Silly Old Bear

It was Tuesday, May 17, 1994. The east Texas sun warmed the afternoon air as we buried my 91-year-old grandmother beside her husband in Laws Chapel Cemetery on the outskirts of Atlanta, Texas. Grandpa Horace had preceded her in death by more than 25 years. He had been a faithful gospel preacher during his time. Mama Grace was a diligent student of God’s word, and had taught numerous Bible classes throughout her lifetime. These were my Dad’s parents.

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About four months after Ashley died, Susan and Justin and I took a trip from our home in Texas to visit some friends in Tennessee and then spend a few days in the Great Smoky Mountains. Driving late at night, somewhere between Memphis and Nashville, the idea for a song began growing in my head. It was a tribute to the remarkable life of my Ashley, her profound impact on our lives as her family, and the deep emptiness left in our hearts by her death. But even amidst the palpable sadness of our grief, I found my thoughts, and the emerging song, focusing on the hope that is inherent in my faith — the promise that, one day, we will see her and hold her once again.

The more we drove, the more the song grew and began to organize itself into verses and a chorus. I asked Susan to find some paper and a pen and start writing down the words so that I wouldn’t forget them. I drove and Susan wrote, and by the time we reached Nashville, “Until Then” was a song.

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It’s hard to believe it has been eight years: November 24, 2001. Sometimes it seems as though it was only yesterday that you left us, Ashley. Then there are moments when it seems that a lifetime has passed since that awful day.

I still miss you like crazy. We’re doing OK, though. You taught us to cherish every day. Most days we remember to do that. You taught us to live life to the fullest, to squeeze every drop of adventure out of every day that God gives us. You showed us that the real beauty of life is living with a complete trust in God. It’s funny how I’ve been a minister most of my adult life, but you figured that out so much better and lived it so much more completely than I ever have.

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A few months after my daughter Ashley died, I called a friend and asked him to meet me for lunch. Andy Moya is one of those creative types who seems to be good at everything he does. He is a graphics artist/designer by trade, and a very talented musician by avocation. I was captivated by his CD of Christmas favorites played on piano.

Andy is also just an all-around great guy. I came to know him through a mutual friend, and have always enjoyed any opportunity to visit with him. He is deeply spiritual and loves the Lord with all his heart. I have a great respect for him in that regard.

I invited Andy to lunch because I had a favor to ask of him. I wanted to have a beautiful instrumental song written especially in Ashley’s memory. Knowing Andy’s creativity, musicianship, and heart, I felt like he would be the perfect person for such an undertaking, if he was interested.

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I do not have an iPod.

My son Justin has a really nice iPod that we bought for him as a Christmas gift a few years back. But I don’t have an iPod.

(He also has a better car than me, a better cell phone than me, etc., etc., etc. The things we do for our kids!)

However, in spite of this complete lack of equity in the quality of my few paltry possessions compared to his, there is one area in which the inequity leans completely in my favor.

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Susan and I took Justin out to Lubbock, Texas (about 6 hours from home), on Tuesday of this week to help him get moved into his dorm room at Lubbock Christian University and get ready for his first day of classes on Monday. He will be a freshman, majoring in Agricultural Business.

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Earlier this evening I found myself wandering around Lions Park, the four-field baseball/softball complex where Justin played Little League ball for a couple of years back in his younger days. Susan and I both spent some time on those fields as well, participating at various times on several church-league softball teams.

A few years ago, the City of Waxahachie built a new Sports Complex out on Highway 287 with much nicer, more modern fields and facilities. As a result, Lions Park has become almost forgotten. The fields are in poor shape, some of the fences and backstops have weeds and vines almost covering them, the bleachers have been removed, and the concession stand building is no longer there. I was overcome with a palpable sense of sadness as I stood there taking it all in and reminiscing.

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