Finding Not-so-random Words on My Screen

John is one of my closest friends.  We’re an odd match.  He looks like the dude on the Brawny packaging; I was called “rooster,” as I sprinted down the basketball court this morning.  John works with concrete; I spend my weekdays barefoot in my basement.  John likes American muscle cars on straightaways; I prefer European engineering on winding roads.  John doesn’t do Facebook; and I’ve got Pinterest boards.
But God poured our lives into the same bucket; and ever since John joined the parking team, we’ve done life together.
A couple weeks ago, doctors told John’s mom not only that she had cancer but that she had weeks to live.  They were right.  Wednesday, John’s mom beat us to Jesus.
When I talked to John about what I could do to be there for him right now, he asked me to write a eulogy for him to read at his mom’s memorial service.  “You’re good with words, and I want to honor my mom,” he said.
I felt like Marty McFly in “Back to the Future.”  Whoa, this is heavy.
So, for the last three days, I’ve been talking to God about it, asking for something worthy of John, worthy of his mom, worthy of answered prayer.  Today, I interviewed John for an hour about his mom—a woman I’ve never met.  I listened to worship music much of the day and talked to God again before diving into the writing at Liberty University’s SnowFlex ski lodge.
As I watched the sun set over the mountains, pulling glorious colors with it, I feverishly tapped out a tribute to a life I only knew through John’s answers (displayed on the other half of my monitor).
Nervously, I emailed my words to John.  I told him to change anything, maybe even everything, to match his vision.  Then I waited for him to call.
“Ryan!”  That’s how John always starts a phone conversation with me.  “Dude, you nailed it.”  He told me that the big words I regularly drop in conversation had made him worry that what I would write might not sound like him but that he was happy to have found that I had written this sentiment how he would say it.
I laughed.  “That’s a God thing, John.”  I told him how I prayed about this and that God answered those prayers.  We talked some more—a conversation that included commitments to be there for each other as well as the words “I love you.”
Grown men.  A square-fingered lumberjack and an orange-mohawked desk jockey.  And “I love you.”
I hit the “end” button on my phone and raised both arms in the middle of the lodge.  Then I walked out to the deck that overlooks the valley and the eastern ridge lines of the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Kneeling next to a picnic table, tears welled in my eyes.  I opened my hands toward heaven, thanked God, and said aloud, “You are who you say you are.”
I won’t be at Joyce’s memorial service tomorrow morning, as I’ll be helping another friend conquer a very different kind of challenge.  But thanks to answered prayers, the words God gave me will help me be there for John.

I’m here today to honor my mom—
to extend her legacy,
to tell you the story of her love.
These words are my best attempt
to portray a life well-spent,
a life whose brevity is worth mourning.
My mom was selfless.
She came by it honestly.
Her parents loved Jesus—especially Nanny.
They reared her to follow His selfless example,
to look at the world through His hope,
to invest in others in light of eternity,
to leverage this life for the next.
That didn’t mean she covered everything with sugar and syrup.
Mom was candid with her words,
authentic in her attitude,
and proactive in her approach to any situation.
There was a right way to do things,
and other people deserved that right way from her—from all of us.
For most of her life, she nurtured souls
wrapped in bodies with special needs at the Virginia Training Center.
After giving herself every weekday
to this group of hearts that could never fully repay her,
she would drive home to us—
to be our mother,
our example,
our inspiration,
our provider.
It was like she was a caregiver to life itself
from a seemingly-endless supply of love.
I’d love to think she did all this—was all this—
just for me or just for our family.
But we all know better.
Whether you called her “Momma” or not,
she treated you as though you deserved the privilege of calling her that.
In my teens, I chose to move in with my dad—
states away from my mom.
She might have been hurt by that,
but I will never know.
Her unconditional love pursued me.
She let me know through our phone conversations
that the miles between us could not reach farther
than the bond between us.
She was my momma.
And no distance or circumstance could come between us.
In that space
for those years,
I ironically drew closer to Mom.
Through her years as a single parent,
We never went without needful things.
Mom made sure of that—
even if those things came at her personal expense.
And not just deserved luxuries—
I’m talking about those last ounces of energy,
those lost hours of sleep,
those someday wishes,
those last dollars in her purse and piggy bank.
When I moved back to Lynchburg and out to my own place,
Mom helped me furnish my apartment—
helped me get on my feet.
Truth be told, that was most likely a great sacrifice for her—
not that she ever told me that.
She exemplified the kind of love that Jesus said was greatest:
to lay down your life for someone else.
At the same time, mom was no martyr.
Her sacrifice came without even worthy attention.
Sure, she had her bad days;
we all do.
In retrospect, though, I struggle to see her without a smile on her face,
humor on her tongue,
joy in the air.
Life was too short to spend it
juggling what if’s and if only’s.
Her happiness came from your happiness,
especially if you were one of her grandkids.
She attended just about every function where they participated,
even if just to show them she was glad to watch them.
After only short months of a busy retirement,
I remember her saying,
“I don’t know how I did it.
How did I handle all this, while I was working?”
None of us know the answer to that, either.
A lot of people might look at the chapters of her life story
and say she was dealt some tough cards—
maybe even an unfair hand.
But those would be only the people looking over her shoulder.
For those across the table—
for those looking at the back of her cards—
well, they wouldn’t have known her challenges.
Mom didn’t invite pity.
She didn’t complain.
She didn’t want you to worry about her.
In her last days and hours,
constrained by hospital walls and impersonal machines,
she cracked jokes and worried about others.
She taught me that God was 100% goodness,
no matter what.
The cancer surprised all of us.
The severity of her condition was nothing short of shocking.
The abrupt end of a beautiful life rocked our worlds.
We all asked God, “Why?”
Even Mom.
I don’t know what God told her.
But whatever He must have said
allowed her to finish this life with the smiling grace
with which she had lived it for so long.
Personally, I think God wanted to reward her
for a life well-spent,
a legacy well-built,
a heritage well-passed—
by starting her real retirement early.
As hard as it is to say it,
I know He somehow loves her more than I do.
And He was probably tired of missing her
as much as I already do.

[footer]Stock photo used with permission through purchase from iStockPhoto.com.[/footer]