I had planned to move to New York City in August. So during the summer I moved in with my grandmother, and her husband Fred, in order to save money for the move. Now at 26 I consider myself to be fairly social. I have friends who call me regularly. I go out to dinner and movies, and
generally flit about like the social butterfly that I am. But my social life pales in comparison to the social agenda Fred keeps up. The first morning I spent in their house I woke up to the phone ringing. I looked at the clock and it was 7:15am. It has not stopped ringing since. Because next to Fred, I am a social caterpillar. Okay, maybe a moth. But my point is, Fred is the true social butterfly.
At 90 years old, having had both legs removed, heart surgery, lung cancer, and a myriad of other health issues, Fred still keeps up a staggering social agenda. He has a network of about 40 friends that he calls or who call him at least once a day. They all look out for each other, inform each other of current events, such as when the local fish fry is taking place, who has married who, and when such and such's birthday is. They talk about this or that, or nothing at all. And they keep on living.
Indeed, I have come to believe that it is this widespread network of friends that has kept Fred anchored to life for so long. Because who could possibly imagine a day without getting a phone call from Fred? And who could imagine a day without being able to call and have him be on the other end of the line? So Fred calls his friends, and they call him, and he keeps on living and so do they.
And the social agenda does not end there. Not only does Fred get tons of phone calls a day, but sometimes there will be so many visitors it is like grand central station. In the spring and summer especially, his buddies and sometimes their wives, will drop by with peaches, strawberries, freshly caught catfish, onions, tomatoes, and any number of other various sundries that we feast on for days. He rarely pays for them. They are an offering to the past he shares with these people, and it is testament to who he has been in their lives. And at the age of 90 they still come to pay him homage in the only way true Appalachian folks know how to...with produce and love, straight from the garden or the crick.
On this particular day one of his old buddies had dropped by. He was an old and long standing friend of both Gram and Fred's and he would often come by and sit for hours with Fred outside in the garage watching the world go by. He would come in sheepishly with this somewhat guilty air hanging around him like the barely perceptible hint of aftershave. For you see...he would be coming by to drink. Now I am not sure what his home life is like, but I had gotten hints here and there that his drinking was an issue. Of course I also got hints that his marriage was an issue...a broken vessel which someone had tried to glue back together, but the glue didn't take. And he would come by to drink away the pain and the loneliness and the sadness. Fred knew this...and without a word he would roll himself into the kitchen in his electric wheelchair, and make up a cup of ice from the freezer, which was situated close to the floor so that he could reach it. Then he would fill the cup with whatever he had on hand and roll back into the living room to deposit it into the hand of his buddy who needed it.
Sometimes he would drink with him, sometimes he wouldn't. But I always got the sense that Fred understood on a very deep and unquestioning level why it was that this man needed to drink. And he never asked him any questions or expected anything from him. He just invited him in and tended to him the only way that he knew how. And they would sit for while and drink a little and then his old friend would get up and quietly take his leave just as he had come. Quietly, sadly, and comforted.
You might be wondering how I can extract grace out of the above story. Let me explain. I think people reach an age where they have worked and loved and hated and raised kids and needed things and provided things, and they have "done good." These are people who have provided for their families and stayed out of jail, and have done their best to worship God and to live a good life. They have done what they needed to do. And now they are tired. And they want comfort. And they look for that comfort in the little things in life. Like a drink of liquor. Or a cigarette. A friend who is not their wife or their husband. In short they have lost the energy to make these things "bad." Now they are just comfortable. And what I saw was a man who needed comfort in the form of a drink and another man who gave it to him because he completely understood. The grace is found in the understandin', not the form it comes in.
generally flit about like the social butterfly that I am. But my social life pales in comparison to the social agenda Fred keeps up. The first morning I spent in their house I woke up to the phone ringing. I looked at the clock and it was 7:15am. It has not stopped ringing since. Because next to Fred, I am a social caterpillar. Okay, maybe a moth. But my point is, Fred is the true social butterfly.At 90 years old, having had both legs removed, heart surgery, lung cancer, and a myriad of other health issues, Fred still keeps up a staggering social agenda. He has a network of about 40 friends that he calls or who call him at least once a day. They all look out for each other, inform each other of current events, such as when the local fish fry is taking place, who has married who, and when such and such's birthday is. They talk about this or that, or nothing at all. And they keep on living.
Indeed, I have come to believe that it is this widespread network of friends that has kept Fred anchored to life for so long. Because who could possibly imagine a day without getting a phone call from Fred? And who could imagine a day without being able to call and have him be on the other end of the line? So Fred calls his friends, and they call him, and he keeps on living and so do they.
And the social agenda does not end there. Not only does Fred get tons of phone calls a day, but sometimes there will be so many visitors it is like grand central station. In the spring and summer especially, his buddies and sometimes their wives, will drop by with peaches, strawberries, freshly caught catfish, onions, tomatoes, and any number of other various sundries that we feast on for days. He rarely pays for them. They are an offering to the past he shares with these people, and it is testament to who he has been in their lives. And at the age of 90 they still come to pay him homage in the only way true Appalachian folks know how to...with produce and love, straight from the garden or the crick.
On this particular day one of his old buddies had dropped by. He was an old and long standing friend of both Gram and Fred's and he would often come by and sit for hours with Fred outside in the garage watching the world go by. He would come in sheepishly with this somewhat guilty air hanging around him like the barely perceptible hint of aftershave. For you see...he would be coming by to drink. Now I am not sure what his home life is like, but I had gotten hints here and there that his drinking was an issue. Of course I also got hints that his marriage was an issue...a broken vessel which someone had tried to glue back together, but the glue didn't take. And he would come by to drink away the pain and the loneliness and the sadness. Fred knew this...and without a word he would roll himself into the kitchen in his electric wheelchair, and make up a cup of ice from the freezer, which was situated close to the floor so that he could reach it. Then he would fill the cup with whatever he had on hand and roll back into the living room to deposit it into the hand of his buddy who needed it.Sometimes he would drink with him, sometimes he wouldn't. But I always got the sense that Fred understood on a very deep and unquestioning level why it was that this man needed to drink. And he never asked him any questions or expected anything from him. He just invited him in and tended to him the only way that he knew how. And they would sit for while and drink a little and then his old friend would get up and quietly take his leave just as he had come. Quietly, sadly, and comforted.
You might be wondering how I can extract grace out of the above story. Let me explain. I think people reach an age where they have worked and loved and hated and raised kids and needed things and provided things, and they have "done good." These are people who have provided for their families and stayed out of jail, and have done their best to worship God and to live a good life. They have done what they needed to do. And now they are tired. And they want comfort. And they look for that comfort in the little things in life. Like a drink of liquor. Or a cigarette. A friend who is not their wife or their husband. In short they have lost the energy to make these things "bad." Now they are just comfortable. And what I saw was a man who needed comfort in the form of a drink and another man who gave it to him because he completely understood. The grace is found in the understandin', not the form it comes in.
