FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 96

We sat in silence for a minute. Mama was fighting fading off into a coma again, I could tell. She closed her eyes, almost involuntarily, and I could look no longer into their depth. It was as if a wind had taken a cloud and eclipsed my view of the sun. I knew there was still one final cloud that would pass by. She shivered momentarily and fought to stay awake. Opening her eyes again, she squeezed my hand to make sure it was still there.

“Billy Ray,” she said, faintly, “your birthday present is on the stand. I want you to have it tonight.”

I leaned over the nightstand, picked up the package, and opened it. It was a beautiful black leather Bible with engraving on the front in silver letters.

It read, simply, “To my baby boy, Billy Ray, on his 17th – Love, Mama. August 3, 1973.”

I ran my hand over its smooth leather and its lettering, then clutched it until my knuckles turned white.

“Do you like it?” she asked, then continued before I could answer, “I told your Aunt Gracie what I wanted to get you. Is your name in silver letters?

“Yes ma’am,” I said, “in bright silver. It’s great, Mama.”

“Gracie minded me well. She’s a good little sister.”

“And you’re a good mama, too, and you chose the perfect gift. It’ll always hold onto it tight.”

I could feel Mama relax once she knew I had the Bible in my hands. I could tell she was afraid she would be unable to give it to me. She had waited for this moment, longed for it. Now she could rest.

I listened again to Mama’s slow breathing as I flipped through the Bible, noticing its perfect script. Mama seemed to be coming in and out.

She left me for a moment, then jarred herself again, reached out for my hand, and said, “Read to me, son.”

I flipped through the pages more now, searching for a scripture I thought she’d like, and I stopped at one of my favorite passages: 1 Corinthians 13.

I knew Mama would like that. I took some moments, then began to read.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as a sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal …”

Mama reached out for my hand. I took it, again noticing its warmth, and held my new Bible in my lap with my other hand.

And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge, and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

I paused, wondering if she was listening. She turned her head toward me, telling me she was. I read each word of the chapter, carefully and slowly.

“Love behaves properly.

“Love does not seek her own.

“Love is not easily angered.

“Love does not think evil.

“And love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

I measured each word, realizing that these words were the standard by which Mama measured her own life.

Each syllable, each word – verse after verse – described Mama. The words were like the plumbline her daddy preached about. They measured her, defined her, and described every moment and every thought.

They drew a picture of Mama, then seemed to say: You go and do likewise.

She had given all that she had earned; she had sacrificed her body and her health, she had suffered long – yet, she had also rejoiced, believed, endured, and hoped in all things.

And loved, a love that I’ve never grasped, I know. But thank God for sending me this Plumbline.

Yes, the Lord just took Mama out of the Bible, set her down in this red dirt, and said, “Be like that, and you will walk together one day on that street of gold.”

I neared the end of the chapter. I read slowly, allowing each phrase to tell its story.

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”

I was about to begin the next verse, but Mama lifted up her head slightly and squeezed my hand.

She opened her eyes and pointed them toward mine, looking straight through me as much as anybody ever had.

“Billy Ray?” she said, feebly, tears now forming unrestrained. I knew it was a question, and I tried to reply but could only lay down the Bible, clasp her hands in mine, and bite my lip. I tried to swallow so I could get a word out. She waited.

Finally, I mustered a weak, “Yes, Mama.”

“Billy Ray,” she said again, and her voice had become stronger in that moment than it had in a long time. “Are you going to become a man tomorrow?”

She released my hand, mounted up what little strength she had remaining, reached up, and touched my face, gently. I know she could feel that my face was still a smooth baby-face, one rarely shaven. Despite my every effort, love, directly sent from 1,000 shattered pieces inside of me, met her soft hand and spilled into her palm, creating an eternal bond. She grasped it, and I surrounded her hand in mine and held it tightly. That night, with the evening rain tapping softly on the windows near the bed, I finally told the rivers of water that were flowing deep inside that they could now come.

I held onto her hand until the evening sun had sunk far into the western sky, then carefully laid her porcelain hand on her bosom as the night’s sable shadows fell.

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.