Of Buckboard Seats and Promises
Once upon a time Dad 'fixed up' this old buckboard wagon seat, mounted it on wooden runners and painted it so Mom could have it as an extra seat on the porch. Now that I think about it, I am not nearly so certain Mom was as excited by the renovation project as was Dad - but she nonetheless graciously accepted the gift and put it to use for quite a while. At some point the renovated seat was demoted to the shed as a seat then, finally, to being put away altogether. Such has been its fate for many a year - out of sight, out of mind, until now.
In the course of bringing together many of the old farm tools Dad had stored away, this seat resurfaced and, now looking at it, I am thinking of some questions which should have been asked of Dad a long time ago concerning its origin. Alas, into eternity with the keeper of its history went the answers to any questions which might have been asked - and I am left looking at the seat pondering whether or not to once again restore it and where it could be used.
This morning I said 'Until we meet again' to an old friend and classmate who passed from this world after a courageous battle with cancer. Truth be told, since leaving the farm in 1980 this person was one of those individuals of whom I had lost track, except that we would meet occasionally while I was in town for one thing or another over the years or, as fate or luck would have it when last we spoke, when he cut down a very large tree for my Dad and I was working in the adjoining field. Each time we met there was the customary handshake and smile, greetings, brief moments of updating each other on what had transpired since last we met, then uttered promises of getting together more often 'when time allows'. Time no longer allows such meetings.
Yet, it was the last time we spoke that he told me he was battling cancer and that it was taking quite a toll on him. Stopping in our conversation, he looked me in the eye and simply said, "Don, if I don't live through this I want you to promise me you will say a few words over me at the cemetery." He wasn't kidding - and neither was I as my answer to him is that I was humbled to be asked and would do for his family whatever needed to be done.
When the news of his passing crossed the transom I told my wife, Nancy, that it wouldn't surprise me if I received a call for the service - and why. A couple of days later, the call came. My recent retirement including promises to my family not to do funerals until well after Easter this year - but those promises were overshadowed in my heart and for my family by the pledge made to my friend when last we met. I thought of that today as, in the bitter cold and howling winds, family and friends stood at his graveside shedding tears and wishing there had been more time for all those conversations promised and questions never be fully answered. What he now fully knows and understands, we on earth can only know and understand in part. What we see in a mirror dimly, he now sees face-to-Face.
There is a part of each one of us which believes our mortality can be put off, even overcome, if we do not acknowledge its finality by not asking the questions we ought or by not being too intentional to keep every promise to meet again soon. It is as though, 'Maybe, just maybe, more time will be granted me if there is more for me to do', but then the last grain of sand sifts through the timer, whether for ourselves or for those around us, and what is left is the clarity of what might have been.
I should have asked Dad more about the old buckboard seat - in the same way I should have kept my intentions to get together more often with my old friend and classmate. Which makes me wonder . . .
How often do we do the same thing to God? How often do we say, 'Tomorrow I will worship', 'Tomorrow I will give thanks', 'Tomorrow I will listen to You', 'Tomorrow I will read the Bible', or 'Tomorrow I will make the choices which You already know are best for me'. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow . . .
Still, God loves us in all our todays. God listens to our pledges with an understanding ear and chooses to continue down the path with us, even as we turn away. God sees our need before we know our lack and meets us with just enough, as a Friend would do for a friend or as a Parent would do for a child.
On second thought, it will not take that much to redo that buckboard seat and preserve a piece of Wagner history, whether I fully understand it or not. Just to know that on that seat, behind a team of mules or horses my Grandpa or Great-Grandpa hauled goods from farm to farm or from farm to town will be just enough. Just to know that it mattered to my Dad invites me to allow the gift to matter to me . . .
The words we speak are more than utterances to be remembered in the late Winter winds of a graveside Celebration of Life Service - or we risk them meaning nothing at all, whether uttered to an old friend and classmate or to God. I pray that Dad, Merlin and God all know how much they mean to me - and how deeply grateful and humbled I am that they stood with me, far beyond my words. I pray such lessons are not lost in my heart as the days move onward or in my rush to get all things done. May it be so for you, as well.
Something to ponder on the journey.