Who's Tending My Garden?

Heart disease ripped me off! Like a thief in the night, it stole experiences of a man, even though I was only a seven year old boy. Our new pool was being filled by a garden hose. I was playing in what would be the deep end, when I heard your horn "beep-beep" as you drove right by, going home. I can imagine you were taking your "nitro" tablets, which you passed off as Rolaids when I asked what kind of candy you were eating. You probably already had tightness in your chest, clammy palms, and difficulty catching your breath. I asked, "Mama, can we go see granddaddy?" For some reason, she declined, not knowing she would regret that decision for the rest of her life. Surely my EMT father would have noticed your symptoms and insisted you go to the hospital. It would have saved him a call in the ambulance late that night.

My mother and father woke me the next morning with a serious look on their face, and the sad news on their lips. They've told me, since I've been old enough, that they both saw a light switch off in my eyes that morning. I held back the tears--sucked it up--as I tell people to do these days.

During the previous summers, you'd come pick me up early in the afternoon to take me out to the farm, after working in the post office. You normally drove a '70 something model Chevy pickup, baby blue. Wish I had it now. Smelled like a farmer on the inside, a mixture of diesel fuel, a hint of 10-10-10 (fertilizer), oil, soil, and sweat. When I climbed up in your lap in that truck, you always greeted me with, "There's my boy! My only grandson!" as you embraced me with your rough, corn-husker hands. You sometimes would put your hat on my head. 35 years later, that kind of hat is back in style. They call them trucker hats, a tall cap, solid red fabric on the front, and a more breathable mesh on the back, with sweat rings all the way around. When I was in your lap, I just knew I was driving that truck myself.
When I got enough of driving, I turned around to see a pressed, button-down shirt that always had two click pens, with which I loved to play. Behind them was a glasses case, all in the front left pocket.
As we kept riding, we would stop by and put salt blocks out for cows, feed the horses named Frosty and Blaze, and go by and turn the sprinklers on at the big garden near our house. By the time we got back to the barn where the horses were eating, I was usually ready for a nap.
Recently, I went back to that old barn, overgrown with time and weather, falling in, in places. With a lump in my throat, I searched for relics of you. Unfortunately, after 27 years of non-use and neglect, all I found was an old stirrup for a horse and a rusty plow blade, craving to be pulled through the soil. The old well has given in to erosion. Its cement cylinder that I peered over as a very young child, hoping to see the bottom, is now turned over on its side.
You never got to teach me to ride a horse, to plant a seed and patiently wait, grooming the soil for something you don't yet know. To this day, I've never driven a tractor. I'm sure, knowing some of the people I've seen drive one, its pretty simple. Maybe I don't want to know how, since you can't teach me. I'm 34 years old and planted my first little garden this year. So far, just squash and tomatoes. There's more to come though. For some reason, I haven't had any weeds in my garden--not one. . . . makes me wonder . . . Who's helping me tend my garden?

Just for the record: this piece of literary genius was written recently by my beloved son--Michael--who truly loved his granddaddy and continues to miss him even today--27 years after his death. Never, ever underestimate the value of grandparents in the lives of their grandchildren!

Just thought I share it with you--
Your Pastor