There are some people you meet along
the way that you will never forget.
Andy Bos was one of them.
As one looks towards the pulpit, he
sat on the second pew on the right side of the church. He was as faithful to
the house of God as a new clock, and his mind was as sharp as a tack; though
his 9 plus decades had taken a decided toll on, (as scripture characterizes it)
“the outward man which perisheth.”
His wife having pre-deceased him
years before, and being “foot loose and fancy free” Andy began to date the
widow, Naomi; another aged member of our church. It seemed the duo spent every
available moment together, inside and outside the sanctuary, and were often
seen at the local McDonald’s, the city park, the library, and other local
venues. In spite of their obvious affection for one another, they never
married. And their failure to enter into the blessed state of matrimony
remained a mystery to one and all.
I was privileged to spend time with,
and converse with Andy. And often, on Sunday mornings during our “meet and
greet” time, we would converse about, well, any conceivable subject. But it
seemed the focus always came back to “leaving.”
He was simply ready to go on to his
reward.
(A second, but “but well down the
rung” topic with my aged friend, were the Hollywood exploits of his great
grandson, the actor Taylor Lautner; noted for the “Twilight” series of movies.
He often mentioned having mailed some of my Wednesday night topical
presentations to the young man; hoping that these spiritually-oriented
teachings would have an impact on him).
And though Andy lived in an assisted
living facility, even well into his 90’s he did his own driving. At least ‘til
increasing frail health precluded his getting behind the wheel. And after one
or two parishioners offered to transport him to church, and subsequently
“petered out,” my wife and I took on what I considered to be a privileged
responsibility to assure he had the opportunity to worship the One he loved,
with those whom he loved.
Eventually, Andy “took to his bed”
and prepared to meet his Maker, and travel to that place which he had referred
to on an almost obsessive basis.
As my friend’s demise drew near, I
could not help but visit with him one last time. And as Jean and I walked into
his room, Andy awoke, opened those kind eyes for which he was so well known,
and attempted a weak smile.
We walked over to him, and made the
smallest of small talk. And then, I asked Andrew if he’d like me to sing to
him. (He had often told me how much he enjoyed my solos, and I thought this
sort of “send-off” would be a fitting tribute to him). He immediately
acquiesced. Though I sing many of the same songs often, I depend on sheet music
for the words. As a result I decided to sing THE national anthem of the
Christian church; one that I’ve never had any trouble remembering.
“Amazing Grace.
How sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost,
but now I’m found,
was blind but now I see.”
I had hardly begun when Andy raised
those frail little arms towards heaven, and mouthed the words,
“Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”
We took our leave shortly
thereafter.
If we are to believe angels have
names, I have often fancied the death angel who ferried Andy to “the other side
of the Jordan” was also an Andy. (Perhaps I’ve watched too many “Touched By An
Angel” broadcasts).
My friend was finally Home; with a
capital “H.” No longer would he talk about it. Now he would had the inestimable
opportunity of experiencing it.
The longer I live, and the closer I
get the more I think about my eternal destination, (though I’m only 30 as long
as I avoid mirrors). I used to accuse my friend, Andy, (behind his back of
course) of focusing far too much on heaven, and far too little on this life.
But as I get increasingly closer to my end, and increasingly further from my
beginning, I get increasingly fonder of the destination in which my friend
already resides.
And perhaps one day someone who
follows will accuse me (behind my back of course) of focusing far too much on
my eternal Home and far too little on the only home I have ever known.
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