THE THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND

 

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Our twenty pound Papillon, Toby, has an infuriating habit of barking at fast food workers. As a result, when my wife and I decide to do pizza or burgers for dinner, Jean lets Toby and me out as we stop to order, and I walk the little fella in the parking lot or the grassy area which borders it.

A couple of days ago, we pulled into a fast food establishment in our hometown of Bartow, Florida. And given there was a long line of cars ahead of us, I decided to walk a bit further than I am generally prone to do.

Suddenly, I was a man on an (admittedly minor) mission. For you see, about fifty yards from the restaurant stands the old Bartow Civic Center; a venue where local teens once danced, and children once swam in the outdoor pool. The old civic center remains, although a new one has long since replaced it. This building was used as a private school for several years, but now sits empty.

I presume the building and pool were built during the Great Depression. The outside walls of the edifice are adorned with what I refer to as ‘phosphate rock,’ although I suppose it would properly be called limestone. The pool was much like any other neighborhood pool of its day, except it’s perimeter walls were also made of limestone, and 5 foot long iron bars were driven along its top; a foot wide margin between each one.

The pool has been filled in now, and its 30x50 foot expanse is covered in grass. However, the walls are still there, though a few of the iron bars have been broken, and bent inwards where they meet the limestone wall, as though someone, not knowing any other way to get in, hoped to swim in a pool that no longer existed.

Pt. 2

There was a time when the building and pool were new; completed just moments ago by the hands of skilled workmen. The first quarter was yet to click its way down the metallic mechanisms of the new jukebox, and the sound of teenaged feet had not yet reverberated off the cement floor, and sheetrock walls. The bottom of the pool was still dry, and the blue aquatic paint which lined its walls was still wet.

As I reminisced about my days of yore, I found myself returning to a mental topic which had flooded my synapses many times in the past.

“The things we leave behind.”

Whereas the old civic center and what remains of the pool remain, the hands which so diligently built them have ceased their labor. The workmen who poured the concrete, who laid the blocks, and who installed the limestone have long since gone on to their reward.

Of course, the same could be said of a myriad of buildings and pools, and a million million other manmade things which were ever built, created or invented.

My dad was an artist. During the course of twenty or thirty years, he painted some pretty impressive landscapes. His paintings are scattered across central Florida, and perhaps the entire country. No sooner had he hung one in a local bank or restaurant, the phone rang, and a manager or clerk told him to come pick up his money. And while Daddy is no longer with us, several of his paintings grace my walls.

As I type out these words, a Victorian red velvet wooden chair sits not five feet behind me. It is a beautiful thing. No doubt, the workman finished hid masterpiece, and paused to admire what he had so skillfully accomplished; well over a century and a half ago.

Pt. 3

Speaking of workmen, and builders, and artists, I was never gifted with manual dexterity, and even the shadowbox I created in high school shop class was lop-sided, and I have no idea, (nor do I care) where it now resides.

However, I am a workman and builder and artist nonetheless. For you see, I trade in… souls. (Yes, I do). Souls are my workmanship, and I have been privileged to mold and shine many of them ‘til they shimmered like diamonds. For you see, I am a counselor and a mentor, and many of those whom God has set in my pathway have gone on to do wonderful things.

There was one, in particular, who summed it up well, and her words are so reminiscent of my implications here.

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go for you when you can no longer go. I’ll speak for you when you can no longer speak. I’ll reach, teach and keep people in your name long after you have gone on to your reward.”

Just as those wonderful craftsmen of old built edifices which have outlived them, I find myself doing much the same thing. For one day it will be said of me, “He left something behind.” For one day I will cease to be referred to as “He is,” and I will be remembered as “He was.”

When this workman has passed from the earth, my work will remain, and I will, in essence, continue my work through another. And they will be able to say, (as I have said before them), “I am the only reason that he ever lived and moved and breathed on the earth; (since he is incapable of doing anything more, and is depending on me to carry on what he once began”).

Afterward

I think Providence has granted all of us a destiny. And whether walls or buildings or pools or paintings or lives happen to be our calling, I think we ought to get about doing what our destiny dictates that we do.

For ultimately, there is nothing more satisfying or essential than leaving something behind.

by William McDonald, PhD