In 1998, I took a military assignment that would move our family from Great Falls, Montana to Warner-Robbins, Georgia. It’s a long drive, especially when you’re hauling a jeep behind what used to be a "real" Ford Bronco, not the hyped up station wagons they are today. Sorry…back on track. Anyway, despite the tremendous power of the eight cylinder engine, we crawled most of the way at an agonizing 55 MPH. Not one of my smarter moments, hauling that beat up jeep; should have sold it before we left, but try telling something that to younger me. If you’ve ever hauled something like that or a boat, you know it’s like dragging an elephant kicking and screaming…and swerving. Not to mention the fact that you unintentionally piss off every driver that happens to get behind you. I had two very young kids in the car who were, once again, uprooted from another house and a wife who, while thrilled to be closer to home, was getting a little tiered of military life. Add to that the stress of driving a small train on curvy mountain roads. Despite all of that anxiety, I looked forward to early morning drives because of something called radio.
It was about 4:30 in the morning, somewhere between Wyoming and Colorado after I had “gently” pulled everybody out of their beds and loaded them in the car. Not only had I managed to piss off other drivers, but my family was not happy with me either. “We’ll” get breakfast when you guys wake up. Here, have some peanut butter crackers. You’re fine.” I was fine…I was usually hyped up on cheap gas station coffee with flavored creamer and enough sugar to not only cause, but spread diabetes. Yeah, I was that guy. And I really looked forward to when the other three disgruntled souls fell asleep so I could listen to the radio. Not music, but talk shows like “Delilah,” NPR and my favorite, Paul Harvey. Paul Harvey was a fantastic storyteller and usually shared uplifting, true accounts, the kind that get you past MacDonalds in the hopes that the next little town wouldn’t look so dingy. Harvey would begin with an opening narrative with his fatherly voice in a way that captured your interest. He’d then pause and say his famous line, “And now, for the rest of the story.” It’s a type of entertainment few people would understand today, but it sure made those long drives possible.
The cool thing was, there was always the rest of the story. Some times these stories didn’t have a happy ending, but I cannot recall ever feeling sad after one of his broadcasts. I’d look over at my sleeping family and by then the sun was starting to come up…this was the typical case when we’d travel. The silence and peace in the early morning hours on deserted roads…I miss that. I just heard some guy my age say that he never had time to reflect on anything until his late 50s. Obviously, he’s never driven across country listening to Paul Harvey. Sadly, I think there are a lot of people past and present who would agree with this guy. Too busy with the job, the marriage, the parenthood. Too consumed with making the next promotion so you can buy the bigger house, the nicer car, perhaps the vacation home that you plan to enjoy when you get off the ride, provided that you don’t have to step off early. Far too often, people leave the planet long before they have a chance to realize the fruits of their labor. Or, perhaps they wait too long, saving and hoarding money so they can have enough to spend a few months in Florida every year, sipping margaritas and munching on popcorn shrimp…followed by a Mylanta chaser. And if that’s the case and you’ve worked through all of your “good” years, what kind of reflection are you actually going to have, sitting on that tiny ledge of a back porch in your timeshare condo?
I just watched a PBS documentary dealing with human existence and the reality of death. Part of this piece was on “death doulas.” If you’ve never heard the term, these are very special people who assist others and their families in the process of dying. That’s a level of compassion that I cannot quite comprehend. I mean, I’ve been with people when they’ve passed, people I love. But not willingly, if that makes any sense. The thing that struck me, however, was the finality of the process. Now, this was just one documentary and I was not familiar with this type of service, so I could be way off base here. But, I didn’t hear God, much less Heaven mentioned. Spirituality, yes, but not God. In other words, once you die, life and everything you knew is gone. Maybe you become a part of the universe, or “go into other people’s hearts” as I heard Billy Joel mention once. But Heaven? God? Jesus? Naw, stuff of fairy tails. It’s much more plausible to believe that if your ashes are buried with a tree sapling, you become part of the tree. Why is faith so hard for some of us?
I believe many of us are uncomfortable believing that you have life on this planet and then you have “the rest of the story.” The thing is, if we could all just have a little faith, perhaps the faith of a mustard seed, we’d realize that this is not the end. At least, it doesn’t have be. If you don’t believe in the rest of the story, it’s going to be awful tough to let go of your timeshare and margaritas. You’re not going to want to leave your loved ones, or your life. Like a kid on the last night of Summer who feels like the last day of school was just a minute ago. But if I told you there is a place of perpetual summers? A world that our limited imagination cannot comprehend? A place where there is truly no more sorrow, no more pain. Maybe not margaritas and popcorn shrimp…well, I don’t know, maybe, but you get the point. If you remotely believed that a place like that exists, then leaving this one may not be so hard. Not before you’re supposed, of course.
Everyone is welcome and the Father longs to have all of his children come home. Unfortunately, not all want to go. To understand that, you need to do a little research and find out about the rest of the story.
Dave Magliano
Tatsu Dojo
Jissenkan Budo
Dojo Cho
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