They lived in the heart of Appalachia! To go to their house was to travel into the heart of the Appalachian mountains and 40 years back in time.
I remember Grandpa would pick his 12 string guitar on the front porch, while Grandma stringed beans and I would play with my cousins building forts, trying to dig to China, target practicing with our .22's on soda cans across the valley, and driving the tractor over to see if we actually hit anything.
This mountain was a little boys dream come true. I was Huckleberry, Daniel Boone, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle all wrapped into one.
One of the things I remember vividly about Grandpa & Grandma's was their bedroom. Their house is a simple ranch house, 30' deep and no more then 60' wide. A carport turned into living room with a pot belly stove, kitchen, pantry, the original living room only used to steal quick naps, and two bedrooms.
The back bedroom and theirs.
For some reason the back bedroom was almost ever used. But Grandpa and Grandma's room had a Gun case, queen bed, dresser, and a twin bed.
This twin bed was where I slept as a kid. The thought of what lived in the woods 20' beyond the window made this bed, next to Grandpa and Grandma safe, secure, I knew that there, next to them, and next to their guns, all would be ok. Safe from bears, coyotes, foxes, and about a million other "monsters" I was convinced lived in the mountains.
I would often lay in that twin bed next to my grandparents and think about that days adventure and the adventures to come tomorrow, but I'd also think about how much I love them, idolize them, but as I got older I would also think about how my Grandma was sick.
She was born with a heart condition that made her weak, but she'd never allow me to actually see her be weak. I remember hearing stories about her being sick as a little girl, and I knew Grandpa always had a cautious eye on her, but to me Grandma was always strong, always moving, always working, because that was just who she was.
Because of her heart condition she had to have the valves in her heart replaced several times in her life, and for a 8-year-old boy open heart surgery was about the most amazing thing ever, and to make it even more awesome Grandma was getting parts from a pig's heart put into her heart, which still blows my mind today! (It was always awkward to watch her eat bacon after knowing this)
But I remember as a little boy laying in my twin bed, next to Grandpa and Grandma, in their house tucked into the side of the mountain, tucked back in time, listening to the sounds of the mountain, and thinking... thinking about death, trying as an 8 year old to wrestle with the weight of death. Of life ending. Of saying goodbyes and letting go.
I'm not sure why, maybe because of Grandma's health, or the fact my favorite cousin died in a car wreck, or the fact that every pastor I met seemed to only want to talk about death and hell, and knowing for sure where I was going, but no matter why I thought these thoughts, I did.
I would lay there listening to the mountain, listening to my Grandparents snore, and quietly in my bed be totally freaking out.
Emotions of anger from letting go, sadness of not getting to experience life, jealously of why others would get to experience things I wouldn't, fear that faith was all fake and there'd be nothing next, or something worst like those pastors were all right and I hadn't said "that prayer" "that way" "sincerely enough" and God would disqualify my best attempts and I'd be eternally hosed because of it.
Crickets would chirp, Grandpa would snore, and I'd freak out.
Quietly, in my twin bed.
This didn't happen much. About once a year, then once every two years, then seasons would pass, but every now and then it all comes crashing back.
And now I lay in a king size bed, not listening to crickets but cars passing, not snores from Grandpa but from tiny exhausted boys tucked into our sides, and all those thoughts, fears, and emotions come crashing back upon me.
This week several people have experienced death or the rumblings of death near me. We had two people we know attempt suicide, a friend was one of the first three on an accident where the driver was pronounced dead on the scene, another friend is walking with his best friend whose three-year-old daughter has recently diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, and moments ago a friend texted saying her father-in-law was being rushed to the hospital with bleeding on the brain.
This week the idea of death and dying has been in my head and old fears, old anxieties, old worries, crashed in again.
So I ask again, not as an 8 year old hoping to one day drive but as a 31 year old madly in love with his wife and boys wanting to see them grow old:
- What will it actually be like to die.
- What will happen to us when it's all done.
- Will Jesus really be there to catch me?
If I'm honest, even thou I'm a pastor, have studied theology and tell people weekly to trust Jesus, I have a level of anxiety around the idea of dying, a level of anxiety around not being in what I know anymore.
A level of anger at the thought of not getting to see my boys grow old, to hold their kids, and see them grow into young men. I get angry at not growing old, wrinkly, and saggy with Pearl, I want our marriage to be like a fine wine, aged through the decades of life together.
I found myself starting to mentally spin out of control, starting to freeze in fear.
But the other night as all this started to crash on me, as all the questions, emotions, panic came, I found myself praying a weird and yet childishly simply prayer.
"Jesus, please be true, please be enough, and I choose to trust you. Help me sleep, amen"
To be honest I had to pray that about 10 times over a 30 minutes period. I'd pray it, calm down, then freak out, pray, calm down, freak out... you get the drill. It wasn't a silver bullet prayer for my fears and anxieties, but more like a paper cut that finally slain the dragon in my head.
So as this week comes to a close and I hold my 2 month old in my lap I ask different questions.
Knowing I can't predict or control the future, knowing I can't answer my questions of death, and knowing that choosing to have faith about what's next, is simply that, faith. And yet still in all it's confusion and fear death will one day come for me, my boys, my wife.
I ask:
- Is what I'm doing really matter? Am I investing time on what counts?
- Is this argument really worth it?
- Is that gadget really worth the hours of my life I'd have to give to get it?
- Do those who matter most, know they matter most? Has my words, actions, time told them so?
So knowing we're finite beings, with no guarantees of the future, am I really making the most of today, the most of the time I do have?
So I hope as you look at your weekend you have a focused approach to what matters most and a reminder of what you need to be giving your time and attention to and that in light of the deadline of your life, in light of a period coming to your name, you're able to say you're living with focus and attention and that you're making the most of the time been granted.
And when the fears of the unknown come able to pray, "Jesus, please be true, please be enough, and I choose to trust you. Help me sleep, amen"
Matt
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