The last thing I’d ever write
November 2, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 90 Comments
The note above was penned by an eighty-five-year-old man named Robert. One day last month, he drove his car down a steep rural road to look at a pond. When he tried to drive back the way he came, the car rolled off the path and became mired in a ravine.
Robert was unable to walk out of his situation due to back problems that left him only able to get around with the help of a walker. He had no food. The only water he had barely filled an 8 ounce bottle. He honked his horn until the car battery was depleted.
Robert sat there, alone in his car, for two days.
With no food, little water, and temperatures in the upper 90s, he realized things didn’t look good. So he grabbed a pen and began writing on the car’s armrest.
Look closely and you can make a bit of it out. The first—and Robert said the most important—was that he make sure everyone knew it was an accident. Robert didn’t want anyone thinking he committed suicide. He wrote that the car’s wheels spun out. He asked that his family give him a closed casket.
About forty hours later, Robert was found. Turns out that final note wasn’t needed after all. As you can imagine, the whole ordeal changed him. Robert has a new outlook on life. He understands its delicateness. He knows every moment is precious.
It’s a good story with a happy ending. But me, I can’t stop thinking about that note.
What would I tell my family? What would I tell you? What would I say if I could never say anything more? Those questions have preyed on my mind since reading Robert’s story. I figured the only way I could start thinking about something else is to go ahead and write my letter.
So here it is, the last thing I’d ever write:
Dear All,
I don’t know how I managed to get myself in this mess. I think a lot of times you can’t see the trouble that’s coming until it’s on you. This is probably one of those times. I guess I should hurry. I never used to think much about time. Suddenly, time seems pretty important.
To my family, I want to say that the very last thing I want to do is leave you behind. You need to know that as much as I’m ready for heaven, I’m thinking the angels will have to drag me there. But don’t worry, I’ll find me a bench somewhere near the gate and wait for each of you.
To my wife, I’m sorry I was never the man I wanted to be. I’m thankful you overlooked that. Take care of the kids. Raise them to believe like you and fight like me.
To my son, there are few things more difficult in life than knowing how to be a man. I’ll give you a quick summary—work hard, laugh much, pray often. Love dignity rather than money. Face your darkness. Let your word be your bond. You’ll do well in life if you cling to those things. Know that I will always be proud of you.
To my daughter, you’ve taught me more about faith than anyone I’ve ever known. Remember this: we seldom have any choice as to the wars we must fight, we can only elect to face them with honor or cowardice.
To my friends, I know it may appear at times that I prefer silence to speech and solitude to company, but you mended the gashes I had rent into my own heart. Whatever goodness is in me was fostered by you.
I ask that you dispose of my remains as you see fit. I have no preference. Whatever flesh and bone is left behind is not me, it is merely an empty house that God has deemed I’ve outgrown.
Do not mourn, laugh.
Do not look back, look forward.
Live intently.
And last, know that all that separates the two of us is but one stroke of heaven’s eternal clock. Life is but a dream. Death is simply when we wake.
A Little Help
April 5, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 22 Comments
One voice rising above the many in Wal-Mart. Three rows over and two rows down. The dull roar that had just moments before been a sort of white-noise to the crowd was suddenly silent, and an air of unease drifted over the people around me.
“IS THERE ANYONE THERE WHO CAN HELP ME?”
The dozen or so people in the canned vegetable aisle, myself included, are now faced with a choice. What to do? Stay? Quietly move into the opposite direction and thereby be safely removed from whatever trouble may be going on? Or head toward the voice and help?
“PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME!!”
Many, most, take that moment to discover they have forgotten one particular item on their list that just so happens to be on the other side of the store. Away from the shouts. They retreat with heads bowed, as if they have just been caught doing something they shouldn’t.
Others, I notice, immediately jump into action and race toward the noise. These are people who seem inherently well-equipped to handle the situation:
An elderly lady with WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA stenciled on her sweatshirt and ten boxes of tissues in her shopping cart. Yes. If someone’s in trouble, you need a grandma around.
A twenty-something young woman with a radio clipped to her jeans and an EMT hat pushed down over her eyes. Her face is flushed with adrenaline and her steps are brisk. If these are shouts of pain, she’ll be necessary.
A cowboy, complete with battered hat, bandanna, and boots. I’m not sure what his purpose is, but everyone knows it’s always good to have a cowboy around when the natives start to get restless.
Also joining the rescue party is a young man in his twenties, dressed in fatigues and carrying a brown beret. His presence is obvious. Soldiers don’t run from trouble, they run toward it.
And then there is me, who follows the motley crew of do-gooders not because I have any necessary talents (I don’t) or because I think I can add anything to this rescue mission (again, I don’t), but because I just want to know what’s going on.
“I NEED HELP!!”
We converge on the voice and find that just about every Wal-Mart employee in the store is doing the same. Some amble with the please-God-what-now? attitude of those used to such occurrences. Others speed walk, anxious to get there but not first. A few, I notice, are nearly sprinting.
The Shouter is standing in the middle of the cookware aisle. Older man, dressed neatly in khakis and a white shirt. His face is red with exertion and his eyes have the crazed and confused tint of desperation. His left hand is raised into the air, begging for recognition. In his right is a skillet.
Everyone stops.
“What’s wrong, sir?” asks one of the employees, breathless from the trip from the other side of the store.
The Shouter looks at the crowd that has gathered around him, elated that someone has heard him. Help is finally here.
Grandma inches her buggy closer. The EMT has her radio ready to summon the ambulance. The cowboy and the soldier move to form a protective perimeter around the aisle. And me? I’m just standing there looking stupid.
Finally, the man speaks: “Can you tell me how much this skillet costs?”
Silence all around.
“Can…what?” the employee asks.
“I need to know how much this skillet costs,” the Shouter repeats, waving the pan in front of her. “There’s not a price on it.”
An almost uniform moan is breathed over him from the people gathered, to which he replies with a slight shrug.
“You mean you were doin’ all that hollerin’ and screamin’ for a price check on a skillet?” the employee asks.
Another shrug. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rips the pan from his hand and says, “Hang on.”
“Thank you, kind lady,” Shouter answers.
The crowd begins to disperse. Grandma is laughing now. She is used to this sort of thing. The EMT, however, is more than a little put out. Her adrenaline supply has emptied, and she’s tired. The cowboy and the soldier, I notice, are still standing guard. Just in case, their postures say.
And me, I’m still standing there looking stupid. But there is a smile on my face. A smile of knowing. Because even though this man has managed to aggravate about thirty people this day, he has my admiration.
It takes a lot for some people to admit they need help, whether it’s help as big as fixing a life or as small as pricing a pan. Pride gets in the way. “I don’t need anyone,” we say. “I can handle it myself.”
Not true, I think. Because no matter how self-reliant we say we are and no matter how strong we believe ourselves to be, we still need each other. We’re not living in a world of Me, no matter what we might think. No, this is a world of Us.
Eleanor’s Story
March 24, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 24 Comments
When you see a UPS man, you get out of his way. This is for your own safety. UPS men (and women, of course) are in a hurry. They have to be. They have a truck full of packages that must be delivered before their day can be considered done. No exceptions.
So when on a morning walk I spotted a UPS man delivering a package to a lady in the neighborhood, and when I saw him actually stop and talk to said lady in a conversation, I paid attention.
Older woman, smartly dressed. She smiled and laughed and touched his arm in a motherly sort of way, and he nodded and smiled and tipped his cap as he left.
Funny thing about that house: I didn’t recall ever noticing it. Our neighborhood, though rural and against the mountain, is still a pretty big place. Very likely a few hundred houses in all. I supposed that with so many homes, misplacing one or two in my memory was bound to happen.
My kids did not trick-or-treat there. I was sure of that. And I was equally sure there were no Christmas decorations there last December. I would remember.
I passed by just as the UPS man paused at his truck to type something into his electronic clipboard.
“How ya doin’?” I called.
“Good,” he answered. “You?”
“Good. Busy today?”
He laughed. “Always busy, my man. Especially here.”
“Oh yeah?”“Oh yeah. I’m here every day.”
So began a rather lengthy conversation about the unseen woman in the unseen house. Eleanor, whom I had neither met nor seen in all my years in the neighborhood. Which was, according to the UPS man, a forgivable offense. No one else had really met or seen her either.
She was alone. No family. No children. She spent her life inside for the most part, venturing out for groceries rarely and only when the needs outweighed the trip. She wasn’t a recluse, he said. She was just shy and didn’t want to be a bother.
“Nothing wrong with that, right?” he asked.
“Not a thing.”
He turned and stared at the house. I did likewise. A corner of the living room curtain waved, as if someone was peeking out.
“But she’s lonely. Real lonely. I drop off something for her most every day. She gets these catalogs in the mail, see. Every catalog you can think of. She’ll call and order stuff all day long.”
“Guess everyone needs a hobby,” I offered.
“Ain’t a hobby,” he said. “Like I said, she’s lonely. She orders stuff just to have someone to talk to. Knows all those operators by name, mostly. Talks about ‘em like they’re her family. Which I guess they kinda are.”
“Shut up,” I said.
“Seriously. Told me so herself. I guess they don’t mind. They get her money, she gets some company. She started talking to me because I always delivered the stuff. I always hustle on my other stops because I know she’ll want to sit and talk a while.”
The curtain moved again.
“Gotta go, my man. Take it easy, huh?”
“Yeah,” I answered, still looking at the house. “You, too.”
He left. I stood. Staring at the house.
The curtain moved again.
I could imagine Eleanor in her living room, scared to death and wondering what the strange man by the driveway was doing. She probably had the phone in her hand, ready to call for help. Not 911, though. Given what I’d learned, it was more likely Pottery Barn.
I always considered the forgotten among us to be confined to some faraway city street, huddled beneath park benches or in soup kitchens. That many resided here in my peaceful town was unthinkable. That one resided just down the road from me was heartbreaking.
I walked up the driveway and rang her doorbell. The curtain moved again. There was silence.
Then the door opened.
***
Eleanor passed on recently. I can say that we had many a good visit with one another. I can also say, however, that loneliness is one of those things that doesn’t disappear at once. It takes time. Time she didn’t have.
If I have one consolation, it’s that I’ve learned the company she lacked in this life was found in the next.
Because according to the nurses at the hospital, her last words were these:“I see angels everywhere.”
Resolutions
January 1, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 11 Comments
My New Year’s Resolution lasted exactly twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes. A new record. All because I didn’t bother asking for any help.
Doesn’t really matter what my resolution was. Nothing major or life-altering. I’ve learned my lesson in that regard. There is a rule for making resolutions, and that is to keep them small. Manageable. I’ve tried the big resolutions, the ones that promise to change you and change you well, but the result was always still the same. “Shoot for the moon,” the expression goes. Because even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars. While that aphorism is inspiring, it isn’t very realistic. Most times you’ll miss the moon and the stars and crash somewhere in the desert.
Trust me. I know.
Still, I like the thought of bettering oneself. Of fixing the broken things in us and changing our outlook or our place in life. And that’s what resolutions are for. It is, perhaps, the only time of the year some people take an honest look at themselves: what is wrong? What will make me a better person?
And this, the big one: what should I change?
My resolution involved change. A change of behavior and habit that, while harming no one but me and even then only slightly, proved too difficult for me to do. And that’s frustrating. If I can’t even change one small thing about me, what can I change?
In a word, nothing. Me, you, the nice folks down the road, we’re all the same. We’re fallen creatures in need of a great amount of help. And without that help, we can do nothing.
Six years ago found me at a crossroads in my life. I was sick, both within and without. Ready to find the nearest tall building so I could make a slow trip up and a fast trip down. The problem? Well, the problem was that I was thirty years old and still suffering from the same problem I was at sixteen. I was tired of ignoring it, and more tired of fighting it. Every year I would vow a change, and every day after would prove that change wouldn’t be coming.
Help finally came by the counselor at church, so sat me down on one snowy day in March and told me four things.
One was that God was the only one who could change me.
Two was that God would only change me if I asked Him.
Three was that I would only ask Him if I was truly ready to change.
And four was that I would only be truly ready when the pain of staying the same was greater than the pain of changing.
I’d waited my whole life to hear those words.
I think we all want to change something about us. But it’s hard, isn’t it? Hard because change hurts. It’s work. Tough, sweaty labor that leaves us weak and exhausted. It’s easy to give up. Easy to put things off until tomorrow or next week or next year. Because let’s face it, the pain of changing is often a lot worse than the pain of staying the same.
But we aren’t called to stay the same, are we?
We are called to become more. More than we know or dream. More than we can do on our own. So don’t be afraid to ask for a little help to change, whether that help comes from a friend, a counselor, or prayer. There isn’t anyone alive who doesn’t need an ear to whisper to, a shoulder to cry on, or a pair of arms to rest in. Everyone needs help from time to time. Even God needs two mountains to make a valley.
Author of Snow Day and Paper Angels (November 2011), both by FaithWords. But don't let that fool you. I'm just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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