I Think Maybe I am Getting Old

I think maybe I am getting old. In recent weeks I have had a hankering to make contact with some old friends. I followed through on those yearnings. I called an old friend I had not spoken with in a few years. He told me the sad news of his oldest son being killed in an automobile accident. In the course of that week I spoke with another old friend and learned some of the stresses of his life. It is late in the year and I had some vacation time I needed to take. So this last week I drove to Missouri to see an old friend. We had an enjoyable visit.  But he has a few health problems that concern me and I know they trouble him. I move on and go see my mother and father in-law. I enjoyed the evening listening to their stories. They don't have any sons but since I married one of their daughters they claim me and I am proud of their claim. On the way home I meditate on my visits and I have a fresh reality that getting old has some challenges. And I think maybe I am getting old.

 

I get home and sleep in my bed one night and then take off in the in the other direction to Kentucky. My purpose is to attend a funeral visitation for the father of a pastor friend of mine. My friend is not as old as I am but I know from experience that losing your father will make you feel old. I continue on my journey and go spend the night with my aunt. We set up and talk past midnight and I am pretty sure that is past her bedtime. But I don't want to miss the opportunity share some old memories. Because, I think maybe I am getting old. Next morning I drive over to the town where I grew up. I go to the cemetery to visit the graves of my father and mother. I inspect the flowers resting on top of their stone and I surmise that they are in good enough shape that they don't need to be replaced just yet. I had made arrangements to see another old friend. His son is about the same age as me and I had spent a lot of time at his house when I was growing up, particularly on Sunday afternoons after church. We have a lot of church stories to tell and a lot of people to memorialize. I discover that this old friend and I have more friends in common that are dead than are alive. I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

I get home and I read an obituary in the Illinois Baptist. A pastor friend with whom I have enjoyed many moments of sweet fellowship has lost his wife of 52 years. I call my friend and he reminisces about her life and her home going. She had been suffering from cancer and her death is bittersweet. I think my friend feels old and I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

So I am absorbing my recent experiences with old friends. It causes me to understand that I don't want to spend much time in puny arguments. Life is short and there is simply too many difficulties and too much sorrow to waste energy squabbling. I would rather give my life to loving one another and rejoicing in the love of others.  That is my opinion. But maybe I am just getting old. 

Brock at Twenty-Eight

On this date twenty-eight years ago I went to bed early. My wife Jeanette had told me that she felt certain that before the night was over we would be making a trip to Springfield, IL for the delivery of our second child. So I slept as the signs of her labor began to develop. She awoke me about midnight. After entrusting Jeremy, our oldest child, into the care of Olyta Hazelwood we made the trip to Memorial Medical Center. There at 6:06 A.M., May 20, our second child, Brock, was born. I had no idea how much his birth would shape my life. Or perhaps I should say I had no idea how much his life would shape my life.

Brock is autistic. He is a man today. In fact he is a big man. He is Six feet tall, weights over 200 pounds, has a big appetite, and a big personality. He lives with us and is under our watch care. Caring for Brock has changed the scope of my life. In one sense it has placed some limits on life. There are some things I cannot do and some things I must do differently because of him. But those limits have added other dimensions to my life. I view the world through different prisms because of Brock. Brock has not narrowed my world but he has broadened my world. Brock enables me at times to see life from his perspective. When that happens I see a much simpler world that is free from hatred and prejudice and struggles for power. Maybe that is why Brock always seems happy.

God in His sovereignty entrusted Brock to Jeanette and I. We have learned to rejoice in the gift God has entrusted us with. We love Brock and he returns that love to us in many ways. Each day Brock teaches us how to find satisfaction in the simple things of life. Brock delights in going to church.  He enjoys singing and at times sings boisterously. Tonight, in our evening worship service Brock and Jeanette were sitting on the second row. Instead of sitting on the platform I was sitting on the front row directly in front of Brock. We were singing and Brock was singing right into my ear. I closed my eyes and just listened as Brock sang the repetitive praise song: “God is so good…He cares for me…I love Him so…I praise His name…He’s so good to me”. Yes indeed – twenty-eight years ago God sure was good to me.

 

A Rare and Precious Gift

In each of our lives there are some rare and precious gifts. If we are not careful we will overlook these gifts and fail to appreciate them. These rare gifts are often a person. One of the rare gifts in my life was a man named Kurt Elam. Kurt was my mother’s first cousin. He was the son of Aunt Sarah Elam, who was a sister to my maternal grandfather Morgan Williams. Aunt Sarah’s husband George had been killed while working on the railroad a few years before I was born. They had raised a large family all of whom were grown or nearly grown by the time I knew them. Kurt was one of the older children. He never married and except for a few months in 1953 when Aunt Sarah was living in Covington KY he lived all of his life with Aunt Sarah. At the time I knew him it was mostly just he and Aunt Sarah living together and taking care of one another.

The polite words used in our culture to describe Kurt would have been “simple” or “a little slow”. Some might have said he was socially awkward. He could not read nor write. I am told however, that when it came to reasoning he was a logical thinker and could solve ordinary everyday problems that might arise. Kurt never had steady employment but he kept himself busy doing odd jobs, particularly helping local truckers load and unload their cargo for which he received some small pay. He learned to cope with his challenges and society allowed him to function. He was a member of the New Salem Baptist Church near London, KY and he attended church every time the doors were open. He was always neatly groomed. He was courteous. He was quite. When he did speak it was often a question or a concern about the well being or activity of others.

The New Salem Baptist Church was heated by a coal furnace that was located in the basement. Kurt had the task of firing the furnace and keeping the church warm and comfortable. He took this task seriously and would get up early, walk the mile or so from his house, down Baxtertown Road and across the tracks to the church. No matter how early you got to church Kurt was already there and had the fire going. It was in the process of his carrying out these duties that I had an altercation with Kurt one Sunday morning that caused a different side of him to erupt that I had never seen before. I was probably 6 maybe 7 years old. We got to church early one winter morning and I began to explore the premises. I found myself in the furnace room. The coal furnace had a big lever on the side that you would move back and forth to shake out the ashes. I knew all about this lever and I grabbed hold of it and began to move it back and forth. There were two problems with that. First of all it was not my furnace. For all practical purposes it was Kurt’s furnace. Secondly, the ashes did not need shaking out because there were not many ashes yet which meant that when I moved the lever I was shaking out the hot coals and messing up the fire Kurt had just worked hard to build. It did not take Kurt long to find me and when he did he was angry. His eyes raged and his face was red. He yelled at me. I was scared. My dad heard the commotion and came and rescued me. I was a little worried that dad might have some rage of his own but I guess he figured that Kurt’s abrupt reprimand had been enough. He just got me upstairs to a safe place, told me to stay put and not to mess with Kurt’s fire again. I steered clear of Kurt the rest of that day. By the next Sunday Kurt was back to normal and acted as if the incident had never happened. But I have never forgotten that day. The memory is as clear as yesterday.

I have thought about that incident often and I have wondered why a few shakes of the lever had disturbed Kurt so much. Yes, I had shaken out a few hot coals. While that was a problem and might slow down the heating process it could be fixed easily enough. Another shovel full of coal and a few minutes would solve the matter. I suspect the issue was that I had entered into Kurt’s private world. Firing the furnace and making sure the church was warm was his job. He did not need any help and he did not want any help, especially from a 6 or 7 year old boy. There were few things in life that belonged totally to Kurt but this job did. He knew how to do this job. He knew how to do it right. He was going to do it his way. He was conscientious about this responsibility. I learned a valuable lesson that day about the importance of staying out of the way and letting people do the work that is assigned to them.

Maybe Kurt also understood the importance of his job. The worshippers would be there soon and they would expect the building to be warm and comfortable. Indeed it was important that our bodies were warm. If we were cold we would complain. We would not be able to focus on the truth of God’s word and the movement of God’s Spirit. By making sure the place was warm Kurt was enabling us to have a meaningful time of worship. Indeed we all have important tasks in the church and if we fail to perform our tasks the other facets of the church are hindered also.

Kurt died suddenly of a heart attack. He was only 56. I was a teenager at the time. I attended his visitation. It was a humbling experience. I realized then that in this quiet, content, unassuming man we had been blessed with a rare and precious gift.