by Donna Poole
“I’m not sure you should cut my hair this morning. You just had your second full dose cancer treatment yesterday so you’re probably feeling rotten, and I’m not sure we have time before the funeral.”
“I’m strong on steroids, remember? It won’t take long; I’m sure we’ve got enough time. I’ll feel worse tomorrow than I do today; that’s how this goes. They’ve done so much for us. I love them, and I want to be there for them.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
The hair cut was uneventful unless you count the volume of shaggy hair falling to the floor.
“Honey, I can almost hear Bud from heaven.”
We laughed, remembering the long-ago time, when busy with babies and life, I’d let John’s hair creep over his ears and down his neck, and some people at church hadn’t approved but were too nice to say so. Finally, Bud, a deacon, the kindest of men, and a great encourager, approached me after church with some dollar bills crumpled in his hand.
He held them out to me.
“What’s that for?”
“I know you’ve been busy lately, and um, Pastor’s hair, well, it’s getting kind of long, and um, well, I thought maybe you could use this money and send him to the barber.”
Poor Bud looked miserably uncomfortable. I knew he’d been appointed spokesperson and was handling the situation Bud style, encourage don’t discourage.
I laughed and hugged him. “Put your money away, Bud. I’m not too busy to cut John’s hair. I’ll get it done this week; I promise!”
His face brightened and he patted my back.
Haircut finished and running a bit later than we’d hoped, John got in the shower. When he got out, I knew something was wrong. It didn’t take me long to run for his nitro.
When the chest pain ended with just one pill John continued getting ready.
“Honey, are you sure you should go?”
“I’m feeling fine. I’m going. Are you sure you should go?”
We both knew the answer to that. With my lymphocyte count this low I’m at a high risk of infection and am supposed to avoid crowds. But we hoped to arrive early and sit in the back. Some things are worth the risk. I’ve had to miss some funerals and other important things when I was critically low on everything and under orders to stay home; now I’m just under suggestions. This sweet neighbor lady who died left behind people we care about, and we wanted to be there today for them. Why are we still here if not to see one another through?
As you may have guessed, we got a later start than we hoped. We arrived at the church just in time, but there was no place to park. John drove to the corner to turn around and wham! Wheels spun and refused to move.
So, John, the one who’d just had an angina attack at home, shoveled us out of the snow. We finally found a place a distance from the church and went hurrying off; if you can call me hanging on to John’s arm with one hand and using my cane with the other hand and both of us pushing our way through the snow in the unplowed road hurrying!
“We…are…going…to be…so…late!” I said, gasping for breath.
But when we got inside, the service hadn’t started. The pastor and the family were still lined up inside the door. I wear a mask, doctor’s orders, so of course my glasses completely fogged over, and I couldn’t see a single person. Just shapes.
A tall figure not in the line with the family touched my arm. “You may not remember me, but I pray for you every day. You’re at the top of my prayer list.”
I didn’t know if I remembered him or not because I couldn’t see him, but I thanked him, and tears formed behind my fogged-up lenses. It seems every time we go somewhere to encourage people, someone encourages us. John told me later the tall figure was the pastor from the Pittsford Wesleyan Church who, like us, and all the others in the full church at Liberty Bible Church, had come to show Bob and the family we cared deeply about their sorrow and wanted to walk part of this hard mile with them.
John spoke with the family as we made our way into the auditorium. I still couldn’t see a thing, but I managed to find Bob, the last in line. I can’t remember if I said a word to him. I know I hugged him. And he kissed the top of my head.
Amazingly, the last pew was empty. When we were seated, I took off my glasses and saw we knew so many of the people there.
The sermon was a beautiful tribute to Kathy; it made us chuckle and cry. And it was a beautiful tribute to the only one Kathy loved more than her family, the Lord Jesus. Pastor Wickard preached from Kathy’s Bible with its verses underlined and its margin notes written in her handwriting. He reminded us Kathy is in the Father’s house now, and that she’d want him to tell us all how to be there with her.
He spoke with simplistic beauty the old confession of the faith: Jesus, God the Son, loved us enough to die for our sins. And we, sin sick and weary, need but cry out to him to save us from our sins, and he will do it. And then someday we will all be where Kathy is now.
Too simple you say? Pie in the sky? Other great minds thought so but changed their minds when they investigated. On that note I highly recommend the movie, “C.S. Lewis Onstage The Most Reluctant Convert.” Please watch it before you disregard Christianity; you have everything to lose and everything to gain.
Back to the funeral, Kathy’s celebration of life, Pastor Wickard spoke words of comfort to the family. We sang together the old hymns Kathy loved. And then it was over. We talked a few minutes to a couple we dearly love and then made our way back to the car through the snow. I was freezing, and my socks under my boots were soaked. My heart ached for Bob and the family, but a warm joy sang through it all. We’ll meet again, all of us, at the Big Table in our Father’s House.
Next weekend is another funeral, a cancer warrior who lost her fight but gained heaven. I’ll miss her loving, encouraging messages. Patty wrote me this strong encouragement on December 19, 2020.
“I was brought to tears this morning when praying for you and it had me wishing I had something deep and scriptural to share with you. Instead, I found a snippet of a sermon that had been shared with me.
‘Our primary purpose is not our pleasure it is His glory. We are not called to do something easy. We are called to do something important. Things that are important require commitment and effort and perseverance, and we persevere because we know there are eternal purposes to earthy difficulties. God knows our burdens. He knows their purpose. Some He will fix; some He will not.’
“This has brought me a lot of comfort on those days when I know I can’t take anymore. Looking forward to the day when we have understanding.”
Patty understands now! But the rest of us don’t always. We need each other. My photographer daughter Kimmee was a second shooter at an Anglican wedding recently where they sang this song with its lovely words reminding us to walk Home together.
“The Servant Song by Richard Gillard
Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;
Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant, too.
We are pilgrims on a journey, And companions on the road;
We are here to help each other, Walk the mile and bear the load.
I will hold the Christ-light for you, In the night time of your fear;
I will share your joy and sorrow Till we’ve seen this journey through.
When we sing to God in heaven, We shall find such harmony
Born of all we’ve known together Of Christ’s love and agony.
Brother, sister, let me serve you, Let me be as Christ to you;
Pray that I might have the grace to Let you be my servant too.”
My reader friends, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We aren’t here to criticize and see through one another; we’re here to see one another through. In person and online, with whatever time we have left, let’s walk the mile and share the load.
The End
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Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
I have six other books on Amazon as well, four fiction books in the “Life at the Corners” series, and two children’s Christmas picture books.
Please follow me on Facebook at Donna Poole, author
