A SLIGHT CHANGE IN HIS AGENDA. Pts. 1-5

Just when you get used to living and begin to take life for granted, it seems like someone near and dear realizes the most profound of all human experiences.

Thankfully, the majority of those who leave us have reached the average age at which, well, the majority of people leave us. As I approach the (depending on how you perceive it) enviable or unenviable age of 70, I have navigated the passing of close friends, cousins, aunts and uncles, in-laws, grandparents, parents in law, and parents. And as I have previously alluded, save for a minority of these folks, most had lived out what is generally considered a “long and good life.”

However, there are exceptions to the rule, and these exceptions span the genders, races, cultures, national origins, and ages from 0 to 60.

One of the first and most poignant examples in my own life involved a dear classmate named, “Beth;” the daughter of a local music minister and his wife. And though I don’t recall ever exchanging a word with her, she and I were members of the Summerlin High School Chorus, and, thanks to the expertise of an extraordinary choir director, were fortunate to compete in several state contests together. Dear Beth was taken before her time, at least in terms of our human understanding, as the result of a one vehicle accident; just a few months after my graduation, and just weeks before her own.

In the past few years I have had the distinct privilege of knowing a dear couple, also ministers of the Gospel, who have experienced, in all respects, an almost identical tragedy.

Pt. 2

And when such hideous, seemingly premature events occur, we are left with little more than question marks, and limited options. We can rage against the seeming whims of Providence, (or) invest our questions in the One who will, someday, if not now, be faithful to provide a relevant response.

Speaking of the unexpected homegoing of the youngest and dearest among us, following is a tribute written over a century ago, by the teacher of my dearly departed great uncle; who passed away prior to attaining his 20^th year of life.

No doubt, I am biased, but it has to be the most beautiful eulogy I have ever read.

Whom the Gods love, die young was said of yore.

This morning our town is shrouded in profound gloom. A guest has visited one of our homes, a guest unbid, who, armed with resistless power, remained without a welcome from his host. For nine long days, this guest loitered around the room with lawless freedom, and at night, would stalk into the room, and cast his shadows on the walls. At last he grew more familiar, and bending lowly over the couch, called the noble, generous spirit of Cleveland to the God, who gave it.

There is something exquisitely touching in the tolling of a church bell amid the silence of quiet country folks. The plowman stops his horse to listen to the solemn tidings of mortality. The sympathizing mothers forget their work, and with the needle suspended tremulously over the garment before them, give a deep sigh, and wonder who it is that is gone to his long home. And the innocent children, cheerful as their glee, and merry as their songs, pause amid their merry gambols and catch the melancholy sound and cover their little heads when they go to bed at night. And this is death.

If a man die, shall he live again? Yes, and more abundantly.

Cleveland died at the approach of morning, just as the stars were fading away, one by one, from the gray heavens, and night had slowly receded before the approach of golden morn. It was one of the loveliest customs of the ancients to bury their young at early morning twilight.

They gave a soft interpretation to death, believing that Aurora, the goddess of light, who loved the young, took them to her soft embrace, and forever looked after their happiness. Better for us, that we should think more of the happiness and beauties of Heaven, than have such fearful concern about that other place. Is there anyone so faithless as to believe that God will not provide for those for whom his Son died!

I believe that my young friend, Cleveland, is safe in the embrace of a loving Savior. He left this life just as he was merging into the prime of manhood. He was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Warren Cone of this place. He was a pupil of the Barwick school, and be it said to his credit, that during two terms, he never had to be corrected. He knew his duty and always did it.

(A tribute to Grover Cleveland Cone by his teacher, B.H. Culbreth)

Pt. 3

In the past several days, the dark angel left his calling card with yet another young family member, my nephew; (and the double great nephew of the individual of whom the foregoing eulogy was written).

Tony and I have enjoyed a good relationship from time immemorial, and have remained in touch and have “broken bread together.” And, as a result, it was all the more startling to discover he was no longer among the land of the living.

But to digress for a moment.

Tony had not been well for quite some time; though I was not familiar with the significance of his symptoms. It was only after his passing that I discovered my 35 year old nephew had experienced a couple of small strokes in recent years, had contended with bouts of anxiety, and that doctors had been unsuccessful in treating his hypertension. As a result, his wherewithal to procure work was limited; not the least of which reason was his inability to pass the physical exams to which he’d been required to submit.

Tony had friends and lots of them, and a smile that would “light up all out doors.” And having known some difficult times and seasons, he was an empathetic soul and would “give you the shirt off his back.” I don’t recall him ever asking me for anything, (other than a small portion of his grandfather’s ashes) and I loved to hear his intonations of my name and title. (“Uncle Royce…”)

Tony and I were planning to have lunch together this past weekend, and we’d decided to “pick up a bite” at our local “Cracker Barrel Restaurant.” As a result, I dropped him a message the Friday morning before our scheduled Saturday meal, and said,

“Well, are we on for tomorrow at Cracker Barrel?” Oddly enough, hours elapsed and I received no response.

I later understood he’d been unable to respond, but rather had crossed the proverbial Jordan; while awaiting his mother’s knock on the door.

Pt. 4

That same afternoon my brother called, and invaded my sanctum with the most unbelievable news. Tony had passed away at home. It seems he’d called his mother in the wee hours of the morning; while she was in the midst of performing her duties as a nurse to a disabled child. Linda urged him to go to the E.R., but he hesitated to follow through. He disliked hospitals, and the anxiety to which he was prone exaggerated his emotions towards the medical environment, and medical population which inhabited it.

After getting off work and stopping by her house, my sister made the most fateful journey of her life. When Tony failed to answer her knock, she entered his mobile home and discovered his lifeless form. Though unresponsive, and his natural warmth was gone, Linda exhausted what options remained to her. I will spare you the details.

My nephew loved his grandparents like few grandchildren ever loved their grandparents, and had created a small self-styled memorial table upon which he kept their photos and personal mementos. Oddly enough, after his mother had done all she was capable of doing, and subsequent to calling the paramedics, she glanced towards the table, and discovered Tony’s old work badge lying amongst the other pictures and trinkets; as though the result of some premonition, he’d added that small tribute to himself.

And as we later learned, Tony had contacted a friend that morning, and expressed how badly he felt; and that he thought he might not make it through the day. And as you might expect, his family and friends understood his ‘gift’ for exaggeration, and it is likely that the young man shrugged it off, and “went about his business.”

In retrospect, my sister remembered a recent conversation in which Tony elicited a particular promise, preceding their discussion with,

…“Just in case something were to happen to me.”

Odd, the confluence of ingredients which combined to enhance the ‘flavor” of that ethereal mixture which represents my nephew’s passing; to some of which I have previously alluded.

Pt. 5

And while I was convinced of it, I had to be sure. Sitting down at my personal computer, and bringing up the internet, I clicked on the only social media page to which I subscribe, and scanned through a recent interaction with my nephew.

There it was “in all its glory.”

“Uncle Royce, I would never harm myself, but I would love to go be with Granddaddy and Grandmama.”

Tony and I were scheduled to have lunch together the next day. However, my nephew had experienced a slight change in his agenda. He’d traded a few morsels of turkey and mashed potatoes, and the natural comradery we’d so often shared for something, (no offense intended) that he’d so much preferred taking part.

I have no doubt, whatever, that as I write these lines and you read my musings that Tony is healthier and happier than he ever was before, and that he now resides in a place devoid of those dark dreams which so often overwhelmed the night season, and stole away his sleep.

“I can only imagine.” (My mother’s favorite song, and one she hoped would be sung at her funeral).

But I can only imagine…

I can so easily visualize it.

As Tony drifted off on this side of the proverbial curtain, and the rest which had eluded him for so long overwhelmed his sensibilities, and his personal angel gently ushered him through the pearly gates,

…he recognized two familiar figures.

And I am privileged to be momentarily privy to their reunion and lively banter.

His grandmother almost involuntarily rubs her eyes in disbelief, and his granddad exclaims,

“Tony! What are you doing here? I could have swore you would have been another fifty years coming! But don’t get me wrong, you gotta know we’re glad to see you, boy!”

To which Tony responds,

“Well, grandpa, I suppose I had a slight change in my agenda.”

And with this, his granddad issues a personal invitation.

“Are you hungry, son? I can tell you. The food here is better than anything you ever sunk your teeth into. Can you smell it? I just happened by the kitchen, and the angels are cooking up the best BBQ pork, and fried chicken, and creamed corn, and fried green tomatoes, and cornbread that ever passed your lips!”

And as that heavenly scene begins to evaporate, (at least to my mortal eyes) Tony’s grandfather and grandmother grab his hands, one on the left, one on the right, and follow a well-worn golden pathway towards that lovely aroma which wafts from the heavenly banquet hall.

“Uncle Royce, no offense to you, but I would love to have lunch with Granddaddy and Grandmama.”

No offense taken, Tony. No offense taken.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 60. Copyright Pending.

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