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noblesinger -> RE: Songs of the Noblesinger (12/6/2005 12:08:32 PM)
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I'd like to finish my story from the other day.
We had Dad's funeral on Monday, the 5th. It was a dreary morning, but the rain stopped and the sun came out in time to make the funeral just bit bearable. My Pastor at the time, Jack Dabney (who is now a mssionary in Albania) had an excellent mesage. He related a story that I had told him the day before about the time my Dad saved his younger brother's life.
He had been watching my Uncle Stanley burn some leaves and brush in a vacant part of the family garden, when to his horror, Uncle Stanley threw gasoline on the pile. The wind blew the gas and flames back onto him, and he took off running instead of "Stop, Drop, and Roll." My Dad ran out of the house, tackled Stanley, then rolled him in the dirt. He lost some of the hair on his head, and ended up with some small scars on his body, but he was alive. Funny thing is, though; Uncle Stanley never said anything to us after the funeral about who had told Pastor Jack the story in the first place. All he wanted to know was "Where's the last of my share of Mother's estate?" That's it? Not "Are you all going to be OK?" or "I'm so glad that story was shared. I really do owe Paul my life." Just "Where's my money?" That has bugged me for 28 years now. Just last year, we found out (in a roundabout fashion) that Uncle Stanley had died. I don't know whether or not he was saved, but I do hope that he was.
A bit later that afternoon, Mom and I were talking. I was planning on staying there that night, then going back to college the next morning. She told me that she would be OK, that my grandmother would be staying with her for awhile, and that I should go back so that I could sing in the university's production of Handel's "Messiah." She knew that I'd been working hard on learning the music and was looking forward to singing it. So I got my cousin and his wife to give me a ride to Huntington. Returning to my room, I washed my face real fast, jumped into my suit, then dashed over to the Music Hall where we would be singing. My voice teacher (who also was the director) was surprised to see me, especially since I heard him announcing "One of our number will not be here tonight. There's been a death in his family." just as I walked in the doors. He asked me if I would be all right to sing, and I said "Doc, I need to sing." I was not one of the soloists, just a chorus member, but I still needed to sing because it was my therapy, my emotional outlet, and I had to let it out. That night went fine, and at the next night's presentation, Mom, my grandmother, and my cousin Rob and his wife Karla, were there. That made it sort of special for me.
I finished the semester in kind of a daze. Classes ended the following Tuesday, Wednesday was Study Day, and Finals began on Thrusday. I came back from class on Tuesday afternoon and started studying Algebra (that was my weakest class). After going till late that night, I slept some, then got up the next morning and started all over again. That evening, a buddy of mine came to see if I wanted to go Christmas shopping. I turned him down, citing a need to study some more, but he grabbed my coat and checkbook, then practically drug me out the door. He told me later that I looked like a zombie. We grabbed some dinner in the cafeteria, then headed for downtown Huntington to shop. It did help to relax me, and I even got a present for Mom.
That night, back in my dorm room, my roommate had a couple of guys in watching TV. One of them, a Resident Advisor, was smoking this foul-smelling black cigar. I tried to go to sleep, but the TV and that cigar were bothering me. I asked them to keep the volume down and politely requested that the guy put out the cigar. After several times, I finally grabbed a squirt bottle, sprayed the stogie out, then threw the visitors out. My roomie and I started arguing over that, so I grabbed my mattress and pillow and moved it into the Study Room. While I was gone, he put that wet cigar onto one of my notebooks. When I came back and found it, I grabbed it and ground it into his prized possession - his Farrah Fawcett sheets. His girlfriend had hand-drawn that famous poster of Farrah on to this set of sheets for him. That was what really set us at each other's throats. We were in a real shouting match when he said, "No wonder your Dad killed himself!" Instantly my hand was around his throat and I shoved back in to the wall and held him there, about 6" of the ground. I looked him straight in the eye and said, "If you ever say those words to me again, I'll take a ball bat and beat your little pea brain right out of your head! Do you understand me?" He saw his death mirrored there in my eyes, so he quietly whispered "Yes." I dropped him, and he scooted out the door. My hands were shaking with fury as I stood there for a moment, trying to calm down. Finally, I went back to the Study Room and slept fitfully until my alarm went off the next morning. When I went to take my Algebra test the next day, my mind was a complete mess and that's the way my test went - messed up. I had struggled to keep a "C" average in the class, but the exam counted double and I had a major meltdown; flunked the Final, flunked the class. My college career sort of went down the tubes after that, because I just didn't care any more. I also didn't care anymore about the Lord. My mind said, "If You want to take my Dad away from me, then I don't want to have anything to do with You anymore." For the next 18 months, I ran from Him, but no matter which direction I turned, I ended up running into Him. That's how He kept me from totally going off the deep end.
I'll tell you more of my story later.
Duane
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