MISTER - Chapter I

Life has certainly been full of fleeting days and my schedule seems to have me by the throat more often than not.  I want to write, and yet the joy, the confidence to share lessons learned seems to wax and wane.  As the Lord and I work together on 'whatever lies ahead', I have decided to timidly share a story with you.  This story is one I have already committed to paper, and a tribute to the greatest man I have had the pleasure of knowing in my lifetime.  I knew him as not just a pastor, as a 'houseparent', as a friend to many - I knew him as the father of my heart.

So as I work on aligning my work priorities and time constraints with my Heavenly Father's plan (or even learning what that plan might be), let me share a few chapters of tribute to Earl Beal, my foster-father.

MISTER

November 26, 1995

Breathing shallow and barely audible, his eyes were fixated on something only he could see on the far, blank wall of his room in the nursing home. The damp cloth folded in thirds on his feverish forehead dwarfed his drawn face, his lips slightly parted as though he had no energy left to hold them closed. I was surprised that I felt no fear, no worry, no dread.

Instinctively, I walked around to the other side of the bed and drew up a chair to sit beside the greatest man I had ever known. The man I first knew simply as ‘Mister’. Over the years, he became “Grampy” to me – not just a name, but a graduation of belonging, offered by him to settle the question of whether we were family or not. As far as he was concerned, I was his. And that was all that mattered, as far as I was concerned.

“Hi, Grampy, I came to see you today”. It was the basic, simple greeting I entered with each time I stopped in. Not usually at a loss for words, I always felt a little uncomfortable initiating contact upon arrival, unsure of how to greet someone who is rapidly succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease. ‘Hello, there, remember me?’ just never seemed quite right when he didn’t appear to recognize me most days, hence the use of his name in an effort to somehow reassure him that I knew who he was, even in the most confusing moments.

Today was the day I had often pre-played in my mind, wondering if I would be able to bear the implications of a future without him in my life when the time came. I had received the call only 48 hours ago that ‘Grampy has pneumonia, and it looks like he isn’t going to pull through’, and spent the last two days alternating between visiting him and falling apart. This morning, I was relieved I didn’t have to just stand by the bed and talk to whomever else was in the room at the time when, what I wanted more than anything, was to spend some secret time alone with my hero. This morning, I found my opportunity, entering Grampy’s solitary presence with a deep sense of reverence and respect for the frailty of life. The room was dark and hushed as my husband left us to ourselves to walk the corridor with Michael, our restless, energetic toddler.

I slipped a tape into the old tape recorder on the nightstand next to his bed, hoping the soft music might reach Grampy somewhere deep inside. George Beverly Shea softly crooned out an old hymn or two in the background. Wanting desperately to connect, I began gently stroking Grampy’s forearm, remembering hearing somewhere that the sense of touch is the last to go. Or was it hearing? Sense of smell? No matter, I felt the need to touch him, to reach him somehow, hoping my gesture was as soothing for him as it was for me.

In my heart, I knew this would be the last time I would ever be able to express how much he meant to me. For a man who had lost the ability to walk, to talk, and at the last - to even eat, I wanted him to somehow know that his life had been exceptional, marked with untold sacrifice which didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated, to hear that his love had changed history. That he mattered.

“Grampy, you’re going home, soon. I can’t thank you enough for giving yourself to me and loving me when you could have easily walked away. You are the father of my heart, and you and I have always known that, haven’t we?” A tight, hiccuppy laugh was followed by a heavy, rolling tear.

“You have meant so much to so many of us girls when we needed reassurance that there really were decent people in the world who would go to great lengths to protect and comfort us.” My mind went back to the day I found out that, when there were years of lacking funds for three little girls left in his care, Grampy supported the siblings with his personal bank account. I was one of those little girls.

“I remember how you used to preach about Joseph in the Old Testament – how he loved his brothers, no matter what. You were always moved by his emotion and forgiveness, and your sensitivity touched me. Well, Grampy, you’re going to see Joseph soon, and the apostle Paul, Stephen the martyr, King David. Just imagine – you will see your own baby Roger, just like you always said you would, and your mother, too!”

“Most importantly,” I whispered, “Jesus is waiting for you.”

Grampy’s breathing halted for a moment, then resumed with an uneven cadence. For a moment, my mind refocused to George Beverly Shea richly singing Amazing Grace on the tape player, a fitting hymn for such a spiritual and intimate marker in time. I chose to be silent for a moment, in an attempt to respect and absorb the full essence and present unspoken connection between us.

The music swirled gently around us, enveloping us in a soothing embrace.

…Through many dangers, toils and snares…

Recalling a sermon I heard Grampy preach on the topic of heaven years ago, I leaned in closer with a gentle whisper, “Grampy, I remember you preaching about the first funeral you ever officiated.”

…I have already come…

“The little boy was only two years old, and only had a few words in his vocabulary” …’

...Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far…

“Right before he took his last breath, the little boy pointed up toward heaven and exclaimed, ‘Pretty!’”

…and grace will lead me home…

“Grampy, it’s going to be so pretty!” My words floated out more like a breath than a statement.

Somewhere between the solitary rolling tear and the present dampness covering my entire face and neck, the music player clicked to a loud halt. Grampy’s eyes had moved from the distant spot on the far wall. He was looking up.

Having re-entered the room at some point I hadn’t been aware of, my husband coaxed me out of the room, whispering something comforting into my hair. “He is ok. He is not here anymore. He is home.”

Gathering my coat around my shoulders, hating to leave him there, my grieving thoughts drifted back through time to the old Boylston Home for Girls where I had spent the first seven years of my young life, with ‘Mister’ and ‘Missus’ as the directors and house parents. I longed for those simple, wholesome days when life made perfect sense, yet I was thankful to have been able to love and be loved by such a great man and his wife.

Making my way down the silent hallway and bracing myself for the raw November chill, common in our little New Hampshire town, I felt the instant blanket of grief settle on my shoulders. Though it was oppressive and weighty, this sadness was somehow mingled with a keen awareness that our next meeting would be more joyous than anything I could possibly imagine.

A gusty blast of clean, frigid air confronted me instantly as the heavy glass doors opened to the outside world. Ears and nose stinging, I paused to close my eyes against the brightness of the sun, allowing myself to drift back to years gone by, and the memories that swelled my heart with an aching wistfulness…