Through the Eyes of a Child

Good, faithful friend, neighbor and bringer of magic to little boys, in the ways of men and tinkering, riding, loud, moving, mowing, grinding, things – Larry, who died, left his mark in so many ways.

One small boy, my grandson, calls Larry his friend, for the times when Larry took him riding and mowing grass, letting him believe he was doing the steering (maybe he was - who am I to say otherwise?), and earning himself hero status in the process.

When Rowen’s parents let him know that Larry, whom he had visited just a few weeks back, had died, he called me to tell me he was sorry.  We talked about Larry, this small boy of my heart and I.  And we spoke of other things.  And I suggested he might make Larry’s family a card, to which he readily agreed, evidence in his desire (an unusual thing) of his own loss, his own caring.

And I am touched beyond measure, loving even more (if that be possible) this tiny boy who carries my heart.

I am perpetually astonished at the world seen through the eyes of a child, for children do know the important things – playing with friends, shouting for the sheer joy of existence, weeping openly when they are sad, making a card to say sorry – moment by moment do they live.

And that, I suspect, is as it should be.

Who Is My Neighbor?

If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.  ~ Frederick Buechner

Yesterday evening, standing around in Larry’s front yard amongst so many family, friends, and even neighbors, mourning his passing, engaging in small talk, they came and came and came, many with food in their hands – the offering of solace and comfort that is so common here in the form of a casserole dish – one conversation paused to consider what, or better, who, is my neighbor.

Jesus’ answer seems pretty clear to me: my neighbor is anyone who needs me – not merely needs, but needs me.

There is that of proximity in neighbor – and around these parts, where so many of us live so far apart physically, one can start to believe that he doesn’t actually have neighbors.  My answer to that, at least for now, is that if I’m close enough to see the smoke from your place in the sky – that is, close enough to come when you need help – I am your neighbor.

In Larry’s case, close enough to see the need could be pretty far away, for the man who sent his daughter across the road to help a family with a sick child (these mountains can be pretty rough on young tummies) with a bag (in case it happened again), some paper towels (there’s always a mess) and an offer to bring her over to his house to clean up, or the man who went on countless fire calls, driving the truck with the same haste as if the one on the other end, the one needing the help, were of his own family.

Larry Smith was a man who had enough imagination to see the need and in seeing the need, to see the neighbor.  He wasn’t unique in these parts – there are plenty of folk who see and heed the need.  So no, Larry wasn’t unique.  But he was special.  And he will be missed.

Larry Died Today

Larry died today

and I found myself

these past days

and weeks – looking –

without realizing – 

for signs – not wonders –

just signs – just a little hint,

Lord, that all is well with Larry,

that all would be well with

Larry, that even as we’re here,

and he was here and not here,

that You are here with us and

more, there, wherever there is,

with him – and who knows about

such things – do I see what I’m 

looking for?  Or did you really 

send some signs to a little ole’

country preacher – was it you

when I saw Larry’s profile, hugged

by a mother, in last evening’s clouds?

Was it you?  Or even Larry?  In the 

swirling dervish of autumn leaves

swirling and swirling round me and

running, like a teasing child, across

the road, taking the leaves with you,

like when Larry used to mulch and

mow and rake and gather and cart

away the many leaves of fall – 

a tender by nature, Larry tended

these grounds I inhabit so very well – 

the leaves did dance around and then

away from me – but leaving a few 

behind in my rocking chair – 

in the hours after – 

when he has gone and we are left

and wondering what to do with

ourselves now in the aftermath, in 

the gone-ness of this thing that was

a life?  I do not know which of you it was

– but I was looking for signs without

even knowing I was looking and 

somehow, I got my answer, didn’t I?

And that is enough and good enough

and more than enough and Larry is

fine and more than fine and it is another

day and the leaves are dancing and 

signs and wonders are abounding

and I?  Well, I suppose I am grateful.

Thanks for the leaves – always the 

perfect leaving – how do you do it?