“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God. They collapse and fall, but we rise and stand upright.” – Psalm 20:7-8
Thunder is always ominous, but never more so when the skies are blue. The deep rumble sets a heart on edge, especially if one is knee deep in a river. For every peel, a question explodes in the mind. Will the storm blow over? Do I have time to grab my things? How long will it last?
When the dark clouds blow in and lightening begins to flash, the questions grow darker still. What if it strikes a tree? What if it hits me? Will I be electrocuted? Will it hurt or will I simply die? Will my family even miss me when I’m gone? Or will they celebrate a reprieve from green vegetables with takeout every night?
I contemplate these things as I fish on the Borbeuse River this week. Storms blow in as I try to relax and enjoy a few minutes away from my daily routines. Instead of rushing to work out, I sleep in and stretch. I take a short cut through the woods and get lost in a creek. I stroke a patch of moist moss and chase a lizard into the undergrowth. I wade into the warm river water and watch a fresh water muscle puff water from its spout. It moves through the sand a centimeter and I wonder how long until a greedy raccoon scoops it from the water and indulges in fresh flesh.
We head back to my grandpa’s house when the lightning flashes. Still, I rush to the lake so I can cast my white spinner across the ripples and into the cold deep. I snag a few times but finally catch something as cold drops splash onto my forehead. I pull out a fat sunfish but throw him back as the white-hot electricity pulses around me. I holler at my children. “Danger! Take cover!” And we run to the house as the heavens let loose. We stand there panting while gray curtains of water rattle against the ground. My grandpa leans forward in his chair and says, “Looks like we’re going to get some rain.”
We take advantage of the weather by catching up and reminiscing. My grandpa is nearly 85 years old and a shadow of the man he used to be. He can no longer dig fence posts and bale hay. Instead, he struggles to walk to the bathroom with his walker and to hear simple phrases. Every sentence begins with a loud, “What?” as he strains to understand what was just said. Still, I enjoy his company immensely. He verbally remembers the many trips we took in his boat up river in search of the big bass, and the nights spent camped out on the sandy banks of the Borbeuse River. “There was always a storm brewing,” he says. “We had to keep one eye on the sky at all times.” I listen closely in case there’s a story developing that I haven’t heard before.
I am not disappointed this trip. He tells the story of the time he and my grandmother went to camp on the river and left my little uncle Denny in the car to finish a nap. When he went to check on him, Denny was gone. His little foot prints in the dirt indicated he had wandered off into 50 acres of corn. My grandpa finally found him but said he’d never forget it. “I never took my eyes off those kids again.”
My uncle Tim is in from Cape Girardeau. He has the same idea I do—escape the daily grind with a good old-fashioned sweat. He grabs a weed eater and makes short work of the tall grass that has accumulated around the small pond. He edges the sidewalks in front of the house and unearths the stone path that leads from the house to the road. I don’t know how long it took my grandpa to build that little stretch of stones. I only know he dug it by hand and filled it with large rocks he took from the river. Tim said that next time he’d bring the Round-Up, an idea my uncle Mike firmly disdained.
At times our conversations turn political—a topic I generally despise—but I so enjoy talking with my family members I contribute to the best of my ability. I have always admired my uncles. I think they are the most handsome, the most winsome, and the most brave men I know. My father’s brothers are broad shouldered and have dark hair like my grandmother. They are fishermen, hunters, and fierce protectors of their families. My uncle Tim shows me pictures of the house he is rehabbing for his daughter. He is so like my dad and also different. When I tell my grandfather how great they are he says of his children, “There’s not a bad one in the bunch.” And he’s right. I think just as highly of my courageous and beautiful aunts.
Of course, the worries come out in our conversations too. Health issues. Money. One of my cousins will lose her job when the company she works for closes its doors in a few weeks. The roof my grandfather paid good money for is leaking and the contractor who put it on won’t return a call. Uncle Tim says, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” While we quietly wonder if cancer is the next chocolate in the box and desperately pray it is not, we remember Grandma, who passed into glory this time last year. I see her when my aunts and uncles smile, but I hear her voice when Uncle Tim instructs me not to do any more dishes because he will take care of that. I didn’t make breakfast this morning because he made it before I got up. Because of him, I can smell her eggs over easy too.
I stand in the river again and stare are the white, fluffy clouds. They are fluent; moving and morphing. Their beauty confounds me and I want them to freeze in time just like I want my cousins to stop growing. I want to go back and take one more trip up the river with my grandpa. I want him to show me how to tie the lure, jig the bait worm, and trick that big bass into biting. I want one more dip in the river with my grandma. One more hug. I need time to stop moving so fast. Because even though I’m in the best shape of my life, I can’t seem to catch my breath.
We are all worrying over the future and the pain we know will come. The sting of death lurks much closer now than it used to. We talk about the hordes of wasps that guard the entrance to Grandpa’s old corn crib/workshop and I shudder. My son holds ice to his leg where one of the wasps stung him and I wonder if there is an ice cube strong enough to dull the throb of the sting that is sure to pierce our hearts. And then I remember the words that soothe even the most acute aches.
“I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable put on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:50-58
The thunder storms roll out and the blue skies appear again. The earth is fresh and new. The ground is wet. The frogs are chirruping. The hummingbirds pause to sip nectar while I watch with wonder. And that is when I accept the fact that yes, the “Good byes” are coming. But more importantly, so are the “Welcome homes!”
