“Taking Philip Home”

Friday, April 03, 2009

            Yesterday was a humbling, terrible, wonderful day.  At 7:30 a.m., Vickie and I picked up Fisher and Caroline at their condo and headed south on I-65 toward Andalusia and Philip’s graveside.  The day was dark and threatening with weather bulletins everywhere, leading me to the anxiety that we might end up burying Philip’s remains during a hailstorm or tornado.  The chances, according to the weather genius on the radio, was ripe for such an event.  “It’s just one of those deals,” Philip would have said.  We had promised and we were going.

            We had to meet Philip in Andalusia.  As usual, he beat us there.  Myra told us that after the cremation, his remains were shipped overnight to the funeral home.  

            So we drove through fog to Montgomery and driving rain to Andalusia.  Along the way Cynthia called—Norman, the funeral director, was concerned about lightening strikes hampering putting up a funeral tent.  I agreed.  Who wants to be standing next to a metal pole in a lightening storm in an open cemetery?  Not I.

            And so it was that we chose to move the graveside to the Adellum Baptist Church, where Brother Billy Boles and the good people of that church, where Philip preached a revival a few years ago, were hosting all of us for lunch.  It is the home church of Philip’s stepmother, Elizabeth.  When we arrived, a host of humble, gracious and kind senior adult members welcomed us.  They were salt of the earth Baptist people, the kind who inhabit all of our memories of childhood or a first pastorate somewhere.

            The church’s pastor is married to the great, great granddaughter of the founding pastor.  Everyone there knows each other and were most anxious to extend kindness to these strangers rolling in out of the north and the storms.  We arrived before the family, so we shook off the drops, and walked inside.  An older gentleman helped us close our umbrellas and put them carefully in a side room by the door.

            Next door, workers were inside busy putting the interior touches on the new fellowship hall, which an older gentleman proudly told me they hoped to finish by Anniversary Sunday in May, I think.  He told us the story, and we realized quickly that Philip’s stepmother, Elizabeth is the local heroine of this little congregation—pillar, saint, and revered matriarch.  “We couldn’a done none of this without it being God’s doin’,” said our friend.  “And Elizabeth.”

            When I met Elizabeth a short time later, I understood why.  She is a gracious, kind, sainted soul, the type you meet eventually in every church that has an ounce of grace in it—the people who balance out all manner of carbuncles, acne, hemroids, appendixes, and the “unseemly parts” that seem to infest every local expression of the body of Christ. 

            It smelled like the little country churches of my childhood and early pastorates.  It’s the combination of old hymnals, Bibles, stale literature, endless covered dish dinners, a bit of mold,  and whatever odors the people regularly bring with them, but those rectangular churches seem to always smell exactly the same.  It is familiar, comforting even.

            Vickie walked around with the pastor’s wife, a very sweet woman, and they talked about the various renovations and changes in the church.  The history hung on the walls in the back outside the fellowship hall, mostly pictures of former pastors, the founders, and dinners.  While this was not Philip or Cynthia’s home church, it was inhabited by people who knew, loved and respected him.  They welcomed us like foreign dignitaries, the former of which we certainly were.

            The ladies of the kitchen are poster girls of everything I love about country and small town Southern places.  Sweet, kind, welcoming.  And, God bless, what food!   I have never seen so many lima beens, green beans, casseroles, variations of corn, au-gratined potatoes, gelatin delights of every color, and desserts to die by.  And fried chicken.  Big old, huge fried chicken breasts that Baptist preachers can eat in their sleep.

            Fisher prayed, and we quickly filled the hall with laughter, stories and memories of Philip.  Vickie and I sat with Myra and her husband Pat—my first time to meet him and also Doug’s wife, Daria.  Little Will, Philip’s grandson, was there.  A handsome lad with a lot of “Wise” in him.  He was fittingly bewildered by the entire event, but ate dutifully and then headed out to get some mud on his clothes.

            Now that the shock is wearing off a bit and we’re getting through the ritual events, the stories are starting to bubble up.  We had a good time in the fellowship hall.  Philip’s family were there—his brothers, Harry and Brent, both from South Carolina, and in-laws, cousins, nephews and nieces, at least one uncle I met, whom I heard in a political discussion in the sanctuary prior to the service explode, “Hell, NO.  I’m an OBAMA man.  The damn Republicans give us all that trickle down stuff, well, none of it ever trickled down to ME.”  Hello, Philip!

            It was rich, holy, precious.  We were all trying to stir up and breathe in every precious remembrance we could.  Maybe it’s staving off those terrible moments to come, but I think of those women who trudged down to the tomb on Easter morning to anoint the body of Jesus.  When you are going to decease, who doesn’t hope to be so loved and honored?

            At 1 p.m. it was time for the service.  We lined up in the fellowship hall and marched in.  The pastor, trying to put forth every gracious touch he could think of for such a last minute event, played some piped-in contemporary reflective songs over the sound system as we walked in.  I thought of that face Philip always makes when something unwanted happened.  If you want to see it, rent the “John Adams” miniseries and just watch Paul Giamatti whenever Adams is angry about something but can’t speak.  He is Philip’s double.

            Anyway, it was innocuous, a little funny, and then I got up and did my graveside service at the Adellum Baptist Church.  The most amazing part was reading what Philip’s children wrote about their Dad.  I will read it again today. 

             I did what preachers do—scripture, prayer, and a few personal remarks.  I ended by comparing Philip to the character of Hopeful in Pilgrim’s Progress.  He was the one who never gave up and never collapsed in adversity.

              Now I further saw, that betwixt them and the gate was a river; but there was no bridge to go over, and the river was very deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river the pilgrims were much stunned; but the men that went with them said, You must go through, or you cannot come at the gate.

              The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no other way to the gate. To which they answered, Yes; but there hath not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, been permitted to read that path since the foundation of the world, nor shall until the last trumpet shall sound.  The pilgrims then, especially Christian, began to despond in their mind, and looked this way and that, but no way could be found by them by which they might escape the river. Then they asked the men if the waters were all of a depth. They said, No; yet they could not help them in that case; for, said they, you shall find it deeper or shallower as you believe in the King of the place.

              Then they addressed themselves to the water, and entering, Christian began to sink, and crying out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep waters; the billows go over my head; all his waves go over me.

              Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my brother: I feel the bottom, and it is good.  Then said Christian, Ah! my friend, the sorrows of death have compassed me about, I shall not see the land that flows with milk and honey. And with that a great darkness and horror fell upon    Christian, so that he could not see before him. Also here he in a great measure lost his senses, so that he could neither remember nor orderly talk of any of those sweet refreshments that he had met with in the way of his pilgrimage…

              Hopeful therefore here had much ado to keep his brother’s head above water; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful did also endeavor to comfort him, saying, Brother, I see the gate, and men standing by to receive us; but Christian would answer, It is you, it is you they wait for; for you have been hopeful ever since I knew you. And so have you, said he to Christian. Ah, brother, (said he,) surely if I was right he would now arise to help me; but for my sins he hath brought me into the snare, and hath left me.

              Then said Hopeful, My brother, you have quite forgot the text where it is said of the wicked, “There are no bands in their death, but their strength is firm; they are not troubled as other men, neither are they plagued like other men.” Psa. 73:4,5. These Troubles and distresses that you go through in these waters, are no sign that God hath forsaken you; but are sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live upon him in your distresses.

              Then I saw in my dream, that Christian was in a muse a while. To whom also Hopeful added these words, Be of good cheer, Jesus Christ maketh thee whole.

            At the conclusion, since we had moved into a church, I asked everyone to sing “Blest Be the Tie” a capella as the closing hymn.  It was exceptional—all those Southern Baptist voices from the ancient past, blending with strangers, and I swear I think the family was harmonizing.  Those last two verses, particularly, were right.

We share each other’s woes,
Our mutual burdens bear;
And often for each other flows
The sympathizing tear.

When we asunder part,
It gives us inward pain;
But we shall still be joined in heart,
And hope to meet again.

            Then on to the cemetery we drove, with just the family, hoping to beat another gathering storm.  The rain was pelting us by the time we got there.  Philip’s grave is up on a rise, an open space with no trees or shelters.  We stood, nervously waiting for all to arrive.  We didn’t have long.  Now a pall fell over us.  The unavoidable void was going to look right in our eyes and we would not be able to avert our gaze.  This is the moment of terror.  We needed Hopeful right then.

            Philip and Cynthia are not merely from here.  They are local celebrities, the Andalusia Idols, Ken and Barbie, who were stars, leaders, and locals make good.  As I stood by his uncle at the graveside he pointed to Philip’s dad and mother, buried just behind where we stood.  “His daddy never accepted less than perfection from those boys.  If they didn’t do their best, they’d get it when they got home.  Philip, he was an ACE.” 

            Yes he was.  And he still is.

            Just a few minutes there.  We stood, as the relentless rain was returning.  We didn’t have long.  A driving rain.  A dark sky.  Rumbling thunder.  Holding umbrellas nervously, lightening rods in an open space.  Here was the most dreaded moment.  I stood looking down at a small hole in the ground, and watched as the director lowered Philip’s remains into the hole and covered it with great deliberation, ignoring the rain as he did.  It was respectful.  This man had known Philip since seventh grade.  This was personal.

            And so, in a few moments, it was done.  We all embraced briefly, then got into our cars and away, headed back to Birmingham for what surely will be a wonderful and more celebrative experience today.

            It was fitting to have a day like yesterday.  Philip needed two days, two services, two worlds.  I have learned so much about my friend in the past few days, and it has only deepened my love and respect for him.  He is a man of many worlds.  One day could not capture them.  But yesterday I had the privilege with Fisher, Caroline, Vickie and a lot of family and wonderful, voluntary fellow mourners, to enter his earliest world for a few hours.    

            When we returned home, thankfully without incident or serious storm, we dropped off Fisher and Caroline, and returned home.  Some friends, months ago, knowing we love the comedian Brian Regin, had bought great tickets at the Alabama Theater to take us.  We decided, as long as the day had been, that Philip would want us to go, so we did.  We laughed ourselves silly, full body, two hours of non-stop laughter.  It was healing.

            And so we were able to sleep, to prepare for this day.  I dreamed of Philip.  I am sure I am beginning to grieve now.  The urgent tasks and ritual transition will end and the hard part will begin.  One more celebration.  One more worship service.  One more event.

            I do so wish that I had not thought of “Blest Be the Tie” as an impromptu.  If I had planned, I would have brought the two verses not in our hymnals.  They are incredibly Philip.

This glorious hope revives
Our courage by the way;
While each in expectation lives,
And longs to see the day.

From sorrow, toil and pain,
And sin, we shall be free,
And perfect love and friendship reign
Through all eternity.

A song I wrote about our friendship LISTEN