The Bench, Part 2 of 2 (by Billy Coffey)

In case you missed Part One of this story, you can find it here: The Bench, Part 1 of 2.

And now for the eagerly awaited conclusion to the story:

I smiled, satisfied that I had answered her questions and fulfilled my duty. I could send her off to her father now and have my bench to myself.

But Jordan wasn’t finished.

“Where are your wings?” she asked.

“In my pocket,” I answered.

“Can I see them?”

“No.”

“Are Adam and Eve sorry?”

“Yes, and God forgave them.”

“Is Jonah afraid of fish?”

“Not anymore.”

“How old is God?”

“Really, really old.”

“Does He have dreams when He sleeps?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because God doesn’t sleep.”

“God doesn’t sleep?”

“No.”

“Not ever?”

“Not ever.”

“Why?”

“Because He’s busy watching over you.”

“Why does He watch over me?”

“Because God loves you and He wants to keep you safe.”

“Then why did He let my mommy die?”

My mouth, open and ready to fire off another automatic answer, suddenly became very dry.

“What?”

Jordan looked up to me then, her legs still. Tears began to pool in her little eyes. “I said if God loves me and wants to keep me safe, then why did He let my mommy die?”

She sniffled, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a tissue. She swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks and waited for an answer. I had none. This was not a child’s question. This was an adult question. Serious stuff.

Why? It was a question I still asked myself, and often. A question I still often asked God, too.

Why does the world have to be so bad? Why do the innocent have to suffer? Why must good people have nothing and bad people have everything and why does it have to be that way? And now I could add another to the list: why would God take a mother away from her little girl?

Because bad things happened in this life, and to everyone. That was the easy answer. The world was a hard place. No one lived happily ever after. And no matter how wise we became, we would always leave with more questions than answers.

But how could I tell Jordan that?

My lips moved, but no words came. I knew this was one of those moments in Jordan’s life where she found herself at a fork in the road. One path led to healing. The other led to bitterness. And whatever I said next may well be the very words that pushed down either the one or the other.

I had gotten into this situation out of the goodness of my heart. I had no ill intentions, only concern. But this, this was too much for me. I couldn’t lie anymore. It was time to tell Jordan the truth. I owed her that much.

“Jordan?” I said.

She sniffled and wiped her nose. “What?”

“I’m not an angel.” I spat the words out as quickly as I could and readied myself for what would happen next. Tears, of course. Maybe a tantrum. Both of which would be completely justified.

But there was only silence. Finally, Jordan said, “I thought maybe you weren’t.”

“You did?” I asked.

She pointed to my hat. “Daddy says God hates the Yankees.”

I chuckled. She managed a weak grin, and then her steadfast countenance crumbled in a fit of tears. I wrapped my arms around her and she huddled into the crook of my shoulder and gently rocked her as she sobbed.

We sat for a long while on the bench, our bench, and looked out over the river. The ducks arrived, and we both took turns tossing bits of bread to them as they quacked and fought for each chunk.

I told Jordan that I didn’t know why God took her mother away, but that He must have had a very good reason, because He always does, and one day she would find out. “In the meantime,” I said, “your mom still loves you and she’s in a good place. The best place.”

When all the bread was gone and the ducks had waddled off, Jordan said it was time for her to be going. She thanked me, gave me another hug, and assured me that she felt better. I knew she didn’t. But I also knew that one day she would. I watched her walk toward the bridge that led across the river and to the soccer field and the houses beyond.

“See ya,” she said from the bridge.

“See ya.”

And she was gone.

I remained there for a long while, watching the river flow by. Jordan and I had a lot in common, I decided. Both of us were sitting in a big, dark room full of questions. Right in front of us was a window, and streaming through that window was the light of truth, all the answers to all the questions we could ever ask. But over that window was the shade of time, drawn tight.

As we both grew, learning and living more, that shade would ease up a little here and there and shed some light on the things that bother us so. We both want that shade out of the way. We want to see the whole view from that window, the whole truth. But, you see, if that shade were pulled up all at once, and all the truth shone through in an instant, we would be blinded by the light.

One day, I expect I will see Jordan again. Perhaps along some street paved in gold, beside a crystal sea. She will introduce me to her mother and I will thank her for bringing such a beautiful girl into the world.

And then Jordan and I will sit down on a bench and share all the answers we know, and we will laugh.

To read more from Billy Coffey, please visit him at What I Learned Today

The Bench, Part 1 of 2 (by Billy Coffey)

Billy Coffey submitted this story to me awhile back. While it is longer than a typical blog post, I honestly think it's one of the best things I've read from him - and I've read quite a bit - an entire unpublished book, actually. (Jealous much?) Anyway, I decided this was too good to pass up, so I have decided to post the first half of the story today, and the conclusion next Monday.



It was not merely a bench, it was my bench, and someone else was sitting in it. Someone whom I was sure did not appreciate my bench as much as I did, and surely could not. The bench, my bench, was in the park in nearby Waynesboro. It was in a particularly peaceful spot along the banks of the South River, where the water became tired of flowing fast and shallow and decided it would be better to go along slow and deep.

The grove of pines that surrounded my bench offered little in the way of shade but plenty in the way of privacy. It was not a new bench, nor was it particularly well made. The seat held a perpetual dampness due to the rotting wood, and whenever I sat I had to be mindful of the rusty nails that jutted up from the surface. When the city decided to fix up the park a few years ago, my bench was overlooked. No fresh paint, no new nails, no sturdy seat. I supposed they simply forgot it was there. Which to me meant that the bench really was mine, as I was the only one who would have it.

I went to the park that morning a few weeks ago with no serious business to tend to other than to enjoy a respite from the demands of everyday life. I timed my arrival just after the morning joggers had left and just before the lunchtime picnickers arrived. I never liked going to my bench with people around. They might see me and wonder where I was going, and they might get nosy enough to follow. As planned, the parking lot was empty by ten o’clock. Satisfied that no one was about, I grabbed my hat and a loaf of bread for the ducks and started out.

As I neared the grove of pines that hid my bench, however, I thought that perhaps I wasn’t alone at all. Amid the idyllic sounds of crunches and quacks and chirps I heard someone humming from the far side of the trees. I stopped for a moment to listen, then crept forward and peeked through the limbs.That was when I saw that someone was sitting on the bench. My bench.A little girl, blonde haired and skinny. Her feet swung back and forth beneath the rotting wood of the seat in an awkward cadence as she continued to hum an indecipherable tune, pausing only to take a breath to blow bubbles with her gum. I eased away, wondering where her parents were. No one else was around.

I decided that patience would be the best way to handle the situation. I would bypass my bench temporarily, stroll down to the picnic pavilion, and wait for her to leave. No child can sit in one place for more than ten minutes unless it’s in front of a television. So I slung my loaf of bread over my shoulder, took two steps, and landed on a large and noisy twig.

She wheeled around in mid-bubble, her long hair following close behind. Her legs froze in a scissor, and she greeted me with a strange combination of shock and amazement.

Then she smiled. A big, toothy, Christmas morning smile. I smiled back. She raised the fingers of the hand the gripped the back of my bench and waved. I waved.

And then she screamed.“I knew you’d come!” she yelled, her voice cracking with excitement. “I knew it I KNEW it!”

“Pardon me?” I asked.

She turned fully around and raised up on the back of my bench. Her smile grew wider. My eyebrows furrowed more.

“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.

“How did you know I would come?” I asked.

“Because,” she announced, as if that one word would make everything clear.

“Because why?” I persisted.

“Because that’s how it works,” she answered, raising the palms of her hands in a how-do-I-know gesture.

“Because that’s how what works?” I asked, thinking that this was beginning to sound a lot like an Abbot and Costello routine.

“Prayin’,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled like a frustrated parent trying to explain the plainly obvious to a child. “Last night I prayed that God would send an angel to me at the park, so I came here to wait.” She paused, then leaned farther over the back of my bench. “You are an angel, right?”

My first reaction was to laugh, and I almost did. But then I saw the expression on her face had turned from joy to disappointment. Something was obviously wrong with this child, and laughing at something she said wouldn’t be very appropriate. Or helpful.

"Does your daddy know you’re here?” I asked.

“No.”

“Don’t you think he’s worried about you?”

“I told him I was going to a friend’s house,” she answered, slowly chewing her bubblegum. Watermelon, by the smell of it.

“How long have you been sitting here?” I asked.

“All morning,” she said.

“How long were you going to wait?”

“Until you came.” Then, “You are an angel...right?”

I looked around again and still found no one in the park, not even a police officer I could pawn her off on. I gazed into her innocent eyes. They gazed back.

“Of course I’m an angel,” I said.

“I knew it!” she sighed. “I’m sorry I kinda doubted.”

“That’s okay,” I said, moving to my bench and sitting beside her, “I get it all the time. My name’s Billy.”

“I’m Jordan,” she smiled. “Guess you already knew that, huh?”

“Sure,” I answered, though I was beginning to feel as though I had just taken the first steps upon what was surely one of the straightest roads to hell.

“Want some gum?” she asked, holding out a half-chewed package.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“What’s that for?” she pointed.

I looked down to the loaf of bread on my lap. “God wanted me to feed the ducks while I was here,” I said, suddenly very uncomfortable at how well and how easily I could lie.

“Where’d you get it?” she asked.

“I brought it with me.”

“From heaven?”

“Yes.”“You mean,” she said, eyes bulging, “Jesus made that bread?”

I looked down at the bread again. Fittingly, the big red letters spelled out WONDER.

“Absolutely,” I answered.

Jordan began to swing her feet back and forth again, studying me. “Are you sure you’re an angel?”

“You don’t think I am?” I asked.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t know.”

We sat in awkward silence for a few moments and watched a family of ducks that waddled nearby. Finally, she asked, “Do you know why I prayed for God to send you down here?”

“Well,” I said, not sure what to say next, “God didn’t get real detailed. He just told me I needed to come see you.”

Jordan gave a satisfied nod, blew another bubble, then asked, “Are angels smart?”

“Sure they are,” I said. Then, catching myself, I added, “We, I mean. Sure we are.”

“So if I asked you some questions, you would know stuff?”

“Shoot,” I said.

Jordan looked down, as if embarrassed by what she was going to say. “Well, I guess I just want to know what heaven’s like.”

The question took me by surprise. Heaven? All I could think of was the streets-of-gold, mansion-in-the-sky description. That may not appeal to a person of her age. But what else could I say? That heaven is where God lives? True, but not very descriptive. That heaven is paradise? That sounded a little better, but what is paradise to a kid?

“It’s sorta like every day is Saturday,” I said.

Jordan offered a small giggle and nodded. “Good,” she answered.

(to be continued next Monday)

Visit Billy at What I Learned Today.

Best Funeral Ever.

Does that sound strange, disrespectful, irreverent? It's not meant to be. Ask anyone in attendance and I'd be willing to bet that most would agree.

Have you ever laughed out loud at a funeral? Ever applauded wildly? Me neither, until today. But then I have never been to a funeral that was planned right down to the last detail by my friend Pat, who is probably one of the coolest people I've ever known.

Briefly, I will tell you that Pat was 71 years young. I know that sounds cliche, but it's true in her case. She loved God and she loved people in big, generous, outrageous ways. I suppose one of the advantages, if you could call it that, of knowing you're going to die is that you get to say what's important; what matters. When I visited Pat, we didn't talk about the weather, we talked about how much we meant to each other. She didn't spend time mourning a life that she should have lived. She gave specific instructions as to how she wanted her funeral to proceed.

My job was simple. She had asked her kids to each reach a chapter from the Book of Psalms. If they started to falter and couldn't go on, I was to go up there and finish the reading. It turns out that wasn't necessary, but I was ready and able if needed.

The place was packed full of people, all of whom loved her. Can I just say that you couldn't help but love this woman unless your heart is made of stone? Darren Walter (the pastor of Pat's church - formerly my church) opened the service with a prayer and the usual "survived by" stuff. He's a great guy and he did a great job. He shared with us that Pat told him, "Well, you're no Pastor So-and-So , but you're a good kid." You never needed to ask Pat what she really thought. That was pretty much whatever came out of her mouth.

Another specific request she made was that the song "Days of Elijah" was to be sung. And it was to be sung by Jeff Hogan. Fortunately, we (C3) have a very good relationship with our old church, so that was not a problem. Jeff and Tamara rocked that song. Then a wonderful retired preacher by the name of Brother Wayne sang "Amazing Grace" in his big, booming beautiful southern gospel voice.

Her children and one of her grandchildren read the scriptures she had requested. Her daughter Cari spoke lovingly about some of the things that made Pat such a wonderful, loving mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and friend.

Now for the best part. Cue the video. Pat made a video before she died from her bed. It was classic Pat. She told us how much she loved us, and not to be sad for her. She shared the story of the 3 dreams she had of heaven. Said it was God's way of putting her at peace. She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that there is a heaven and she would soon be there.

That was the theme for her funeral. That was her dying wish. She wanted everyone within earshot to know that heaven is a real place, and that she fully expected to see all of us there.

I look forward to that day.

At the close of the service, on an unseasonably beautiful day in Katy, Texas, we released 71 white balloons towards heaven.

Spot on perfect funeral.

Dear God:

Dear God:

Thank you for Pat. I suppose we were unlikely friends, what with our differences in age, background, etc. But the Body of Christ is like that, isn't it? It matters not how vast our differences may be on the surface. When we share a love for Jesus, most things don't really seem to matter.

Thank you for showing me through Pat that all things can be used for your glory. That something like a loss of a leg because of illness might appear at first to be a curse, then turn out to be an incredible blessing.

Thank you for:

• her infectious laughter
• her love of me and my family
• her cinnamon rolls
• her gift of gab
• her generosity and thoughtfulness
• her creativity
• her wicked sense of humor
• her wonderful family that she shared with us all
• her servants heart
• her friendship through good times and not so good times

I know that she is with you now. I'm missing her right now, but I know she is dancing with the angels. And probably cracking them up.

Goodbye my friend. Until we meet again. I love you.