It’s 3:36 am and once again I am up before dawn.  Dad always said the Lord wanted us to go to bed when the sun went down and get up when it came back up.  Since I retired, I tend to get up many hours before the sun ever enters back into our sometimes very dark world. 

I stand here at my self-built workbench.  It looks pretty much like the one my father built in his garage.  The 2X8 frame of the work bench is covered in drawings from magic markers from when our boys used it as a drawing board.  I have several rifles on top that need cleaning, so now seemed to be the best time to clean them.  Even though it’s early, it’s still hot out.  I have a fan blowing and between the fan’s hum and the classic country playing it’s as if I am a hundred miles from here.  At some moments, the here is a fond memory. Other times it’s a memory that I pray for the light of day.  As I clean the rifles my hands are busy, and my mind completes a task.  I often tell others God designed us to use our hands and some of the best therapy is completing a task.  The next rifle up to clean is a very small one. One of two given to me by my father to give to our boys.  I recall teaching the boys to shoot them and it’s a memory that needs no extra sunshine.  The rifle in front of me was recently returned to me by my old boss.  He borrowed it to teach his young son how to shoot.  As my hands wet the cloth patch with cleaner, my fingers feel very little with the latex gloves on. My mind travels miles from here to a place that begged for the sun to come up.   

I stood in a room that somehow survived the fire enough that I could still stand on the floor.  Other parts of the house were not that lucky.  This would be my room since there was a grandpa and granddaughter laying on the floor in front of me.  As I breathed into my respirator it makes a sound that only I can hear and feel.  The sound and feeling tend to calm me when my mind, soul, and emotions want to escape this dark place.  The latex gloves on my hands tell my fingers this is not a place that I want to feel the earth in my hands.  In my pocket I feel a vibration and I remove my phone and answer it.  It’s my new boss telling me he is at my fire scene and is in the yard.  My response was “why are you here?”  He responded, “I want to know what it is that you do and how I can support you.”  My response was, “stay out of my room and let me do my job.” Over the next few hours, I did my best to acknowledge the two people in front of me had a life here on earth.  I carefully removed the fire debris from them and tried not to fathom their last minutes here on earth.  My headlamp guided my hands to the task at hand and my soul guided me to simply give them the respect they most certainly deserved.  As the sun started to bless our day, I have completed my reason for being here.  As we carried them out of the elevated depths of hell, I could see the giant standing there like a Live Oak tree.

.  If he stretched out his arms and hung Spanish moss from them, I would swear he was a Live Oak tree.  As we loaded the grandpa and granddaughter in the vehicle, I tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but it was hard with the giant watching over me.  As I closed the door on the vehicle, I said my goodbyes to the two people I spent my morning with.  Inside my respirator I breathed the words, “I promise the next place you call home you will not need a man like me to help you get there.”

I walked over to the giant and pulled my respirator from my face and the moisture from inside the respirator ran down my cheeks.  I said, “Why are you here?”  The giant said, “You are the only agent I have that works fires and explosions and I just want to understand your job and support you.”  I was told by many this giant would be a difficult supervisor and I’m confident he was told I would be difficult to supervise.  As the moisture from my respirator ran down my cheeks, I stood there looking up at him, but my soul was in a vehicle with two people I never knew.  As the vehicle faded in the distance and I said, “Let me show you the fire.”  I explained the ins and outs of the fire and at times I worried the fire damaged floor would not support him, so I kept my distance from him.  When we entered my room, I had little to say except they died here.  As we walked back into the yard, he watched me talk to the son who just found out his dad had died.  He watched my take off my fire investigator hat and be a simple man who had also lost a dad.  As the giant and I parted paths he asked if I wanted to get some breakfast and I said, “I just want to go home.”

I met my wife in the driveway, and she said, “How was your fire?”  By now the moisture on my cheeks was dry but as if angels were crying tears flowed from my eyes.  My wife sat in her vehicle in total surprise because this was a first.  I said, “I just need to get to the woods.”  She asked for details but at that time I had none to give or that I wanted to share.  I watched her vehicle fade into the distance, and I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted her that I loved her. 

Over the next few years, the giant and I became friends after he kept showing up at my fires. I finally realized he was just trying to look inside my world and maybe not be in, it but understand the man who lived in it.  He was told by many I would be a pain to supervise but no one ever said I was lazy.  I learned that he was as big as a Live Oak tree but also had a heart as big as a Live Oak tree.  He was simply a gentle giant.

He called the other day to tell me he needed to return the rifle and asked if we could meet.  We met in a parking lot but in my mind, we were back in that yard where our story began.  He talked about his job, and I talked about my new job but again my mind and soul were back in that yard.  He still looks like a Live Oak tree, but I think his heart has even gotten bigger.  When we parted paths, I hugged him, but it felt more like he hugged me.  Though I thought my ribs were breaking it was a hug I will never forget. 

Days after I saw the gentle giant, I wish there were things I would have said in that parking lot but as we often do, we always think the vehicle will never fade in the distance.  We do a pretty good job acknowledging the dead, but we often fall short in acknowledging the living.  I’m not sure if our mind does not want to ponder the reality and mortality of life or we just get lost in the busy paths we are on.  I’m not sure one can live a life without regret. Years ago, you could find me three days a week after my morning run tucked behind one of my rifles punching holes in quarters and United States Marine Corps key chains. 

On the days I had my mind right I could do it at 300 yards.  The busy path I have been on has kept me away from the punching holes in quarters and United States Marine Corps key chains.  I enjoyed the intense amount of focus it took to do it and I was completing a task at hand.  Once the task was completed it was something many living people have received as a gift from me.  It may be silly to some but if you know the story of the first quarter I punched, then it’s not so silly.

I pulled the rifle from the case and placed it on the shooting bench.  I taped a United States Marine Corps key chain on a piece of cardboard at 100 yards.  I’m confident today 100 yards is the best that I can do, and it’s been a long time since I felt this rifle against my cheek.  I focused on the task at hand and thought about that first quarter I punched for my dad and as the sun shined down on the target the hole was punched.  The bullet cuts through the metal and leaves sharps edges just like my edges can also be sharp at times.  It’s a long overdue gift to the gentle giant from the simple man who was a pain to supervise. 

The skylights in the shop roof tell me the sun is now making its way to us.  I clean the rifle that punched the hole for the gentle giant and feel that moment and see the hole in the key chain.  Jamey Johnson sings a song that filters through the fan blades called Lead Me Home.  Without a doubt there are many dark rooms here on earth that may be a brief look at hell or at least for the moment feel like hell.  Without a doubt, angels do cry for the those who suffer but they rejoice in knowing that there is life after death.  Behind me sitting on a shelf is something I made to acknowledge my fathers time here.  His old steel toed cowboy boots, a glass mason jar he routinely drank from, a red hanker-chief he wore to keep sweat off his brow, and his hard hat he wore in the quarry.  As I said earlier, we do a pretty good job of acknowledging the dead but when it comes to living, I think we could do better.  I am guilty as the rest thinking and forgetting that with life there are no guarantees.  I get busy on the path that I am on and forget about those dark rooms and those vehicles that fade in the distance. 

The sun is up and my trip down memory lane is over for now.  The task at hand is completed.  Though to some my memories are not that good but to me they provide proof that we need to acknowledge the gentle giants in our life when we can, so we will live a life with less regrets.  Our youngest son always says I love when he walks away from you.  One day I asked, “Why do you always say I love you when you walk away?”  He said, “Just in case it’s the last time I will see you.” 

As I open the shop door the sun hits my face and without a doubt, I am home.  The earth under my feet and the heat from the sun warms my soul.  If my vehicle fades in the distance today, I completed the task at hand and my hope is my written words will acknowledge your life before your vehicle fades in the distance.  -WLV-