I got a text from Otis, my good friend from high school. Otis now coaches the Mighty Milford Bulldogs, the school we played for a thousand years ago. His text was to tell me that a classmate\teammate of ours, Gary, had passed away. This was sad with several layers of sadness. Gary had just turned 60, too young the way I look at it. He apparently had diabetes which affected his heart and died from these ailments. With better medical care he probably could have had many more years. Sad again. Gary died in prison, no way around that. He killed a man in a fight twenty or more years ago. That is what he wrote to me about 18 years ago. I never knew where Gary was after graduation and one day a letter finds me in west Texas at my church. It was from Gary in prison. He writes with great detail his side of the story. I have no way to measure, but the state measured out 20 years to life. I don't even know how accurate that is, but I do know that 20 years in prison turned out to be life for Gary. Sad again. We had corresponded off and on for a few years. I sent him some money for the commissary in prison now and then. He needed some basketball shoes once. Some money for ice cream and candy ( I didn't know about the diabetes). He hoped I could get him a good lawyer. Well, I could afford ice cream. I moved and we lost touch. My fault. Another layer of sadness.
Gary swore to me in those letters that he was a Christian. Maybe he wrote that because I was a pastor and thought I'd like to hear it. Maybe he wrote all those Bible verses and talked so glowingly about Jesus because he wanted ice cream money. Maybe he wrote it because it was true. His family was and is full of believers. It was his nephew or cousin that preached his funeral. Gary put thoughts and scriptures together in a way that seemed real, like he really knew Christ. I want to believe he did. I'm not sure if the family and friends of the man he killed feel that way. I hope they forgave him. Gary swore that God had. I decided on my part to believe him.
So I went to the funeral last Saturday in Waxahachie. The brothers and sisters were resplendent in their expressions of life and hope. I felt like I was back home in high school a minute. I was the only white guy there. The music man played the organ in a wonderfully blues-ee and jazzy way. He sang Tamela Mann's "Take Me to the King." It is a beautiful spiritual, sharing a longing from a broken life and where to find hope.
Take me to the King, I don't have much to bring,
My heart is torn to pieces, it is my offering.
Lay me at the throne, leave me there alone,
To gaze upon you Jesus, and sing to you this song.
Please take me to the King.........
The bishop was telling us that "It Aint' Over" and making heaven sound so good but I got to coughing and excused myself with a few minutes left in the service and drove over to Target. In a few more minutes my phone rang. It was Otis...."where are you, man? A bunch of folks want to see you and the family want to say something." So, we drove to Milford for the interment. The pastor read scripture. The family thanked everyone and invited all to the repast. Then several of us pitched in to lower the casket in the grave. They didn't have a "lift" for the job; two straps and four of us slowly letting down the casket into the ground. I thought of the irony of the picture. One of my jobs on the basketball team was to pass to Gary. I recorded several assists each game to him and Otis. This would be my last one.
Now it was time to visit and reminisce. I paid respects to the family and caught up a little with a few old friends I knew long, long ago. I actually remembered nearly all the faces, but not all the names. But then there was Janie. Janie and I were in class together with Otis and Gary and about a dozen others since Milford integrated the schools in 1967. For the first four years of junior high and high school, Janie and I were oddballs. She was the only black girl in our class and I was the only white guy. She got a soul mate about the junior year when Regina moved to Milford. Somehow we made forced integration work and forged good memories and friendships with few regrets and many good memories. I tried to fix one regret I had at the cemetery Saturday. Otis was talking with JoAnn, Gary's sister about being King and Queen at the homecoming in 1972. She wasn't remembering it but Otis was refreshing her memory. It brought my regret to mind. Janie was nominated to that same homecoming court. I was her escort. I remember standing there in my football uniform and she on my right arm. All the girls got flowers and the escorts presented them and gave them a kiss--all but one. I froze. Should\could a white guy kiss a black girl, even just on the cheek, in 1972 in Ellis county? Thoughts and ideas flooded my brain. I should have decided beforehand but it didn't even dawn on me. I started thinking about why it was a good idea, then a bad idea, and then the moment had passed. I didn't kiss Janie, my friend and classmate for six years, at homecoming. At the cemetery Saturday with Otis, JoAnn and others standing there listening, I put Janie on my right arm and stood beside her. I told the story of not kissing her 42 years ago and apologized. Then I kissed her right on the cheek. Someone said that was sweet. Several of us spent the next 45 minutes standing in the graveyard talking and laughing. There was life in that cemetery that day, in living color, and black and white.
It was a good, bad day.
Cos
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