Sunday, March 27, 2016

A Man In Whom Was No Guile

One of the most memorable people whom I ever had the pleasure to know was Frank P. He was descended from good Portuguese stock, was perhaps 5’6”, dark complexioned, with matching brown eyes and hair. I only met him in the final years of his life and I soon learned he contended with a rather significant case of diabetes. In spite of his medical issue, I never once heard him complain and he was, without question, the most naturally humorous staff person at "Grace Church." Granted, his role was more honorary in terms of some sort of official status. We thought of him as the visitation pastor, and though he was unpaid, he took his role seriously. Frank was faithful to make his rounds of the local hospitals, and as many parishioners at Grace Church affirmed, he stayed busy. I think Frank hardly ever missed a weekly staff meeting, and sometimes he and I drove to the local Burger King afterwards. We enjoyed one another’s fellowship. Part of it may have been due to our complimentary roles at the church, as we both cared for and ministered to hurting people.


Frank was an author. He had written one of those “vanity publishing” style books, (in which you pay a publisher on a per page basis); something I had often contemplated, as I have also written several volumes. I understand his first and only printing was something approaching a thousand copies. And I understand the majority of the copies were either given away, or gathered dust in a large walk-in closet. (They may still be there). I admit, I have never read Frank’s little book, front to back, though I have skimmed through it. Whereas humor was his forte, his literary skills were somewhat lacking. (Of course, I never would have told him this, especially after he invested several thousand dollars to leave a written legacy). To be sure, Frank’s life was a sweet savour to God, and his descendants should be extraordinarily proud of him.


Staff meetings were NEVER dull with Frank around. I always sat at the end of the table; directly across from the pastor who sat at the end. Frank generally sat in a chair to my right. One day, it was a few weeks prior to Christmas that year, “preacher” began to give his secretary instructions about purchasing a live tree for the church lobby. He was a perfectionist, and he explained in detail how he wanted the bulbs hung, the sort of ornament he wished her to buy as a topper, and his expectation that she would whiten the branches with artificial snow.


It was then that I saw that inimitable smile appear on Frank’s face, rather slight at first, and then it seemed he could barely contain it; though he didn’t immediately break out with his all too familiar belly laugh. I knew that I knew he was about to unload on us.


“Pastor, that snow for the tree. Sometimes it’s been called ‘Flock.’ So, if that’s a noun, I guess when 'Janice' (the secretary) sprays it on, she’ll be (verb)… flocking the tree.”


Janice had just taken a swig of Pepsi, and I kid you not, she could barely contain herself. The stuff sprayed out of her mouth and ran out her nose. Of course, her cheeks turned crimson. It was a full five minutes before the room was quiet again. Every time we thought, “Okay. That was funny. Now let’s get back to our meeting,” one or the other of us began to chuckle.


Over the years I haven’t done exceptionally well in terms of “keeping up with” older friends or relatives as they approached that inevitable season of their lives; when they would pass from this sphere to the next. And I am a bit ashamed of it, though it is difficult to account for. It may be one of those, “if I ignore it, maybe it will go away” sort of things. I don’t know.


For whatever reason, it was different with Frank. I remained his friend ‘til the end and took time to demonstrate it.


The time came when Frank had to step aside from his volunteer role as visitation pastor, and rather, he found himself in need of visitation. And I did. As the weeks and months progressed, he submitted himself to a couple of surgeries. As the result of the progression of his diabetes, he had to have several toes removed, and afterwards, Frank was mostly confined to a wheelchair.


On one particular visit I loaded Frank’s wheelchair into the trunk of my car, and helped him into the passenger side of my vehicle. True to form, he never complained, and was rather animated and verbal as I drove to the local Red Lobster. However, I made the mistake of saying something I immediately regretted once the words passed my lips.


“I guess having diabetes is like dying in pieces;” (an allusion to the two surgeries to remove several of his toes).


If anything, I saw a faint, but whimsical smile appear on Frank’s face. I didn’t ask him what he was thinking, but at this juncture, I’d give a “ten spot” to know. As I recall he didn’t respond, but there was no recrimination in his attitude and my gaff was quickly forgotten. We enjoyed our dinner and reminisced about our work at the church, and the friendship we shared.


Frank died soon thereafter.


I cannot drive by that large cemetery on a nearby, well-traveled highway without uttering a salutation to my friend.


“Hi Frank. I haven't forgotten you, nor the way you lived your life. I'm still hard at it, and I'll do my best to make you proud. I'll see you.
... I'll see you on the other side."
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 10. Vol.'s 1-15, Copyright 2015

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