit I was in with your father, Chaplain Humston. He was my Chaplain. He was a great man.”

I didn’t say much. What do you say to that? I thanked him. I told him my dad had passed in 2020, though he most likely already knew. Standing there, I just let the moment be what it was.

He didn’t tell me a story. He didn’t need to. He just wanted me to hold the coin, so I did. It was heavy.

My dad was a small-church pastor most of his life, before and after his time in the National Guard. He came to the chaplaincy later, after years pastoring small congregations, before eventually leaving Florida for Fort Riley, Kansas, as an Army Chaplain with the Big Red One. We made our way back to Florida, and he eventually retired as a Colonel, the chief chaplain of the Florida National Guard. But he spent most of his career shepherding congregations that rarely topped 150 people.

I don’t know anything else about that man with the coin. I don’t know his name, his rank, how long he served, or how many years he’d been carrying that coin. Yet standing there in Lakeland, in the same town where my dad helped raise me, holding a coin that had been in his pocket for decades, I was the only one left to say thank you on my dad’s behalf.

I was proud. Proud of the man my dad was to a room full of soldiers I’ll never meet. Proud that a coin outlasted a chaplaincy, and a chaplaincy outlasted a life, and somehow it all found its way into my hand on a random Wednesday night at my comedy show.

He put the coin back in his pocket. It’s the unit’s coin—every man in it carries one. But he didn’t say “our chaplain.” He said “my Chaplain.” That’s the part I keep thinking about.

Lakeland’s still the place I learned to be bad at this. I’m just glad it’s also the place people still show up to tell me I got better—and, once in a while, to tell me who I got it from.