You Know How This One Ends

In our society we tend to make a big deal out of "Last Words." When we lose someone, we worry a lot if we were on bad terms with them, had just had a fight, or if we forgot to say something simple like "Goodbye" or "I love you." I don't think this is without good reason. As you may have read in this very space, I lost my Grandma about a year ago. This was big for me because it was the closest relative I have known to pass away, and it was at a point in my life where lots of things were new to me. I'd been married less than six month. I'd stopped my full-time missionary work about a year before. I was living somewhere I'd never been before, and starting a new semester of school without being totally sure what I wanted to study. My first nephew was about to be born, and other things were in flux for me. I'll never forget the phone call I got late one night from my dad telling me that we probably had a couple of days, or a week at most with my Grandma. The next day, as she was driving back to Utah from Washington with my dad and Grandpa, she called everyone in her family individually, and we talked for just a couple of minutes. I told her I got straight A's, and that I was going to be a theater teacher, and I hoped to play games with her when she got back. Then I told her I loved her.

The next day my wife and I drove down to Utah from Idaho, where we were living. We hoped to see my Grandma that afternoon, as she had only driven half  way home the previous day, and wasn't doing great. I was playing ticket to ride with my brothers and my wife when we got the news that  she didn't make it. As sad as I was that I didn't get to do it in person, and as painful as those next few days were, I look back and have solace that in those last few days, I got to say good bye.

But, this isn't a post about my Grandma. This is a post about some other last words that are about to become famous, at least within the small scope of people who read what I write.

One of the coolest things about being a missionary is the fact that I met tons and tons of wonderful people; people who I'd never meet any other way. When my missionary companion and I knocked on this man's door, he let us in right away. His house always reeked of tobacco, but was a comfortable place, and very clean. There was a clock on the wall that never worked, and lawn ornaments on a well kept lawn. If it hadn't been for other missionaries who had taught him previously, I'm not sure we could have broken the communication barrier. Mr. Bernard was hard of hearing, and had bad vision. He wasn't able to read much from the books and pamphlets we left with him. Our visits to him seemed to me to be far less about teaching and far more about hearing stories from this man who had been born in the roaring 20's.

And did he ever have stories.

Mr. Bernard would tell us about his work as a stablehand for Kentucky Derby race horses. He met many professional athletes during his work and got close to them as they'd regularly come to make bets on the horses. He told stories about being in WWII, the air force and working with those from the UK in the Royal Air Force. He told some stories about his family. Not a ton of any of these, because, in all honesty, I only knew him a few weeks. 

Sometimes, however, we did teach him. We were missionaries, and fairly focused ones. As nice as any sweet old man is, we had a duty to the work we'd signed up for. Mr. Bernard would tell us each week that he wanted to "get to church one of these Sundays." He also would always tell us when we left, "Don't take any wooden Nickles!" After one of our visits, he forgot to say this and so my missionary friend poked his head back in the door, and said, "Hey! Don't take any wooden nickles!" Mr. Bernard laughed his lungs out. From then on, it was a race to see who could say it first.

It was summertime, and the little church my missionary friend and I were assigned to had maybe sixty people who came regularly. We would always stand outside and shake people's hands as they came in the door. It was to our great surprise and delight one sunday when we saw a white truck that had always sat in Mr. Bernard's driveway come rolling slowly (and seriously, he couldn't have been going over 10 MPH) down the road. A rather lengthy line of cars was behind him. He rolled right up to the entrance to the parking lot, and kept going. Fortunately, my missionary friend was a track star who runs a sub five minute mile, so he sprinted in his suit over to the truck, and led him back to the church parking lot. He came in looking snappy, and smelling strongly of tobacco, but happy as could be. 

He sat down in the back of the little church and talked to me all during the service. We talked a little as I would explain what was happening, and due to his poor hearing, our conversations were very loud whispers that everyone could hear. When the Sacrament (or communion as some call it), was being blessed, he leaned over to me and whispered, "Is this the Lord's supper?" I affirmed that it was. He sat an thought for moment and asked a question no one else I ever invited to church asked me. "Can I take the Lord's supper?" I explained that it was meant to represent the atonement, and our covenants we make at baptism, but he was welcome to partake if he so desired. As he did, he reached an ancient hand to take the bread and said, "This do in remembrance of me." The same happened for the water. He kept whispering questions through the whole meeting, and really made everyone smile at the presence of this curious and humble old man.

After church he shook many hands and was very friendly. He said he needed to go home, but would come again the next week. We invited him to a baptismal service for friends of ours that weekend, and he said he'd like to come. We were very excited that someone from such a small town, who was so old, and who had been baptist for so many years was willing to listen to a could of boys who combined were less than half his age. 

We went to visit him on Tuesday, and had an experience a little different from the norm. We made small talk, and told a story or two, but then he asked us some questions about our church services. He told us he'd read some of our book, and that he wanted to know what we believed. We shared what we thought was important, and then he stopped us and said, "Boys, do you know what I keep having you come back here?" 

We  didn't, honestly. We hoped, but we didn't know.

He said with the kind of valor that makes your bones chilled, "I want to know when I stand before God that I'm doing what's right." We sat in silence for a few moments and then he thanked us for our time, prayed for us, and bade us good bye. 

Well, you know how this one ends. That Saturday, we had a very beautiful baptismal service for some dear friends. Afterwards, we went to his house and knocked on the door to ask why he wasn't able to make it. To our immense sorrow, someone else answered the door. "Is Mr. Bernard here?"

"Mr. Bernard passed away this week. I'm sorry." Then the door closed.

I sometimes wonder if he knew what was coming. He was a smoker in his 80's. It's not like he was spry, and in the prime of life. Often he would tell us of what a labor it was just for him to get out of bed in the morning. Even when you hear those kinds of things though, you just don't think that one day you'll go to see him, and he'll just be gone though. One of the truths of mortality is that we all die. Some old. Some young. Some tragically. Some painfully. Some quickly. Some slowly. Somehow, someway, fair or not, we all die. I think it's most important that we remember that we may not all be able to say, "I've got just a couple days, I'm going to tell everyone good-bye." We may not all have an internal clock that tells us we're about to go. We sometimes won't get the chance to make things right with those who leave us. Life is tough, and unpredictable even at the best times.

I think what we can do, though, is do our best each day to do our very best. We can look to the future and say, "When I stand before God [who, or whatever that is to you], I want to know that I'm doing what's right."

Just like Mr. Bernard.

Oh, and don't take any wooden Nickles.