It Won't Be Very Long

My Grandfather Morgan Williams was a hymn writer. He had some 46 songs published. The most popular one was entitled “It Won’t be Very Long”. It gained some notoriety in Stamps Baxter singing circles. It can be found in a few of the old hymnals one of them being “Heavenly Highway Hymns”.
But I know it because my mother sang it from memory all the time when I was growing up. She was quite proud of the hymn and of her Dad who wrote it.

 I am remembering it tonight as my mother’...s life appears to be slipping away in a nursing home in Blacksburg, Virginia. Alzheimer’s has depleted her to an earthly shell. But awaiting her is a house not made with hands eternal in the heavens.

I am singing my Grandfather’s old hymn tonight. And I think I am hoping that maybe there is a recording somewhere in a hidden corner of my mother’s mind that is playing this hymn and giving her comfort.


It won't be very long till this short life shall end,
It won't be very long till Jesus shall descend;
And then the dead in Christ from beds of clay shall rise
To meet the Lord and King up yonder in the skies.


It won't be very long till here we cease to roam,
It won't be very long till all the saints get home;
And then with smiling face we'll walk the streets of gold,
And sing the Savior's praise where saints are never old.


It won't be very long till bur-dens we lay down,
It won't be very long till we'll receive a crown;
And then we'll shout and sing with angels round the throne,
And when we meet up there, we'll know as we are known.

It won't be very long till earth shall pass away,
It won't be very long till works of men decay;
But Jesus has pre-pared a happy dwelling place,
For all who look above and trust His matchless grace.


It won't be very long,
It won't be very long
Till Jesus shall appear;
That day is drawing near;
Will you be ready then
To meet the ransomed throng?
Get ready for that day,
It won't be very long.

Memories and Melodies

My mother was a woman who cherished memories. She took notes, treasured family gatherings, and always had her camera clicking. But at much too young of an age Alzheimer’s began to steal her memories. Her alertness to the world around her slowly faded to a blank stare and incoherent gaze. She has not known me for years. Nevertheless, I sometimes drive the distance to see her. On one of those occasions, about 20 months ago I found her in a state of chatter. I spoke to her and though I knew I would not be successful I tried to interact with her. But she stared blankly ahead oblivious to my presence and chattered away. I decided just to listen and did so for about an hour. Most of what she said made no sense but every now and then she would string 6 or 8 words together in a sentence. As I listened it occurred to me that there was something like a reel to reel tape playing her mind of events that occurred 50 plus years ago. In her demented state she was interacting with those events. I listened closely and discovered that I was on the reel to reel tape that she was interacting with. She would say “You know I have these two kids”. And if there were only two kids then one of them would have been me and that would have dated the event around 54 or 55 years ago. Once a brief smile came across her face as she said to one of those kids “Look at you, you are so cute” (I am quite certain she was probably referring to me). I realized something about my mother that day that I guess I already knew – The melody of her life was her children. That day she gave me a gift of listening as she recited the melody. Alzheimer’s had robbed her mind of the verses her life had written, but she was maintaining a feeble grasp on the melody.

Pill Organizers

I had a breakdown this morning. For years I have had trouble remembering to take my blood pressure medicine. Some days I have forgotten. Usually my body gives me a reminder of that about mid-day. I am certain there have been some days when I have taken my meds but thought I had not so I took them again. So three or four years ago I bought one of those pill organizers. Actually I must have bought a...n organizer twice because I found two this morning when I went to search for one. Yes, that is right; today I filled the compartments of the weekly pill organizer. I always thought this was for old people. While I am not yet ready to claim that mantle I do want to get old. Doing something that makes me feel older is a little frightening to me. However I have a growing fear of what could happen if I failed to properly take my medications. But please allow me the dignity of hedging a little bit. I began using the pill organizer not because I am getting older but because I am getting wiser.

Interacting with Yesteryear

I visited with my mother Thursday. Actually it is probably not correct to say that we visited. She has Alzheimer’s and has not known me for over two years. But I was there. We were in each other’s presence. The last two times I saw her she lay in a semi-sleep and barely said a word. But today she talked constantly. Some of her words were intelligible. Sometimes she could string 6 or 7 words together in the right order. I sat by her side and listened to her for an hour and a half. I tried to decipher a little of what might be going on in her mind. It was as if a reel to reel recording was being played over and over inside of her. She is part of the recording and she is interacting with the characters and verbalizing her part of the recording. The recording is obviously worn and it skips a lot. And from what I can pick up she changes to different reels at times. I make a few feeble attempts to let her know I am there but I cannot release her from the recording that has become a reality within her. So I give up and just listen. From what I can tell the recording she is interacting with took place sometime in her early adulthood. Once I heard her refer to her two kids. If she just had two, one of them would have been me. Once I heard her cite an antiquated phone # 550-J. I am left to wonder whose phone # that might have been. Finally it is time for me to go. I tell her goodbye. I tell her I love her. I kiss her on the forehead. I leave saddened but thankful. I had not heard my mother groan or moan or scream. I had simply witnessed her interact with a reality of a yesteryear. She seemed content in that reality.

A Story Snaps the Picture

One of the most wondrous benefits of a story is that hearing a story might bring from our mind and soul a story of our own. Yesterday I shared a story about the now disconnected phone numbers that had belonged to my parents. Hearing that story my Uncle George, my mother’s younger brother, remembered a story about my mother.

My mother at age 20 had just graduated from junior college and obtained a job as a one room country school teacher. She was still living at home and wanted to use part of her new income to help the family. So she had a phone line put in. It was the first phone the family ever had. George recalls that the phone # was 865-W. To make a call you simply picked up the receiver and a real live operator would make the desired connection for you. It seems that mother also bought new living room furniture for her mom that year and at Christmas time bought a present for every member of the family right down to the tiniest niece and nephew. That was not a small feat since my mother had 10 siblings most of whom would have been married with children by that time. Uncle George remembers helping my mother wrap the gifts at the kitchen table and recalls how proud she was of herself and how happy she was to be able to do that. That would have been perfectly in character for my mother but I had never heard the story before. I am so glad my uncle shared that story because it gave me a slice of my mother’s life I would not have had otherwise. It enabled me to see my mother through a different lens. I saw a picture of her as a young single 20 year old three years before I was born. I can see her smiling face amidst a mound of Christmas presents on the kitchen table. That is a beautiful picture. A camera could not catch that picture but the story did.

To Brent - with Love, Mother

When I graduated from high school my mother presented me with a poem she had written about me and for me. It is a long poem composed of fifteen 4 line rhyming verses honed in perfect meter. It is a poetic synopsis written from my mother’s perspective of the first eighteen years of my life. It notes, sometimes with interpretive detail, the important events and passages of my life from the time I was born until I graduated from high school. I am sure my mother labored hard writing the poem, giving careful thought to what she wanted to say and was precise with the wording. I am equally sure it was a labor of love.

Upon completion of the poem she enlisted someone who had abilities in calligraphy to copy the poem on fine parchment and then had it encased in a nice frame and presented it to me as a gift. This kind of gift was typical of my mother. I received it with politeness and with words of thanks. But I am sure I probably thought it was a little silly and I did not show it off to many people. Over the years however I have displayed the poem in a place of prominence in my office and ever now and then I would read it. I read it again this week which is probably the first time I have read it in five or six years. I noted that the ink on the parchment is becoming faded and told myself that I needed to preserve the poem in some other format so the legacy of my mother’s thoughts would not be lost.

I preached this morning from Psalm 121 which speaks of the watch care of the Lord in our lives. It says the Lord preserves our going out and our coming in from this time forth and even for evermore. The psalm reminded me of my mother’s poem. For 18 years she had watched my going out and my coming in and she had recorded the events with remarkable accuracy. The last verse of her poem was an admonition to walk with God – to allow God to oversee my going out and my coming in. So in my sermon I showed the congregation the framed copy of my mother’s poem, told the story behind it, noted its purpose and challenge. But I did not read the poem. But some of my congregants requested that I read it tonight and so I did.

I am glad I have the poem. I appreciate the time and effort and love my mother put into it. But honestly that poem has never been especially important to me. But today the poem took on new significance. Today it became a more relevant part of my heritage. For today as I read it I could hear my mother’s voice. I could sense her love and pride and presence as if she were giving it to me all over again. I was reminded once again of who I am and where I came from. I was reminded of whose I am and the journey that I am on.