FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 92

How intuitive could a dark-haired girl be at a mere 16 years of age, I wondered, as we drove on?

I realized there was a great deal of biography in that talk about “Lonely Street,” and Corrina seemed to sense it long before I did. But we had a good laugh, the best since our backyard talk. That felt good, and I could tell it did her more good than even I.

Knowing her, and her gentleness, I understood why.

We both needed some light moments, but they were short-lived. Things turned more difficult when we swung onto Juniper Street.

Grandma Belle met us at the screen door when we got home. Grandma knew how to greet people better than anybody in the world, or she was second maybe only to Mrs. McClain. She said “Come on in” in her vintage way and straightway gave Corrina a hug. “So glad to see you, hun,” she said, “I just took a pound cake out of the oven. I want you to go in there right now and see if it’s good enough for me to set out,” she said with a laugh.

Corrina smiled, “Oh Grandma Belle, I have no doubt about that. You forget, I’ve eaten your cooking before, lots of times.”

Grandma turned back to me. “Billy Ray,” she said, “go in and see your mama. She’s been waiting for you,” then adding amiably to Corrina, “Miss Corrina, you sit right here and try this cake while it’s still warm.”

I knew there was more of a reason for that than just giving Corrina a taste of Grandma’s pound cake, but that was what Grandma would’ve done in normal circumstances, anyway.

Something was different when I walked into Mama’s room. I went straight to her, almost in slow motion, because suddenly things we’d been dreading and had tucked away out of our mind’s sight all summer long felt as if they were about to hit us across the face like that driving rain that first day on that brick job. When I touched Mama’s hand and said, “Hey, Mama,” she didn’t look right at me as usual. She turned in my direction, but her eyes didn’t meet mine. As soon as she heard my voice, she frantically grabbed me with both arms.

I kneeled on one knee to get close to the first lady I ever loved, staying there for several minutes while Mama cried. It was far more than I could take, and, for the first time that summer, I had to hide my face in a pillow. I hoped that Corrina could not hear me from the kitchen, but there was no holding back. My Mama’s heart was broken worse than it had been since December 12, 1967. I had thought then that it couldn’t ever be broken that way again.

It’s a night you never want to see. I would tuck it away gently on the far side of my memory for over half a century. Remembering it now, I know why. A man never wants to see his Mama cry, not like this, not when her heart has broken clear in two and all of that sorrow pouring unabated from her eyes.

I held my mama, my heart breaking along with hers. I knew there would be more moments like this to come. This was just the beginning.

I took a deep breath, then told Cheyenne, “That’s why I have dreaded getting to this point in the story. I’ve never wanted it to be a tragedy, and I've never wanted people to hear, read, or see it as one, either.”

Cheyenne wrinkled his forehead, so I offered him some hope, even though I know that I could not have felt such hope that Friday evening in July ’73.

I added quickly, “But don’t worry, son, really. The sky is goin’ to open up and the sunshine through before we’re done.”

I must’ve left five miles of highway and thought behind me before continuing.

Mama, still clinging to me as if she never wanted to let go, tried to speak as she cried.

“Billy Ray,” she cried, “I can’t see. I can’t see you. Everything is dark, dark as night.”

She let go of my hands, leaned back on her pillow and reached up, searching for my face.

“Oh, Billy Ray,” she said, finally finding my face and holding it like it was made of glass. I can’t see my baby, I can’t see my baby …”

I don’t know how many times she said that before she took her hands and covered her face and cried. I reached over to the nightstand, took a handful of Kleenexes, and wiped her face over and over. Her tears flowed as fast as I could wipe them off. I leaned down and held her, sobbing again with her but knowing I needed to be strong, stronger than I was. I was far too weak that evening; I knew I was, but what can a dam holding a surging ocean do?

Everything I’d held way down inside, layers and layers of denial and fear, had come unleashed at once. Even with all her faith, Mama did the same. The thing that afflicted her the most was not being able to see her baby boy for the first time since she first saw me and held me on August 4, 1956.

How I regretted every time I had told Mama, “Mama, don’t call me a baby. I’m not a baby!” There must’ve been 500 miles of regrets. Every person we met – from the time I was born a few miles from where we sat that night – Mama called me her baby. Maybe it was because she thought she and Daddy were through having children. After all, Pistol was almost four years old when I came along. Maybe it had been such a good time for Mama and Daddy that she thought this would be the perfect time to add a child to their perfect family.

Or maybe I was just an accident, which my two big brothers had told me my whole life. Not that they were the most dependable witnesses. They once had me tied to the chinaberry tree back of the barn and had the limb pulled back all the way to the ground, with me on it, and were about to shoot me to the moon. And they would’ve, had Irene’s mama next door not come running out of their house hollering for them to let that boy down or she’d sweep both of them over that barn with her broom, which she would’ve, too.

That was somewhere around 1961, so I came that close to beating Neal Armstrong to the moon by a good eight years.

Those random thoughts ran through my mind as I waited for Mama to gather herself. It was the only time I saw anything like that in my years with her. Mama knew how to be stoic. And, in her day, tears and fears were considered weakness and faithlessness, which we now know is not true. A faith that tears and fears haven’t tested is really no faith at all. I learned in that lonely Juniper-Street room that two things such as faith and fear can be contradictory yet both true.

Of all the things I’ve learned, I doubt I ever learned more about life, and death, than I did in the summer of ’73.

About the time Mama got ahold of herself, Grandma opened the door quietly, and she let Corrina come in. Corrina stood at the door, not daring to step too far into the room. Grandma closed the door behind her quietly, leaving the three of us alone.

Corrina stood bashfully by the door, her dark hair falling down across her face. She stood there, almost afraid to move or brush her hair out of her eyes, and she listened, hardly breathing, as Mama apologized for her tears.

“Billy Ray,” Mama said, “I can’t have you thinking I’m losing my faith. You have to know I haven’t. It’s just that …” Her voice broke off, and the tears started flowing again.

I’ve revisited that evening a 100 times through the years. I’ve realized, as many times before, how Providence steps into a moment and speaks for you, I don’t know how to explain it. Being only a few days from 17, there would be times I felt as if I were 13, and then there were times I would think or say things that made me feel I was a grown man. Those moments may have been few and far between, but at that moment I knew I had to find words seasoned with some degree of maturity that would put her mind to rest. I know I didn’t do near enough for Mama. I caused her more grief than I gave her joy probably, being a spoiled teenager. But that night, the Lord helped me. It wouldn’t be the last time.

“Mama,” I said, clasping her hand almost as friend to friend, “you don’t have anythin’ to be sorry for. You’ve held onto those emotions way too long. I’ve never seen faith that would compare to what you’ve had, even at a glimpse. You’ve had to go through breast cancer – that would’ve been enough to destroy some – but then you have dealt with this brain tumor, and that would take out the rest of them. But, now, you can’t walk anymore, and your eyesight is failin’, how much can you take? But you’ve taken it better than Job, and you’ve thanked the Lord every day for what He gave, even for your baby,” I said, and that brought a gentle smile.

“I know I’m goin’ to have to learn a lot ‘bout faith in whatever years the Lord gives me,” I said, “but one thing I know right now. I don’t want somebody who has never had to deal with anythin’ to tell me about faith. As long as I live, I am goin’ to tell people not to tell me of the faith of somebody who is a little glassy-eyed and whose lives are nice and tidy, and they never had any mountains to climb or valleys to stomp through tryin’ to find their way. I’m goin’ to tell them, with all respect, they should’ve seen a lady I knew who went to Hades and back in her time on this earth and she never flinched, never wavered, jus’ looked around to make sure she could help everybody she loved get ready to go to meet the Lord, too. That’s what real faith looks like.”

I breathed deeply before adding, “No, Mama, you cry all you want, because you’ve earned it. I know you think you can’t see, but I don’t even believe that. You see more than anybody I’ve ever met. Mama, if I live to be as old as Methuselah or Enoch, I’m never goin’ to meet anybody with half the faith you have. The Bible says faith is the evidence of things we don’t even see. And that’s true, I know, but you do see. You see it all with 20-20 vision. You see heaven. I bet you’ve walked on that street of gold lyin’ here thinkin’ about everythin’. Paul went up to heaven once, didn’t he, Mama?”

“The third heaven,” she said, “he went up to the third heaven, but he didn’t get to go into it, just up to it.”

I could hear hope come back into her voice, and her face regained some of its color. I squeezed her hand, and she said, “Thank you, son, you’re a good boy …” and her voice started to break again, so I jumped in,

“Mama, don’t say how good I am too loud. Corrina is standin’ over here by the door. We can’t have her thinkin’ I’m more than I actually am.”

That cheered her up and saved her from being sad. “Tell her to come on over here and see me,” Mama said, her voice spry, “it’s okay.”

Corrina hesitated, so I motioned for her to come on, knowing Mama couldn’t see it. Mama reached out to feel for her until Corrina got to her. Corrina hugged her, and it relieved Mama. She needed to cry, and she would need to cry again, but right then I think she needed a little bit of heaven for a moment. Corrina gave her that.

Satisfied, I said, “Ya’ll talk, I’m goin’ to run and shower.”

The “Last date” continues next week.

Coach Steven Ray Bowen served as a teacher and basketball coach at Red Oak High from 1998-2012 and recently spent two years teaching and coaching at Ferris. He and his wife Marilyn (the “amazin’ blonde”) served many years with the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl/Ovilla Roads, but now spend time evangelizing in several states in addition to Coach’s work as a writer and author, including the writing of the ongoing novel/memoir here in the Press. Call or text (972) 824-5197, or email coachbowen1984@gmail.com, or see frontporchgospel.com.