It is four a.m. and once again I sit here and type words to complete strangers.  I was contacted a few weeks ago by a woman who saw me speak at a conference in 2017 and has read two of the Dr’s and my books.  It was clear something I have said or written moved her.  I am not sure what that would have been, but as I search for this new path away from my old job, her words moved me to peck the keys for you.

I tell my young karate kids, as I try to teach them the finer points of karate, that it is not about power but control.  It is about having confidence in yourself and trusting your feet as you feel the padded floor under your bare soles.  Some who stare into my eyes as I guide them across the floor, they listen to my words.  They trust me and they learn to trust their feet.  As we grow older, and shoes become a necessity, it is hard to feel the earth and the floor under our feet.  There always seems to be a barrier between our feet and what grounds us to the earth.  Over the years I have learned to trust my feet with that barrier (shoes) attached.  A few years ago, I rock climbed while blindfolded so my hands and feet would trust what they felt. When I struggled on the rock face the woman who was belaying me would guide me with her words.  I trusted her words and soon I trusted what I felt more and more.  When I reached the top of the rock face, I never felt so grounded to the earth.

As I grabbed the metal handle of the casket, I could feel the metal bar through my white cotton glove.  My left arm is still weak. It has been two years since the surgery to fix where I injured it picking up a lady who died in a fire.  My bride and boys told me to try and carry the casket with my right arm, but when assignments are being handed out on who is on what side of the casket, I did not raise my good arm for special treatment.  I did not feel a Marine in dress blues should raise his hand to choose his position on the team of six.  As we carried the casket into the church, I trusted my feet as they struck the almost white concrete steps leading into the church.

I had been in this church several times before so most of my memories were associative (good memories).  I had sat with Aunt Kathy and Uncle Bill in the front left corner in their spot.  There was a calmness to that spot for me.  I cannot say I ever heard a word in that spot, but I felt a word or two.  As our team of six sat there and the priests spoke their words, my mind wandered but not far.  My mind wandered up the road to a modest house that sits on a gravel road. When the wind is right (or wrong) you can smell the hog houses that paid for this house.  The simple life of hog farmers was the beginning of the path of the six children of Aunt Kathy and Uncle Bill.  Next to the hog houses is the remains of an old rock house that started the path for many others.  Though the rock house is long gone the pile of rocks stands there and if ever there is a place that is grounded to the earth, it’s that spot.  As the funeral continued, my shoes felt hard on my feet. I sat there but my soul was sitting on the pile of old rocks that once was a house.  I sat there with my bare feet feeling the warm rocks that were once the foundation to a life rich in spirit and faith.

Occasionally my mind was pulled back to the funeral by the sounds of crying from Aunt Kathy’s granddaughter Kimberly.  Kimberly was born with muscular dystrophy and is confined to a wheelchair.  I think I could write three books on her life and her faith in life.  I reached in my pocket and pulled out my collection of dog tags and other things and laid them on the little table on her wheelchair.  I told her “One of the dog tags belonged to your Uncle Ben and that cross was given to me by Aunt Kathy.”  I placed the collection under her hand, and I wrapped my white gloved hand around her hand.  I told her “If you are strong, I will be strong too”.  Through the tears she smiled. 

Our time in the church was now over and my brief visit to the rock pile was also over.  I could once again feel the metal casket handle through my white cotton glove. As our team of six carried the casket into the cemetery, the grass felt much better under my feet.  My mind wandered back to the many adults and children I carried out of fire scenes during my old job.  I would have been honored to also carry them through the green grass.  As our team of six completed our job I stood back from the rest of the family and found a spot that was mine.  I stood there like a concrete statue, and I felt strong.  I was confident I could maintain this spot and stay strong, but like a root from the earth wrapping its arm around me I could feel the pure warmth of another through my dress blues.  My bride had wrapped her arm around my arm and now I was no longer strong, but a human.  Our boys and my mom stood by me and now we were our own rock pile.  As the tears flowed, I went back to being a Marine with a very detailed job to do.  I was asked to carry someone to the place where they would be laid to rest next to their son, whose path ended sooner than what they expected.  I was also here when that son was laid to rest.

As people faded away from the grave site, I could see clearly now the man standing there with his cowboy boots on and he seemed lost, but not confused.  He occasionally smiled when people would talk to him, but he was lost.  It does not matter how much education and training you have; no words seem to come to mind at a moment like this.  As I walked over to him and hugged him, he simply said, “You lost a friend today”.  My first thought was, you lost your wife today and this is not about me but about you.  I said a few things to make him laugh and soon the awkward moment was gone.

At the back of my truck, I changed out of my dress blues. When I pulled off those black socks the green grass never felt so good against my bare feet.  Across the paved road in front of me was the gravel road that led to that modest house of hog farmers.  Years ago, when I was here for another funeral, I decided to write a story about A Boy Named Ben.  I had no idea that story would so closely connect me to relatives I really did not know, or maybe just connected me with people that really accept me for who I am. 

Like the man who just lost his wife, I feel like I lost my cheerleader today.  My cheerleader had more faith in my path and the rock pile that I have been building since I was born.  My cheerleader always seemed to have the answers but never really told me the answers.

It has been a month or so since Aunt Kathy died and to be honest, I never really cried much.  I cried more writing this to you.  She was sick for such a long time and when you have watched someone suffer there is a sense of peace and calmness when they join the rock pile we call a cemetery.  It took a while, but I can still hear her cheering for me and everyone else she guided on this path we call life.  Like I tell my students to trust their feet, I was her student. She is still telling me to trust my feet on my new path.  She did a lot for the world on this side, so I am confident she will do much more on the other side with the help of everyone on that team. 

I can tell you it is hard to trust your feet. Just like a pilot we sometimes need a voice to help us land.  We sometimes need a cheerleader up close and personal, or a cross on a collection of dog tags, or sometimes we just need to stop and listen.  I asked the lady who got me motivated to write again what it was that she enjoyed about my writings.  She said it made her stop and think and appreciate the life she has.  We all get lost on what matters. Certainly death, if embraced, should make it clear what really matters.  Those spots on earth that ground us, calm us, and direct us should be mile markers on our path.

6 am now and I am still here typing, but I can feel the morning calling me.  Just like Kimberly, I could write three books on Aunt Kathy.  I realize I did not tell you much about the person she was but more about the person she was to me.  Her soul was very rich in faith but not too rich for a lost student on a new path.  She had enough humor and a very direct approach that kept me guessing.  I recall one afternoon next to the old rock house we were picking pears and persimmons around an old thorn tree.  I asked her, “Aunt Kathy why did God make a thorn tree?”  She never skipped a beat and reached down to pick up a pear from the ground and said, “Hell if I know.”  Not the answer this student expected to hear.  I expected her to quote some deep bible verse but no, she just said it like it was.  When my new path seems to not be what I expected, I sit down with my friend on the old rock pile next to the hog house.  If I listen, I can her cheer me on. Sometimes when the wind is right, I can hear her sing a song.  The song is by Bobby Bare and if you read the lyrics and listen, maybe she is also cheering for you.  As Aunt Kathy finishes the song, I leave the old rock house and walk down that gravel road passing the mile marker that says, “Aunt Kathy.” 

-WLV-