A funeral is a strange thing. A collision of realities – all
the best people of your life showing up for the hardest possible moment. You
get dressed up, give a thousand hugs, and think your heart might actually burst
from all the grief and gratitude you feel.
I think I will be processing Friday for the rest of my
life. But one thing I couldn’t help but home in on was the people in our life,
from every season, and more specifically the men I know.
Bless my heart, I was born into a strong Christian home, a
Southern Baptist one at that. My dad was in ministry; my grandpa was in
ministry. Then I married a man who was in ministry, whose dad taught Sunday
School, and whose grandpa was a pastor. And in all my 38 years, I’ve never had
a reason to leave. There is a certain corner of the internet where it seems
like the favorite thing to do is to criticize strong Christian men. It grieves
my heart that not everyone has had the same experience that I have, but even so
I feel compelled to write about the men I know.
The men I know rock babies and change diapers and sing
lullabies. They read their kids good stories and invite them in on their favorite
things. They take out the trash and cook meals and clean the kitchen. They
protect their people and teach them right from wrong.
I have a vivid memory from my childhood of the Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition coming to our house. My dad got my brothers and told them that
they would never want anyone looking at their girls that way, so they weren’t
going to look at anyone else’s sister or daughter like that. Then they walked
behind the shed and burned it. My dad was the first good man I knew.
The men I know – God bless them – they show up. To hospitals
and ball games and recitals and baptisms and choir concerts and graduations and
birthday parties and field trips and field days and thanksgivings and Christmases
and Easters and Fourth of July’s and family vacations. They come when the car
is broken down and water line has busted and the trampoline needs to be put
together on Christmas Eve after the kids are in bed.
They show up with their weed eater – their lawn mower – new
wheels for our lawn mower -– the part to fix our lawn mower – and eventually a
new lawn mower all together.
The men I know show up with smoked meat and smoothies and
donuts and coffees and lunch. They show up with plans to build raised flower beds,
and they do it in the rain. They stop at parking lots on their way through town
just so their family can pray with ours. They let us live in their home. They bring their guitars and their families, and they worship with us in a way
that makes me long for heaven.
The men I know have always encouraged me in my giftings and
passions. They have never made me feel smaller or less than, but have opened
the Word with me, taught me truth, pushed me to the great commission, and been
a joy to co-labor alongside.
They play catch with their sons and take their daughters on
dates. They read the Bible and pray and worship with their families. They write letters
and say the things that need to be said.
The men I know come when it’s hard. They book the flight –
make the drive – sacrifice. In the hardest weeks of my life, they took shifts
at night so I could sleep. They slept on my couch and helped me help my
husband. They were the actual hands and feet of Jesus. They gathered around my
husband’s bed and cried with me.
And on the day we laid the best man I know to rest, all the
others promised me over and over again that they would take care of me and the
kids. And after 38 years, I have no reason to doubt them.