FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) part 99

“… though like a wanderer, cleaving the sky, sun, moon, and stars forgot, up-ward I fly.”

The quartet sang Mama’s favorite gospel songs, Brother Lew leading. Listening, I realized that it was so much more difficult to be Nearer My God to Thee now that I had lost my life’s compass. But I realized Mama would always be there. She left much of her spirit with me, and in me.

The group sang “Farther Along,” followed by my all-time favorite, both then and now, “How Great Thou Art.” When the last powerful crescendo of “How Great Thou Art” faded, Brother Lew and his group of Prince family singers stepped back, away from Mama, ready to take her place next to my daddy.

Uncle River stepped up and looked out over the large crowd. The gravesite was only 20 feet from a narrow dirt road running through the graveyard, next to a Lilac bush Mama had planted for Daddy six years before. Folks from all around were lined up, stretching out to the narrow road and down it for a 100 feet in each direction. The rest circled Mama’s body, forming a halo around Georgia’s finest lady.

Uncle River read a few passages and talked about how beautiful heaven must be, careful not to look directly into the blurred eyes of all my family sitting next to Mama for the last time, but then he paused. I could see his chest go in and out beneath his crisp white shirt and blue tie, and, for the first time, his own sad eyes met mine. He was a rarity, my auburn-headed uncle, a man who could simultaneously be both stoic and sad, powerful but gentle.

“Your mama was a strong woman,” he said, the morning sun shining against his auburn hair making it almost orange like the setting sun, “and she was a Christian with tremendous faith, such faith as removes mountains.”

He paused and twisted his mouth tight. I knew why.

“There was one mountain that she could not move. But she faced it with a deep, inward courage and climbed it with unsurpassed strength.”

I lowered my head and gazed at my clasped, mortar-stained hands.

“I want you to take her strength,” he continued, “and her courage. Take her faith as your heritage, and climb the mountains you’ll face. You’ll not always be able to remove them, so climb them, scale them, overcome them. Wait on the Lord, every hour, every day, and you will soar with wings as eagles, so says Isaiah, you will run and never ever be weary, and you’ll walk and never grow faint and never grow tired.”

As Uncle River quoted Isaiah’s greatest verse, his voice fell into a rhythm, like a song. I thought that was the most fitting of styles since Mama’s life was a song to be sung by a Nightingale or perhaps a Mockingbird, an early morning song that welcomes you to a fresh new day like dew sparkling on the gentle green grass.

My mind wandered as he spoke, and I thought he must’ve sounded like Doocy’s own preacher from over at Mount Zion Baptist Church where he attended when he didn’t stay out too late the Saturday night before.

My mind snapped back to Uncle River as he spoke on, his tone more gentle than I’d ever heard him. I am not sure how many words I heard. I was in and out, hypnotized by the poetic rhythm of his voice and by the sight of the rose-colored ark in front of me covered with angels, and by Mama’s words in my head:

“Billy Ray, are you going to become a man tomorrow?”

That had been her final concern, her final words. It was the last question she would ever ask on this earth. I had given no answer that night, the night before my 17th birthday suggested I must become a man, but I knew then, even as I know now, that the question would be the plumbline by which I’d have to measure my life from that rainy Aug. 3, 1973 Georgia night until I can take the wings of an eagle and fly away home, like Mama. I grimaced at the thought of the insurmountable challenge waiting ahead, glancing back up to Uncle River, his voice still sounding more like a song than a sermon, hoping that he could answer.

“Right beside the house where your mama raised you,” he said, looking at Mama’s four children, “some trees are blooming. Miss Louise planted those trees when they were only twigs. And they grew. And they’ll continue to grow…”

I could see two of those trees clearly in my mind. I saw them every time I would drive up into our driveway.

One was that Magnolia that sits beside our house, between the Rowe’s and ours – full, tall, and elegant. I guess Corrina and I admired that tree a hundred times as we sat together soaking up life during our summer. I remembered the day Mama and I had planted it, just a couple of years before, and it grew and blossomed, blessed by the tenderest hands, most fervent prayers, and sometimes, when Mama didn’t know I was looking, the sweetest tears.

The other tree was another Lilac, besides the two in the front on each side of the brick walkway that leads to the last set of steps. When I visited my Uncle Willie, who lived just the other side of the hill by our house, he looked out of his picture window across the steep hill that separated our two houses, and told me, “Those lilacs in your front yard were always so pretty in the springtime that I went and bought five one day and gave one each to some of the ladies at church. All of the trees ended up dying …” He paused and, in a slightly sad voice, added, “except that one right there that your Mama planted.”

He pointed at the full-bloomed tree that stood there in the backyard 30 feet across the hill from Corrina’s and my vacant lot.

Uncle Willie would tell me that story often in the years after Mama’s flight. He never explained it, just left it there for me to consider. That was Uncle Willie’s way.

Mama loved the Lilac so much she and I bought one after Daddy died, and as I sat that day I could still smell its blossoms ten feet away from where Mama lay.

My mind snapped back to where we sat, even though that spot and moment seemed like a dream. My auburn-headed uncle made a final point, comparing the Lilac in our yard to the tree of life in Mama’s new yard that sits by the “pure river of life, clear as crystal.” Uncle River could paint a pretty picture of heaven, almost making you want to go there right then, which I would have if I could’ve taken Corrina with me.

Uncle River offered a tired smile, his voice trailing off. He loved Mama as everybody did, having been married to Little Aunt Gracie for a quarter of a century. He said a beautiful prayer, slow and in soft tones; then he stepped back, away from the edge of the rose-colored ark, and stood again next to the Princes and Brother Lew. He nodded at them, and they stepped up.

Tall Brother Lew spoke in his beautiful bass voice – it, too, was sadder than before.

“Now we want everybody to sing with us, ya’ll know this song, I’m sure. It’s ‘All Things are Different in Heaven.’ It was one of Miss Louise’s favorites. As we sing it together, remember that our sister is like the blind man in the song – she’s not blind anymore. And she’s like the cripple man, too, because …”

Brother Lew had to reach down and get the words hidden deep. When he found them, they rolled off his tongue gently, like the morning breeze, “… because she’s not a cripple anymore.”

Those were all the words Brother Lew could say. He pitched the song for the lead singer, Miss Alice, and they sang the song that Miss Corrina and I and the church had sung together Sunday morning just a couple of weeks ago – "All things are different in heaven.”

How different things must be in heaven now, I thought, since Mama walked in and joined that white-robed angel band.

The voices joined together, all as one, as they completed Mama’s song. The final notes lifted like a fog, and the singers stepped back again.

An eerie silence followed for half a minute as if heaven paused to pay tribute.

The director stepped up momentarily and opened up the treasure chest for the family to see Mama one more time.

Being the baby, I stood up last to go stand beside Mama, just as I had done the morning the angels came. I looked down into her face, more peaceful than I had seen it in a year, and I saw the strength in it, even in death. The hands I had held that night were now folded as a symbol of her life’s work that was finished. Once more, I touched those loving hands, almost in desperation, but they had little warmth to give. I knew I would have to find my own now. The glad summer of ’73 had now become sad. Gazing at Mama there, I knew that if she could’ve searched my heart at that moment she would’ve known how lost her young man was. I couldn’t let her know, so I pulled it together and leaned down.

“Your hands are cold, Mama,” I whispered, forcing a small smile so Mama would not be sad, “but now mine are warm.”

I leaned closer, and one more unshackled gift fell on Mama’s folded hands. I kissed her on her cheek, still-rosy, just as I had done on the morning of Aug. 4. Then softly so that only she and the Lily of the Valley could hear, I answered the question I was unable to answer the night before.

“Yes, Mama, I’ll become a man … tomorrow.”

I do not know how long I stood by my sweet lady. I was unaware of the hush that had fallen over those hundred eyes that looked on. I breathed deeply and smiled down at Mama one last time.

It was then I felt an arm around my back, a soft hand reaching down to rest on mine.

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.