Billy Coffey

storyteller

The John she used to know

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image courtesy of google images
image courtesy of google images

Dorothea will tell you she and John would have been married 47 years come June. That’s how she always puts it—“would have been” instead of “will be”—past tense instead of future, even though John is still alive and they are still married. They still live in the same brick house two blocks from the Food Lion; are still seen driving the same gray sedan, though these days it is Dorothea driving John. He still gets around, she’ll tell you that as well. She’ll say her husband still reads the Richmond paper each morning and still takes his coffee strong and black and that both are absolute. What is not absolute, and in fact what Dorothea now questions every day of her life, is where her husband has gone, and who has taken his place.

They have four children, each of whom are grown and two of whom have moved away. Ten grandchildren, four great-grandchildren. The entire family gathers twice a year at the old home—every Christmas and Fourth of July. Those are festive times. Dorothea says there must be some special magic when the whole family is together, something about the sound of conversation and giggling children, that makes her husband feel like her husband again.

Those other 363 days can often be long. Sometimes they can be frightening, such as the afternoon last November when John went to check the mail and never returned. Dorothea found him three blocks and fifteen minutes later, sitting in the middle of the road, his bathrobe open and tossed by the breeze.

It began sudden, a year ago now, the same way so much bad in the world begins—with something small and ordinary. John had a history of migraines, and while the headaches that had plagued him for weeks were neither strong nor lasting enough to be called those, they were enough of a nuisance that Dorothea scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Tests were done. The doctor called them both back into his office three days later with the news. There was a tumor on John’s brain. It was inoperable.

The doctor said three months, six at the most. John’s outlasted both of those predictions. He always was a tough man, Dorothea will tell you. That’s how she’ll put it—“was” rather than “is.” Because she doesn’t know if the man she would have been married to for 47 years come June, the man who has given her four children, a brick house, a gray sedan, and a good life, is really John at all. She thinks that person left. Most of us in town would agree.

He was always a nice man, a kind man, easy with praise and concern about how you and your family are and if you’re still going to church every Sunday. In all their years together (much more than 46—John and Dorothea dated five years before they married), she had never heard him cuss. Three days after that fateful doctor’s visit, John came inside the house and said the damn key wouldn’t fit in the damn ignition of the damn car.

The cussing has grown worse since—horrible words that Dorothea never thought her husband capable of uttering. He’s grown impatient with the world, cursing the neighbors and the government and “the whole damn thing.” Once, he grew violent and pushed Dorothea against the kitchen sink, screaming at her, wanting to know what she’d done with his wife.

Though she remains strong and faithful, Dorothea has said she often wonders why she must sit idly by, watching as what remains of this man’s life slowly slips away. She wonders too how it is that a mass of deformed cells pressing against her husband’s brain can turn him into someone else. In all outward ways, he is still John. It is still his face and his body, the same hairline and mole just below his right ear. And yet he is no longer John. He has become someone else. He has become a stranger.

And Dorothea is left to wonder this: What makes us “us?” What is that quality that defines us and renders us unique? Where does that quality lie? And perhaps most important of all, where does that quality go when it appears to be taken away?

I don’t know the answer to that question. It breaks my heart that John and Dorothea must endure such a thing, and that there are so many others who must endure it as well. It hurts. It’s not fair.

But Dorothea isn’t angry. That’s what has struck me most about her these last months. She’s not mad at John, nor his tumor, nor even the God who doesn’t seem interested in healing them—in bringing her husband back. It’s remarkable to me, though not to her. To Dorothea, the question now isn’t Why. It isn’t How. It’s only What.

“God wants me to take care of him,” she says of the man who used to be John. “That’s all I need to know.”

And so she will, until some near or far-off day when Dorothea will say goodbye to him for now. Only for now. And the faith she has that God will equip her to care for her husband now is the very faith that allows her to know that when they meet again, it will be John she sees. The old John. And he will thank her.

The John she used to know

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image courtesy of google images
image courtesy of google images

Dorothea will tell you she and John would have been married 47 years come June. That’s how she always puts it—“would have been” instead of “will be”—past tense instead of future, even though John is still alive and they are still married. They still live in the same brick house two blocks from the Food Lion; are still seen driving the same gray sedan, though these days it is Dorothea driving John. He still gets around, she’ll tell you that as well. She’ll say her husband still reads the Richmond paper each morning and still takes his coffee strong and black and that both are absolute. What is not absolute, and in fact what Dorothea now questions every day of her life, is where her husband has gone, and who has taken his place.

They have four children, each of whom are grown and two of whom have moved away. Ten grandchildren, four great-grandchildren. The entire family gathers twice a year at the old home—every Christmas and Fourth of July. Those are festive times. Dorothea says there must be some special magic when the whole family is together, something about the sound of conversation and giggling children, that makes her husband feel like her husband again.

Those other 363 days can often be long. Sometimes they can be frightening, such as the afternoon last November when John went to check the mail and never returned. Dorothea found him three blocks and fifteen minutes later, sitting in the middle of the road, his bathrobe open and tossed by the breeze.

It began sudden, a year ago now, the same way so much bad in the world begins—with something small and ordinary. John had a history of migraines, and while the headaches that had plagued him for weeks were neither strong nor lasting enough to be called those, they were enough of a nuisance that Dorothea scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Tests were done. The doctor called them both back into his office three days later with the news. There was a tumor on John’s brain. It was inoperable.

The doctor said three months, six at the most. John’s outlasted both of those predictions. He always was a tough man, Dorothea will tell you. That’s how she’ll put it—“was” rather than “is.” Because she doesn’t know if the man she would have been married to for 47 years come June, the man who has given her four children, a brick house, a gray sedan, and a good life, is really John at all. She thinks that person left. Most of us in town would agree.

He was always a nice man, a kind man, easy with praise and concern about how you and your family are and if you’re still going to church every Sunday. In all their years together (much more than 46—John and Dorothea dated five years before they married), she had never heard him cuss. Three days after that fateful doctor’s visit, John came inside the house and said the damn key wouldn’t fit in the damn ignition of the damn car.

The cussing has grown worse since—horrible words that Dorothea never thought her husband capable of uttering. He’s grown impatient with the world, cursing the neighbors and the government and “the whole damn thing.” Once, he grew violent and pushed Dorothea against the kitchen sink, screaming at her, wanting to know what she’d done with his wife.

Though she remains strong and faithful, Dorothea has said she often wonders why she must sit idly by, watching as what remains of this man’s life slowly slips away. She wonders too how it is that a mass of deformed cells pressing against her husband’s brain can turn him into someone else. In all outward ways, he is still John. It is still his face and his body, the same hairline and mole just below his right ear. And yet he is no longer John. He has become someone else. He has become a stranger.

And Dorothea is left to wonder this: What makes us “us?” What is that quality that defines us and renders us unique? Where does that quality lie? And perhaps most important of all, where does that quality go when it appears to be taken away?

I don’t know the answer to that question. It breaks my heart that John and Dorothea must endure such a thing, and that there are so many others who must endure it as well. It hurts. It’s not fair.

But Dorothea isn’t angry. That’s what has struck me most about her these last months. She’s not mad at John, nor his tumor, nor even the God who doesn’t seem interested in healing them—in bringing her husband back. It’s remarkable to me, though not to her. To Dorothea, the question now isn’t Why. It isn’t How. It’s only What.

“God wants me to take care of him,” she says of the man who used to be John. “That’s all I need to know.”

And so she will, until some near or far-off day when Dorothea will say goodbye to him for now. Only for now. And the faith she has that God will equip her to care for her husband now is the very faith that allows her to know that when they meet again, it will be John she sees. The old John. And he will thank her.

The luckiest boy in the world

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image courtesy of photobucket.com
image courtesy of photobucket.com

I’ve seen the boy a few times when I pick my kids up from school, just a little thing, no taller than my waist. Why he stood out to me among the throng of other elementary-aged children I can’t say, though I suspect his demeanor helped.

No hollering from this boy. No running down the halls, no smile. Not even (as far as I could tell) friends. Just him, walking by his lonesome into the cafeteria every afternoon where parents waited to pick their kids up and spare them from a bus ride home.

The school is home to what is generally known as the poor children in town. There is evidence for this fact—dirty faces, oversized clothes, undersized clothes, and a plethora of emotional problems due to meager home lives. They are good kids in bad situations, unaware they were born with a strike or two against them.

Like the boy. He of the bushy, unkempt hair and the backpack with holes so big everything from pencils to notebooks comes tumbling out. A worn and faded sticker is slapped over one hole. The name JEFF is stenciled there. I wonder if it’s there as a patch or so Jeff can better keep track of his belongings. Or, perhaps, to help remind him of who he is.

Jeff snakes his way through the lunch tables toward his waiting mother. Her smile is not reflected in his face. He looks tired. All the kids do, mine included, but Jeff especially so. He does not hug his mother, simply stands there looking at her feet. She rises from her chair and guides him to the door with her hand. They are gone.

A week later and there is Jeff again, plodding into the cafeteria. I notice his hair hasn’t been combed since the last time I saw him. His eyes keep to the small amount of space just in front of his feet. His backpack is empty. I wonder if that’s because he has no homework or because of the holes. His mother is absent this time, replaced by an older woman I take to be his grandmother. Jeff does not hug her, though she hugs him. Then she guides him to the door with her hand. They are gone.

It was the same three days later except it was neither mother nor grandmother, but a man. His father, I wonder. But then I see the man does not guide Jeff to the door with his hand, he simply gets up and lets Jeff follow. I decide no, perhaps not his father. Perhaps someone else.

That night, I ask my wife about Jeff. She teaches at the school, knows most everyone, but she can’t place him. I ask my kids. They, too, don’t know him.

I’m sitting in the cafeteria the next day, waiting along with thirty or so other parents for the final bell to ring. I notice Jeff’s mother sitting to my right, a few empty seats between us.

I lean over and say hello, which is returned with a smile that seems a bit forced. We spend the next few moments making small talk about the weather and my hat.

I say, “You’re Jeff’s mother, right?”

“Yes.” She looks as if she’s waiting for me to ask something else. I don’t. “He’s a middle child. Middle children have it harder sometimes, I think.”

“I’ve heard that,” I tell her. “So he has two other brothers or sisters?”

“No,” she says. “Well, yes. I suppose, in a way.”

I wonder how a mother could not know how many children she’s had.

“You see, his father and I are divorced. We had three children, including Jeff. His father remarried and has four step-children.”

“Oh. So there’s—”

“—Seven,” she says. “Yes. I talk to Jeff all the time about how great he has it. He stays with me unless I’m working nights. I do that some. He’ll stay with his grandma if I am. And then he goes to his father’s on the weekends. It’s nice. Jeff has three bedrooms. Can you imagine? I tell him he’s the luckiest boy in the world.”

The bell rings. Children everywhere, including mine. Including Jeff. He approaches with is holey backpack and his unkempt hair. I see the clear sunshine in the other children’s eyes and the dark rain in his.

He looks tired. All the kids do, mine included, but Jeff especially so. He does not hug his mother, simply stands there looking at her feet. She rises from her chair and guides the luckiest boy in the world to the door with her hand.

They are gone.

Love made visible

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Love has always intrigued me as one of those divine aspects of life that is both fleeting and permanent, fragile and strong. For thousands of years Poets and philosophers have tried to define it, but to no avail. You can’t speak about love and get it just right. You have to see it in action to really know what it is.

Which is why I can appreciate the spectacle of a fine wedding.

I’m sitting in a church pew on a bright Sunday afternoon looking very James Bondish in a suit and tie. Because what I expect to see in the next fifteen minutes or so is not just a marriage ceremony, not just candles and pretty music and maids all in a row, but true love made visible.

The groom stands at the front of the church, hands folded in front of his cummerbund. He is not nervous, this man. There are no pre-wedding jitters or thoughts of a quick escape through the side door. No, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Not marrying this woman never crossed his mind.

The organist launches into a fevered rendition of “Here Comes the Bride,” and the gathered stand and turn to face the opening doors. A beaming bride and her proud father make their way down the aisle.

Hand in hand. Not just out of love, but out of necessity.

The father passes off his princess to her prince, and the two stand facing one another. I’m sure they have spent many moments over the past weeks staring into each other’s eyes, wrestling in their own way with the prospect of this moment. And though they are surrounded by God and a few hundred friends and family, I can tell that to them no one else exists. The world has been shut out and the door barred.

There is just them and nothing else. For now, anyway.

The preacher begins the standard reading of 1 Corinthians 13. I wonder how many times I’ve heard that scripture read. How many times those words have skidded over the surface of my heart but not really plunged to its core.

Love is patient, love is kind…

They’ve known one another for about four years now, this bride and groom. About a year and a half ago over a nice dinner picnic in the park, he pulled out a diamond ring along with the potato salad. Marry me, he asked. Yes! she answered.

…love does not brag and is not arrogant…

That their love was pure and true was unquestioned. God had crafted them as the only two pieces of a beautiful puzzle. It was cliché, yes, but true—they completed one another.

Both knew they didn’t deserve such happiness. But both praised God daily for allowing them to have it. And now that they had found each other, they would be together always.

…bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things…

When you’re in love, everything seems possible. There are no sudden bends in the road ahead, no ruts to fall into. There are only clear paths and sunny skies. Whatever darkness your life was under is now bathed in sunny skies.

And it’s true. Everything is possible.

Not just the good. The bad, too.

When the bride began suffering headaches a few months ago, the doctors told her it was likely migraines. Don’t worry, they said. Just the stress of planning a wedding. When they continued despite medication, tests were ordered. Don’t worry, they said. Just a precaution.

She worried anyway. Her fiancée did what any man would do for the woman he loves. He comforted her, held her, and told her everything would be okay. After all, their love was meant to be. He busied her with thoughts of caterers and flowers, but he busied himself with that same worry.

A few days later, they both sat numb as the doctor informed her of the cancer eating away her brain.

…endures all things…

After the tears and the confusion and the silence, the two talked. How could this be? How can God let this happen? What can we do now?

They had no answer to those first two questions, but they knew what to do about the third. They would marry. They would celebrate their lives together as long as they could. Their love would endure.

It must. Because as I watch them staring into one another’s eyes, my attention returns to the words of the preacher. He is finishing his scripture reading, and I whisper to myself the last three words he speaks to them:

“Love never fails…”

Yes.

Here this bride and groom stand, in front of God and two hundred people, testifying to those three words. They are true love made manifest. And we are all witnesses.

And now, so are you.

A little recognition

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(First published as a column in the Staunton, VA, News Leader)

Marriages are funny things. They are defined by the highs and lows that accompany two lives being lived as one, with a little stress and joy thrown in. For my wife and me, however, our marriage has in the past few weeks come to be defined by something a little less ordinary.

This tube of toothpaste.

It’s good toothpaste, the kind that promises whiter teeth and cleaner gums and fresh, minty breath. It’s been in the fancy little holder beside our sink for the last two weeks now. It’s been mashed, pinched, folded, and squeezed. I’ve even punched it once.

There is an unwritten rule between my wife and I that whoever brushes their teeth first takes the time to lather up the other’s toothbrush, too. It’s one of those tiny but appreciated acts of service upon which marriages tend to thrive. While doing so one night last week, I noticed the tube was nearing the end of its usefulness. I had to roll the bottom up to cover my toothbrush, and then roll it up more to cover hers.

“Toothpaste’s getting low,” I told her.

“Okay,” she said.

When my wife went first the next morning, she had to roll and squeeze a little more. “Toothpaste’s almost out,” she said to me afterwards.

“Okay,” I said.

And that’s how it started. Every morning and every evening we went through the same routine, and our tube of toothpaste kept shrinking. “Toothpaste’s getting low,” we would say to each other. “Okay,” we both would answer.

It’s become the sort of entertainment that two people who have known one another for a third of their lives can appreciate. Small things, not big ones, give us the most laughs. And our fight to not be the one who breaks down and finally throws the toothpaste away has given us plenty to laugh about.

This morning, I had to both grimace and hold my breath to get any toothpaste out. Just enough, I noticed, for one person.

I looked at my blue and white toothbrush, then at her purple one. I put it on mine. I know, I know, bad husband. But she had done the same to me last night.

My wife swears she will not be the one to give in. And I have promised the same thing, though I’m secretly in talks with the kids to throw the thing away for us. I’m tired of having to go through an entire workout just to brush my teeth.

Is this whole thing a little comical? Yes. Is it ridiculous? No.

Because there is something else going on here. Something deeper.

Being a husband or a wife is work, no doubt about it. Hard work. And when that husband becomes a father and that wife a mother? Harder work.

I labor all day at one job and then come home to another, one that involves a wide range of skills. At home, my title is among other things Lego Builder, Homework Helper, Vehicle Mechanic, House Fixer, and Grounds Supervisor.

My wife has it just as bad. She’s a teacher during the day, and also at night. Add to that Cook, Housekeeper, Confidant, Rocking Chair Attendant, Bed Tucker, and Boo-Boo Healer.

We each have a lot of responsibilities around the house. Maybe too many. Adding Empty Toothpaste Tube Chucker would probably put us over the top. We would collapse under the pressure.

Tonight, in the quiet hours just after tucking the kids in and just before tucking ourselves, my wife and I together picked up the tube of toothpaste and dropped it into the trash. Then, after retrieving a new one from the cabinet, I put toothpaste on her brush and she repeated for me.

We both need a little recognition for the things we do. A little thanks for those little jobs that keep our little lives running smoothly. That she or I will be there is a given, but that’s not reason to take each other for granted. Yet that’s what we do sometimes.

That’s what we all do sometimes.

Roots

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Saturday afternoon found me in the back pew of a church, along with a nervous wife, a rather large duffel bag full of camera lenses, and Jimmy.

My wife was once an accomplished photographer. Weddings, reunions, senior pictures, and whatnot. And though she continues to snap a few pictures (see both my profile and header shots), two children, one semi-adolescent husband, and a teaching career now take up most of her time. But when a friend called and wanted to know if my wife would be willing to shoot her wedding, she said yes. Absolutely.

I usually accompany my wife on this sort of adventure. She says she needed me there for support and guidance, but in reality all I was good for was watching over her camera bag and putting whatever film she tossed me into my pocket for safe keeping.

Not that I minded. I was glad she thought she needed me there, even if she didn’t. Because weddings were nice. Lots of joy and love. Lots of promise and hope. Just the sort of things this world needed more of these days.

I was sitting in the back pew just before the service began when an elderly man in a navy blue suit sidled up and stuck out a hand.

“How ya doin’, buddy?” he asked.

“Just fine, sir. You?”

“Well, I’ll be better once I get outta this monkey suit an’ into a can of Copenhagen. You don’t have any Copenhagen on ya, son?”

“Sorry,” I smiled. “Left it in the truck.”

“Ah,” he waved, “don’t need the stuff anyways. Least that’s what my wife says. Name’s Jimmy.”

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy. I’m Billy.”

“Likewise.”

He sat down beside me and fidgeted with his tie. “Never could get used to these things,” he said. “Always felt like I was hangin’ myself. You here for the groom or the bride?”

“Neither,” I said. “I’m here for the photographer. You?”

“Either/or, I reckon. Knowed ‘em all my life. They’re good kids, the both of ‘em.”

“They sure are. Love each other, too.”

“Yep,” Jimmy said. “No doubt about that. That’s why they’re here, huh?”

“I’d imagine so,” I agreed.

“Seen a lotta fellas and their gals get married in this church. They all loved each other, every one. Course, lot of ‘em aren’t married anymore.”

I nodded. “Happens a lot these days, doesn’t it?”

“Too much, son. Too much. Know why?”

“Tell me.”

“’Cause they think what they felt on their wedding day is what they’d always feel. That love conquers all.”

“Love doesn’t conquer all?” I asked.

Jimmy shook his head and smiled. “Nah. It covers a multitude of sins, the Book says. And it’s sure enough greater than faith an’ hope put together. But since I’ve seen plenty of things that conquered love, I can’t say love conquers all.”

“What’d you see conquer love?”

“Well,” he sighed. “Time, for one. And selfishness. Sin. Anger.”

“Guess you’re right,” I said.

“Wish I weren’t, son.”

“So how do some people stay together and other people drift apart?”

Jimmy thought a bit then said, “Yesterday I was out mowin’ the yard and I saw that my wife’s lilies had bloomed. She loves her lilies, you know. So I bent down and snapped a few off, put ‘em in a mason jar, and sat the whole thing on the kitchen table for her. Got a peck on the cheek for my trouble, too.”

I smiled.

“But this morning when we got up, those flowers were already starting to wilt. Know why?”

“Why?”

“No root. They had water and sunshine, but they couldn’t live long without their roots. Something to dig deep into and hang on against the wind and the rain. Those people who walked outta here man and wife but ain’t no longer? They had sunshine and water, too. But they didn’t have any roots. And when the winds and rains came, they just wilted and died.”

“Roots, huh?”

“Roots. Two people can love each other, but that ain’t enough. Not in this world. But two people who love each other and love God? Son, that’s enough and then some. You both dig deep into Him and the storms might shake you, but they can never kill you. Understand?”

“Understood.”

Jimmy looked at his watch and smiled. “Well, looks like things are ‘bout ready to start. Nice to meet you, Billy. You seem like a good guy.”

“And you seem to know what you’re talking about, Jimmy.”

He rose and laughed. “I’d better,” he said. “I’m the one marryin’ ‘em.”

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