I haven't posted every Sunday like I wanted to, but 3 per month so far this year seems like a good pace.
Today I went to the funeral of a man I've known since I was in the 5th grade.
The backstory: when I was in the 3rd grade, my mom bought me my little quarter horse, Jellybean. At the time, we lived in Grapevine and Jellybean lived one town over in Southlake at a barn on a 5-acre plot of land managed by Jellybean's former owner, Kim.
Fast forward 2 years, a little half acre with a single wide trailer adjacent to the land and across a dirt road (Crawford Court) from Kim's house came up for sale. My mom saw it as an opportunity for me to be closer to Jells, ride more often, and even feed him before school and all the responsible horse owner things. So, she bought that half acre with the trailer and started dreaming of building a new house on that land. I remember spending hours drawing floor plans of our future house.
Not long after we moved into that little trailer that was supposed to be temporary, we got into the car accident that changed everything. My mom was unable to work and was put on long-term disability. While she was on disability, her company fired her, which is illegal, and thus began a three year long legal battle where we basically spent every dime she'd ever saved, and then we sold the half acre with the little trailer and moved in with my aunt when I was in the 9th grade. Ultimately the lawsuit was resolved, and my mom bought her house on Summerplace in Southlake that she still owns.
But the point of the story is this: while we lived in that little trailer on Crawford Court, we moved onto a dirt road sandwiched in between two Crawford brothers. The land had been their parents, and when their parents died each of their kids got an acre. The stone house where the Crawfords were born still sits at the head of the dirt road on top of the hill. Papa Tommy lived down the hill and Papa James lived up the hill. They were brothers and they were good men. They looked out for each other, and they looked out for us. Over the years, both brothers mowed our lawn when it needed it and helped fix things that broke around the house. They never accepted anything in return except for a ham we'd get them every year at Christmas. While we lived there, Tommy's daughter and her three kids lived with him for a while. The kids weren't even old enough to go to school when we first moved in, but at least a few times per week they'd come over to see what I was doing. We were all allowed to just run amok on Crawford Court. There wasn't really anything we could do that'd get us into trouble.... just a bunch of dirt. The kids would come ride Jellybean with me sometimes. Other times I'd take Sis (the only girl) and we'd paint our nails while the boys played in the mud outside.
She came up to me at the funeral today to say hello. I haven't seen her since she was probably 5 and I couldn't believe how much she looks like her mother. I had an actual flashback and for a second I thought she was her mother, but I thought... how could she have aged backwards?
I loved those kiddos so much, and growing up on Crawford Court was so simple. I can't explain the feelings I felt when I saw her today. I wanted to pick her up and kiss her cheek like she was 5 again, but we're somehow all grown up and she's a full blown adult. How did this happen? Time is a thief, for sure. It made me reflect on so many other people in my life, especially people I haven't seen for a long time. Everyone just means so much to me, even people I haven't seen or spoken to in decades.
I was so embarrassed to live in a trailer for those years. I went to school with the children of professional athletes and CFOs. Kids at my school got brand new Mercedes Benz for their sixteenth birthdays. I never wanted anyone to come over, and sometimes when my friends' parents insisted on driving me home from something, I'd tell them I needed to be dropped off at the barn to check on Jellybean, so they wouldn't drive down Crawford Court to see our house. As an adult I see how very little that matters: we had a roof over our head, groceries in the fridge, and I had a horse for crying out loud. But as a kid I was embarrassed. Looking back though, something about that old dirt road seems so sacred.
Today at Papa James' funeral, the pastor recited Psalm 23 from the King James Version of the Bible and invited the people in attendance to say it along with him. I could not believe how many people there knew the entire Psalm word for word. The parking lot was full of pickup trucks and the funeral was full of men in jeans, boots, and cowboy hats.
To be honest, I don’t know what kind of relationship Papa James had with Jesus. He was a mason…. And idk what kinda sketchy stuff goes on there (lol). But I know that he knew the workers at his local Walmart, and probably knew something about their families. I know he helped my mom out more times than I can count and expected nothing in return. I know that he really saw people. And I know that God is merciful and that Papa James will get his just reward.
Something about his passing feels like the end of an era.
I hope there will be a new generation of saints at my funeral reciting Psalm 23.
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