So. My stepgrandfather, Wilbur Yelton, died Monday. He was 83 years old. He'd been sick for some time, and at a checkup in February, the doctors told him to put his affairs in order.
I didn't know Wilbur all that well. He and my grandmother married four months after my wife, Anna, and I left Kansas for Illinois to continue our education. Being anywhere from nine to twelve hours' drive away from home in the ensuing decade did not make for frequent travel home for Anna and I, and when we did come home it was to see our immediate family in Kansas and Oklahoma. My grandmother, Christine, had moved to Arkansas shortly after my grandfather, Clifton F. Healy, died, so aside from cards and letters in the mail, and some phone calls, we didn't see Grandma and Wilbur very often.
But the funeral clued me in on some things. Wilbur was a dedicated (elder) brother in Christ, serving tirelessly at the nursing home services his church, First Baptist, conducted. But more than just wheeling residents out from their rooms to the worship service, Wilbur would also wheel them back and then sit visiting with them some time after the services were over. Wilbur tithed to the church, both in regular offerings and in his will. And time and time again, though hurt and taken advantage of by certain of his family, he forgave them, both in offense and in debt. In short, Wilbur, in true Christian fashion, was a man of God, whose deeds were not done for the praise of men, but for his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
I learned that though my grandmother is eighty-three, her young woman's heart could still get broken. She recounted to me the days of her and Wilbur's courtship, and that after some time they had begun to speak of marriage. Then, inexplicably, Wilbur got cold feet. Grandma hadn't seen it coming. Of course, things worked out, and she and Wilbur talked it out and later married. At the time, Grandma was in her early seventies. Yet here she was recounting tales of romance as though she were a young woman in her twenties again.
I learned that my dad had been closer to Wilbur than I had thought. I had remained relatively untouched by any strong emotions, though saddened for Grandma and Wilbur's family, up through most of the funeral service. At the the final viewing before heading to the gravesite, I went to the casket and committed Wilbur to God's care, and prayed silently for the repose of his soul. But when Dad returned to his seat after his viewing, he broke briefly into sobs. That's when I, too, briefly lost it.
I learned that when it comes time to die it's best to do so in a small town community among family and friends. As is traditional, the church put on a funeral dinner after everyone returned from the committal. I loved that when I pastored a small church in central Illinois. And it was like coming home to be surrounded by family and church friends as we broke bread together and reminisced. There's nothing like a church potluck to aid one's grief.
And finally I learned that Southern Baptist ministers still preach evangelistic sermons at funerals. And I learned, surprisingly, that that did not offend me at all. After all, Wilbur's life was one long Gospel telling.
May his memory be eternal.
Posted by Clifton at March 28, 2004 07:20 PM | TrackBack