The Saturday Journal: I wish I would have told you

I wanted to take my fist and slam it through a wall. Take a baseball bat and swing it against the biggest of oak trees until the bat splintered into a million pieces. I wanted to scream. But I knew none of that would help.

I'm not mad at you, God. And I know you understand we can't help but ask why.

Right now, I'm just angry with myself.

I guess it was meant for me to hear the news in our little church on the side of the road where you visited often. The last time I saw you--you walked in wearing a blue jacket--often times you came straight from your job--dirty--wearing work boots--sometimes wearing a toboggan to keep out the winter cold.

I hope you never felt--less than--because of what you wore.

My only conversation with you lasted about five minutes--but in those few moments I learned you were a young man of kindness--of respect. It was on a Wednesday evening--we had a church meal before our regular service and you came late. And one of the ladies in our church family saw you in the parking lot--invited you to come in--share our meal.

And God gave me this incredible blessing of serving you that evening--with each dish I offered--you said, 'No thank you or yes please--I love mashed potatoes and two pieces of chicken please.' You shared with me your name and said you worked in construction. It was a hard job you said. Outside all the time. You would like to have more hours. But you were grateful for the job. And then when your plate was full--you asked, 'Can I pay you for the food? For the meal?'

Fighting back tears, I told you no. There are seconds if you want to come back to the table--fill up another plate, take one to go. There is plenty, I said. And I watched as you went and sat at a table by yourself and our pastor, he went and sat with you --talked with you--offered you more food--making sure you were welcomed--you were full.

You came on Sabbaths--on Wednesday worship nights--not regularly--but you came. And you--you never sat in the back--you always walked to the pews closest to the altar--and you sat there and from your countenance--I believe you were soaking in every word of the Sunday sermons--the Wednesday night lessons. You would shake your head--in silent amens--there were many of them. You brought a friend--to worship on one occasion. I'm not sure if it was a family member and really, it didn't matter. I remember our pastor told a story of his childhood and you looked at this person and smiled--almost laughed. I thought you must have related to his story--your memories as a child, perhaps.

I learned you were a giving person--not because you told me--but because of what you showed me. You were late on this one particular Sabbath and the offering plate had already been passed by on the pew where you came to sit. And you, stepped out of where you were and almost in a sprint--rushed to the Deacon carrying the offering plate and placed your humble offering with the others. And there was this other time I recall--a young lady in our church--she was standing in the pulpit sharing her heart--a mission project she planned to do for the homeless community. And you said, 'I would like to give and you handed her your offering. I don't have much to give, you said, but I want to give some.'

My dear friend--she told me early on the Sabbath morning. And we both--in disbelief--our eyes spilled out tears. Later than afternoon, I walked deep in the woods--crying--my journal in hand and when I got to my sacred ground--there I was--without ink--no pen or pencil. So I walked more--restless--talking to God.

And I know a person's not supposed to work on the Sabbath. I know this. But, on this Sabbath--the day after you decided to leave this world--I went to the shed and got the shovel out and I slammed the hard ground with the blade. Again and again. Digging deeper. And then I placed the Sweet William flowers in the soil.

I bought these tiny--sometimes overlooked plants from a local farmer at the farmers market. And I told this lady farmer of the Sweet Williams my Grandmother used to grow. How my Grandmother would let us grandkids cup the flowers with one hand and then turn them upside down. And gently we would shake the flowers until these tiny black seeds fell into our sweaty little hands. And my Grandma, she would said, let go of the seeds--let them slowly fall to the ground. More flowers will grow.

If I could go back--oh, how I wish I could--I would have told you how your presence in our church blessed me--blessed others. How two of the young people in our church wanted you to have a new Bible and they worked it out.. You didn't know. I wish I would have told you--I heard these very words--'I don't know what it is about that young man, but every time he walks through the church doors--it makes me happy.' And she wasn't the only person who felt that way--many did.

You were only twenty-three.

The Sweet Williams beneath the crooked birdhouse--beside the holly bush--the ones I planted on the Lord's Day--two weeks ago--they are growing--

Driving down a familiar road and something catches my eye and I glance over and there's this house I've never seen. It's tucked away behind the trees and there's a porch--a ramp actually leading to the front door and the ramp is aligned on both sides with red vibrant roses.

I wish I would have told you about the story of my Grandma's Sweet William seeds--how some things in life seem so insignificant--so small. But they're not. They never are. And our God, He brings forth this beauty in glances--beauty in the tiniest of seeds and beauty that's meant to be only for a season, but forever in our hearts.

I wish I would have told you--I will miss you when you're gone.

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The Saturday Journal.

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