George the Middle and
George the Beginning 
 
I've enjoyed watching George bloom again in the telling of his story. It was like an unexpected Indian summer for me. Now winter approaches and George's petals will fall to the earth. His memory will live on, but in a more subdued way. Perhaps it is best for me to move on too.
 
Thank you for listening.
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George the End

 
When George stopped taking his medicine, I knew it was only a matter of time, but I couldn't believe how fast it happened. In just a few days I got a phone call and was told George had fallen asleep and could not wake up. He was taken to a hospice facility to be made as comfortable as possible. We were told it wouldn't be long.
 
At that time our church had three deacons. Joan, a school nurse and mother of three, Bill, a high school band director, and George.
 
I called the other deacons, grabbed my portable CD player, and jumped in the car. When I arrived, Joan and Bill were already there. I saw a tiny stick figure lying on his left side under a thin sheet. He was so small and frail. Joan was leaning on the bed, stroking George's hair and talking to him. Bill was holding his hand and standing quietly by. The only noise coming from George was the mantra sound of labored breathing.
 
We waited for death with George. He never did respond to us, but we said a lot to him. We had all heard that dying people are aware of more than you think. We didn't know if this was true, but we talked to George just in case it was. We took turns holding his hands and speaking softly into his ear. I don't remember how long we were there, but it seemed long.
 
Eventually we got tired. George seemed stable, so we decided to go home and return in the morning.
 
I placed my CD player on the pillow behind his head and put in "Just Hymns: Singing with the Angels" by Darrell Adams. Darrell is a friend of mine who sings hymns with nothing but a guitar and a soul full of conviction. He also has one of the most angelic voices you've ever heard. Imagine Burl Ives as a whiskey drinking, Kentucky Baptist democrat with fire in his eyes and a finger on the pulse of Jesus. Imagine that and you're close to understanding Darrell Adams.
 
George loved hymns so much that I figured Darrell's music would reach him if anything could. I set my player to repeat forever, and we left.
 
I got the call at 3:30 that morning. When I walked into the room, Darrell was still singing but George had gone away.
 
I never really got to say a formal goodbye because he died so suddenly. On the other hand, our whole friendship was one big goodbye, so I felt at peace.
 
I did George's funeral and tried my best to put his life and death into words. You can't ever do this, but knowing you can't, trying anyway, and keeping it short, is the best formula I've found for funerals.
 
About a week later I was given a cardboard box containing a few things that George left me. Pegasus was not in the box. I never found out what happened to him. George left me his beloved copy of "Stranger in a Strange Land" and a rock.
 
At that time our church owned a piece of land, but had no building. We were dreaming of a place of our own while meeting in schools, bars, fire stations, and anywhere else we could gather. George had picked up a rock during a prayer service on the land and kept it by his bed. He knew he would not live to see the building.
 
This was the rock he left me.
 
Two years after George died, we built a small church nestled among the live oak, mountain laurel, and native persimmon trees on a wild piece of property that we never intend to tame. It is a simple, stone building that suits us well. There is no pulpit or stage in our church. The main feature is a large fireplace with a mantle that is a huge beam from a 150-year-old Amish barn that was torn down.
 
During construction, I met the stonemason and gave him George's rock. He embedded it in the wall near the back door. I took a black marker and wrote "George's Rock" on it. I have to rewrite this about twice a year because the wind and the rain wear his name away.
 
I don't want George's name to go away. That's probably why I'm telling you this story.
 
Sometimes new people notice George's rock. If they ask about it, someone who knew him will tell them the story. We hope they come to understand that love is a deep and powerful force that can outlast death. Witness how George continues to touch lives.
 
We hope they see that God's best blessings are given to the world through people who have the courage to be faithful in small ways. George came, he sang, he talked to people, and he helped put things away.
 
This was the George that we knew. He was both the least and the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.
 

 

The Preacher