UPDATE: Thanks to one of you (whose name I won’t publicize lest I rob him of all his heavenly reward by making him famous for his acts of philanthropic genius), I made my trip last week. It was more than worthwhile and beneficial to many. Thanks, Musrat. May your blessings here and There be richer for your generosity.

Eight years ago, back in my single metrosexual almost-North Dallas days (I don’t really know what metrosexual means, but it makes my early 20s sound more exciting, don’t you think?), I got some sad news. My friend Brad and I walked into his apartment and were greeted by a message from Brad’s roommate, a big red-headed guy named Pape (which is illogically pronounced "Poppy"). Scrawled barely legibly on a scrap of paper was this note:

your dad called – rich mullins died

Both the news itself and something about its delivery were startling to me. Why would God let Rich Mullins of all people die now and why am I finding out from a stupid note like this? Silly questions, of course, but those were my initial reactions. Strangely, though I don’t remember doing it, I apparently stole the note and kept it (sorry, Brad). I only know this because I ran across it as I was shuffling through a box of miscellaneous evidence of my pack-rattery during one of our recent moves. If I had a little more energy, I would dig around for it and scan it instead of retyping the note above. The possibility that it’s in one of the 22 boxes still stacked in our garage just barely persuades me that such an effort is completely unnecessary.

Anyway, as I think I’ve said somewhere before, Rich is one of the only people I never knew who I genuinely feel like I miss. One of my first blog posts ever alluded to this. It’s okay if you think I’m weird. I just listen to him sing and read his words and feel like he knows me better than a lot of people who actually know me. I feel like he knows life the way I know life; knows Jesus the way I know Jesus; knows failure and ache the way I know failure and ache. I think lots of different people who live very different lives feel that way about the guy, and I think that says something meaningful about the residue of his life (a phrase he’d probably like).

My point here is not to gush endlessly about Rich. Ronnie (a guy who apparently knows some folks I know, but who I don’t actually know myself) has written a tribute to Rich that is worth reading. His scattershoot of the texture of Rich’s personality is nice, and he even quotes the song that I robbed to name this blog and a song I mentioned in my hypothetical, ridiculous "you can only listen to 20 songs for the rest of your life" post.

I’m not writing about Rich and the day he died because Monday marked eight years since he crossed over. Not really. I’m writing about him and the day he died because Monday, eight years after Rich died, I held my grandmother’s (Mamaw to all of us) hand as she made her own crossing. After a long life in this realm that we see and smell and touch and hear and taste, her lungs quit breathing and her soul slowly vacated the broken-down body it had inhabited for nearly 93 years. My cousins David and Jesse were also at her bedside, and Amy and David’s wife Linda stood behind us as we did what we could to help escort Mamaw from here to There.

I don’t really know what those moments were like for Mamaw. She was still and peaceful – obviously more comfortable than she’d been in the days (years, really) prior. She didn’t speak to us or acknowledge our presence in ways that we could see or hear. That had ceased the night before, when several of us had spent time with her before the medications sustaining her body were pulled back. In moments Amy, my Aunt Molly, and I will never forget, Aiden sat on a stool by Mamaw’s bed and poured three year-old tenderness all over her. Writing about it would fail to convey the ways in which his reassuring words, soft hands, and sweet smiles created life all around a dying woman.

But Monday morning was quiet. We touched her and spoke to her in whispers. Though she didn’t physically respond, I sense she was more alive than ever, as the her that was slowly became the "new her" with each fading breath. She wasn’t gone, and the shriveled shell on the bed didn’t define her. It never really did; it just appeared to. Dying just sealed the deal, finally divorcing her eternal identity from the physical confines of flesh and bone (and arthritis).

Mamaw was ready for this, and she had been for some time. In some ways she’d been ready since that day in 1982 when Papaw went on ahead of her. Most days her readiness was dignified and patient, tempered by her love for all of us and her faith in God’s curious wisdom. Other days it was less steady, driven by the frustration of pain and immobility or a deep ache to be with her Cecil. I understand and love her for both. She was faithful and sure; she was tired and fragile. I’m 63 years behind her in this journey, and I get all of that.

But I don’t think she was the only one who was ready. Tonight I talked with my cousin David, and he described a keen awareness in those final moments of Papaw waiting for her, pleased as punch that the three grandsons who could get there were by her side. David didn’t see a ghost or hear any voices; he just knew Papaw, and he knows Papaw was on hand for the big event. I wonder if we are too inclined to discount ideas like that, maybe because we’re skeptical of what we can’t see and maybe because years of powerless religion have convinced us that all the supernatural stuff happened a long time ago.

They tell us a "cloud of witnesses" continually surrounds us, apparently looking on with anticipation as we run the race marked out for us. This moment was the end of Mamaw’s race, but it was a meaningful bend in the course for the rest of us. I think David is right. I think Papaw is in that cloud — he’s probably the designated cloud farmer and janitor — and I think he’s ecstatic to have Estelle join him in keeping an eye on us. I know she is thrilled beyond all imagination to finally be with Cecil and Jesus.

Tonight, when I ran across Ronnie’s thoughts on Rich, I was struck by the realization that Mamaw and Rich left us on the same date. It may seem insignificant to everyone else – old folks die and famous musicians seem to have a strange and disproportionate tendency toward fatal accidents. I don’t theorize that there is some deep, divine meaning in the coincidence. I mean, these people never heard of one another. Rich smoked and cursed. Mamaw was a true, old school Southern Baptist who shocked the world when, in her last weeks as her health deteriorated, she answered a group of church folks visiting her in the hospital who asked if they could pray with her with an emphatic, "Hell yes."

There seems to be no connection between the two but the day they died. Well, that and this: they loved a guy named Jesus desperately, and they lived their lives to follow him as best they knew how. Neither had it all right, this living as a Christian. Rich probably loved his liberty (and nicotine) too much at times. Mamaw may have been a bit too committed to certain religious traditions (like being Southern Baptist). They were both humanly flawed and incomplete. They were both heroically devoted and faithful.

So, strange as it may seem, I wonder if Rich was in that cloud that greeted Mamaw on Monday. Maybe it was his eighth birthday party and he wished for a widow to be rescued into eternity. Maybe Papaw caught him smoking in his corn field and promised not to rat him out if he’d make that wish.  And maybe those wishes really come true on the other side. Who knows why September 19 is such a good day to die, but it’s two-for-two in my book.

Whatever the story, Mamaw is home — with a chain smoking vagrant named Rich, a jolly Texas logger and farmer named Cecil, and that guy named Jesus who she followed to the end.

Mamaw, I’m glad you finally made it, and it was an honor to sit next to you on your way out. Oh, and if you’re "looking on," go easy on the ones like Rich. I know they seem like ruffians, and maybe you never expected to see them up there, but don’t lobby to get the rules changed or anything. Some of your grand-kids are taking the same route those hoodlums took. We weren’t allowed to tell you that before, but all those secrets are history now, aren’t they?

Estelle Belle Geldard Hatton
1912 – 2005

[Background: This saga began with the fourth bullet point in this post. Chapter two is here. Now it continues…]

From: Peterson, Preston yellowarmbandforlance@hotmail.com
To: Norvell, Thad
Sent: Friday, August 26, 11:39 PM
Subject: dumbut of the month

Listen up butt sniffer. I was going to leeve you alone after you gave me that good trick about the plastic bag and all, but tehn I heard from someone down the street that all of a sudden everyone in the hole dam world is saying that Lance was smoking drugs to win all his races. As soon as I heard this I knew how it started because you are the only person I ever heard of who doesn’t like Lance. I don’t know if your girlfriend broak up with you because she has a crush on Lance or what, dude, but you need to give it up. He’s better than you an d no amount of lieing that you do is going to change that. Lie lie lie and call yourself a French news paper, but at the end of your life you will be a sad liar inhell and Lance will still be living strong in heaven (if he ever even dies, which he may not since he’s already beat cancer and is the best shaped athlete ever, unlike you and your fat self. You would probably die the first day you got cancer.) Besides, I can’t believe anyone believes your stupid story about the drugs. It doesn’t make any sense that he could race so fast while he was high, and everyone knows you can’t keep pee stored for six years. I stored some in a Mountain Dew bottle for seven months and then one day it spastaneusly exploded all over my closet. My closet still smells like the corner of my grandma’s  living room where the cat lives and my mom still won’t go in there, even when she’s drunk. So you can take your scarcasm and jelousy and stick them in your rear and pull them out your ear weiner nose. If me and Austin ever see you on the street we are going to go gangsta on yo azz, just like it says in that Snoop song that we always listen to while we’re practicing to be Tour de France riders on the exercise bike in Austin’s garage. Austin might not look scary, but his Dad who would be a black belt if he hadn’t dropped out of Tiekwondo classes because they cheated him out of the third stripe on his green belt taught him how to do num chucks. Austin practices every day and he could beat you down before you ever even knew he was in the room if he saw you on the street. Also I am learning how to thrown ninja throwing stars, and even though I only have paper stars right now, I’m saving my allowance to buy some real ones from some real ninjas who have a w ebsite where they sell ninja weapons. So you better keep you and your sad Aggie self (Lance is a real LONGHORN by the way not a stupid Aggie) out of our way. And anyways, I’m calling the police and ESPN to tell them you were the pee pirate who mad eup the Lance story.

Preston Peterson

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From: Norvell, Thad
To: Peterson, Preston yellowarmbandforlance@hotmail.com
Sent: Tuesday, August 30, 10:03 AM
Subject: Re: dumbut of the month

Dear Preston:

It’s great to hear from you again. After you didn’t respond to my last email, I was afraid I had offended you in some way and we’d never talk again. This, of course, would have been devastating to me.

I can imagine that the news of the last week or so has been very unsettling for you and the millions like you who have made the yellow rubber ring your featured accessory for the last couple of years. I mean, what would it mean for the whole sloganeering enterprise and for the feel good foundation you’ve all built your strong way of living on if Lance was juicing (and not Jack LaLanne’s kind of juicing)?

Speaking of juice, I’ve also gone in a Mountain Dew bottle before, once while driving my car across West Texas, and several times when I was in a particular temporary living situation where it was not as simple as it should have been to go to the bathroom at night. I also once went in a Dr. Pepper bottle while driving down I-20 in Dallas in broad daylight. I consider this one of my top 5 all time feats behind the wheel. However, I don’t suggest you try this, especially on your bike. Though it might be a smidge less dangerous than peeing in a bottle on an interstate while driving 70 mph, the bike doesn’t afford you the same level of privacy that a car does.

Anyway, I always remembered to dispose of the bottles before there was an explosive mishap, and I’ll add your experience to my portfolio of pee bottle anecdotes. It is, without a doubt, instructive.

Preston, while I understand your frustration with the mounting suggestions that Lance might have had some help living strong, you should know that I’m not the only skeptic. In fact, Keith Olbermann wrote a fine piece just today articulating the kind of suspicion that many of us have but can’t seem to voice without being labeled as pro-cancer (and I have a clear record of voting anti-cancer).

And while I hate to be the punctuation police, your conspicuous lack of commas in the part of your email when you suggest that I pull my "scarcasm and jelousy" out my "ear weiner nose" leaves me confused. Did you intend to tell me to pull these things from my ear, then call me a wiener nose? Or were you telling them to pull them out of my ear wiener while calling me a nose? Or something else equally disturbing? Please advise.

Finally, while Austin sounds like a cat not to be crossed, I have to warn you that I have a friend with expertise in the martial arts as well (give it a minute or so to load). I think it would be sad and unnecessary for him to have to shame and maim you or Austin. Maybe we should pull back on the violent rhetoric, no?

Peace, Preston, peace,

thad

Last night I read this, this, this, and this. Then, at midnight, I went in and woke up my best buddy, made him hug me, and made sure he knew that Jesus loves him and Daddy loves him. Then I held and kissed my baby girl. Then I crawled into bed with my best friend and cried until my face hurt.

[A little reader feedback from this post.]

From: Peterson, Preston yellowarmbandforlance@hotmail.com
Subject: What’s ur prob queer?

Dear Mr. "I think I’m so much better than Lance" –

Who do you think u r, anyway? You think u can say mean things about the undisputed greatest cancer survivur to ever live like that. Lance has more courage in his left nut than you have in your whole, scrawny little body. Have you ever even been on a bike? Well, I have and I can tell you it’s not so easy to ride up steep hills as you seam to think, genus. It’s pretty freaking hard. One time I wrode up my street three times in one day because my friend Austin (who is named after the awesum town where Lance the Great lives) kept calling me to come over but when I would go over his dad would answer the door and scream at me ("I ALREDY TOLD YOU AUSTIN ISN’T HERE SO STOP RINGING THE DAM DOORBELL AND LEAVE ME ALONE YOU FAT LITTLE TURD!!!") for waking him up from his nap (he works nights at the Speedy Stop) so I’d hav eto ride back home until Austin called me again. Finally I told him to meet me outside so his dad wuldn’t get so pissed at me. Then we rode bikes in the woods and found a dirty magazine out there. Don’t tell Austin’s dad, okay? Austin says he’ll just take it away from us and put it on the top shelf of his closet. Riding bikes is not a joke, but not that you’d know anything about that. Your probably fat and lazy, which is why your so jealus of Lance. Lance wins the tour every year by wriding up and down the Everest Mountains faster than all those other drug using French weenies trying to wreck him so he won’t win, which is much harder than riding up my hill, which is also very hard, especialy when you have to ride it three times in one day while thinking about that dirty magazine you found.

Lance is my  hero and he’s a hearo to lots of other people too so you should be more careful what you say. Do you have any idea how many people’s lifes he’s saved by beating cancer and winning the Tour de France so many times? Have you even seen the Nike commercials or are you so lazy and busy doing things like writing hate posts to watch TV? Probably, idiot. I bet you don’t even have a LIVESTRONG band, do you? Probably to lazy to get one or too cheap to buy one. There only a dollar you know. And everytime you buy one a cancer survivor gets another chance at life, you stupid lazy idoit! I have eight, but only because I lost one at the mall and Austin’s dad ripped one off my arm the thrid time I woke him up that day.

Later hater,

Preston "LIVESTRONG" Peterson

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From: Norvell, Thad
To: Peterson, Preston yellowarmbandforlance@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: What’s ur prob queer?

Dear Preston,

Thank you for your well-worded and poignant response to my recent musings on everyone’s All American, Lance Armstrong. I’m not sure how a link to my blog got posted on the Pokemon webring, but I’m glad you found me. I normally don’t respond to hate mail, but you’ve been so vulnerable in sharing about your personal life that I felt I owed you a few thoughts and clarifications.

First, while I may indeed be an idiot, I am not jealous of Lance. I am, however, jealous of you and Austin. I used to love riding my blue and yellow Huffy (with mag wheels) through the woods, and my friends and I also once found a dirty magazine. A little tip: get a big Ziplock bag for it, and then bury it under some leaves and stuff in the woods. This will protect it both from the elements and Austin’s dad, who is obviously a grouchy perv.

Second, I am little and scrawny, but I’m not sure that clarification is necessary. Your position on my size seems to shift a bit through the narrative of your email. Either way, I’m not small because I ride my bike a lot; I just have a high metabolism. I’m sure I couldn’t keep up with Lance on a bike, or with you and Austin (especially in the Everest Mountains or on your hill). And, if I’m honest, I am a little lazy, but not so lazy that I’ve missed the Nike commercials. I have to admit, they’re pretty compelling, especially when shown at every single commercial break. And leaving out the part about all of Lance’s pharmaceutical habits certainly helps with that [AWW SNAP! NO YOU DI-IN’T!!].

Finally, Lance does not, in fact, have "more courage in his left nut" than me. Turns out, they had to snip that bad boy off when he got the cancer. Listen, I actually feel bad for the guy about that, so let’s not go bandying his excised marbles about the internet willy nilly. Sheryl Crow seems to be okay with his current configuration, so whatever. I’m not sure how Kristin — you know, the mother of his three children who he ditched to roll with rock starlets and supermodels — feels about all of that. But hey, he can ride a bike fast and a bunch of high priced doctors and drugs extracted all the cancer cells from his body, so his various personal indiscretions and overt narcissism are no reason to refrain from bowing down at his ten-speed throne.

Live strong, Preston, live strong.

Yours in yellow,

thad

I only post about sports when it seems necessary. With the deluge of burnt orange propaganda you’ll be choking on for the next few months, this article seems necessary. Dig it.

I added two new albums to the left. The first set is from the day we brought Ella home, and the second is from last Monday when she was a week old. Enjoy.

This little journey is just over a day old, and Ella Grace has already begun to infringe on both Aiden’s territory and mine. Though Aiden seems genuinely happy about the arrival of his baby sister, he’s also a little conflicted about the way this new creature is demanding his Mommy’s attention. This is normal and something we expected and, with any luck, we’ll work through it in time to prevent him from becoming another statistic among the throngs of preschool runaways.

What I did not anticipate was how quickly Ella would own me, and I’m not talking about the textbook "wrapped around her finger" stuff. I’m talking about practical matters, like internet presence. Look, I’ve been blogging for over two years. I spend countless hours every day (well – every year, anyway) in deep thought and contemplation, mining my vast intellectual resources for brilliant insights to share with the world. This particular site has been alive for over a year.

Ella, on the other hand, showed up a mere thirty hours ago. And here is the traffic log for my verbal gold followed by the numbers for her photo album:

I always knew girls were trouble.

A new album of today’s trouble is on the left.

More photos in the album to the left.