Final Rewards

His name was Harold. Born without hip joints, he had never walked. He lived in a nursing home from the time he was in his thirties.  His hair was always slicked back with grease, a few flakes of dandruff floating atop his quaff.  He wore button up shirts and grey dress-slacks every Sunday for church and when my dad picked him up in the church bus, he put his arms around Dad's neck and helped as he lifted him from his wheel chair into the front passenger seat.  I often marveled at how strong my daddy was as I watched him set Harold into place, fold up his wheelchair and heave it into the back of the bus.

As a child, I didn't think much about what my dad was doing.  I didn't think about him as a man with a family of five daughters who worked overtime every week.  I didn't consider how tired he must have been or how much extra time it took us as a family to get to church every Sunday or to get home from church after every service.  I never considered that my mother took on the extra job of getting up super early to cook breakfast for us on Sundays, get us ready for church a couple of hours earlier than all the other families, or sit on the front row of the bus instead of the passenger seat beside my dad, just so Harold could go to church too.  I never thought twice about my parents always making sure we were dressed neatly and all had our Bibles with us before we left.  Like any kid, I took it all for granted.  It was just our life and these were my parents.  I suppose that somewhere in my mind, I believed all parents were pretty much just like mine.

It really took becoming a parent myself to fully grasp all that my folks took upon themselves during those years when they were raising a family and giving back to others as much as they could.  I remember going with Dad to the nursing home on Tuesday nights, where he would play his guitar and sing, then give a short devotion for the residents.  He shook their hands and smiled, called the old ladies, "young ladies" and they were always so happy to see him.  I remember there was a mother and daughter who lived there;  the mother had no legs, and the daughter always sat beside her, holding her hand.  They were both old and as a kid I couldn't really understand how a daughter could seem the same age as her mother.  My dad encouraged us to sing with him.  We got our first experiences in front of an audience in the dining room of that little nursing home in front of little old ladies who were hard of hearing and old men who slept and snored back at us.  I like to believe we learned something valuable from those Tuesday nights.

I know I learned some important lessons about life sitting on the back row of the church bus as we picked up Harold and Mr. Corn and so many other elders from the nursing home for Sunday morning services over the years.  I learned about patience and understanding as we picked up Lonely Dolly from her house on the Mill Hill and listened as she recounted rumors and listed her complaints about living alone.  I learned about humility when we picked up Randy, a younger man who was disabled after an accident that killed his young wife.  I learned about forgiveness when we picked up a guy who later got arrested for being drunk and disorderly--then kept picking him up for church once he was out of jail again.  I learned about random acts of kindness when my dad stopped to help a stranded motorist and noticed their car was on fire before they realized it themselves.  He drove them home in the church bus after he helped them put out the fire.

My dad took his guitar to church and played along with the choir at every service.  He sang in front of the congregation with my mother and sisters, and later with me.  He attended every revival meeting, every Wednesday night prayer meeting and picked up slews of children every summer during the week of Vacation Bible School.  He taught a Sunday school class, faithfully gave his tithes went,  out of his way to help people in need,  and supported the pastor unfailingly.  During the summer he gave away food from our huge garden and fish he caught, and in the winter  he gave away venison because he usually bagged so many deer our family couldn't eat all the meat.  There were times when our own family was in need but he never stopped giving of himself in whatever way he could.  If he didn't have money or food to offer, he gave of his talents.  Giving was just part of his soul; it made him the Charles Curtis everyone knew and loved and often, took for granted.

My father gave of himself without ever considering what he might get in return.  It never entered his mind that he should get any kind of reward for his service to others, so maybe it is my error when I think of him now in his old age, struggling to drive himself to church with his memory failing and his body failing even more.  There is no church bus showing up at his door to drive him to Wednesday night prayer meeting; he tries to drive himself.  He got confused a couple of weeks ago and showed up for church at 5:30 in the evening. Church doesn't start until 7:00 pm.   He waited in the parking lot for a long time and finally decided they must have cancelled services then drove himself back home, disappointed. This has happened more than once.  He misses Sunday services a lot of times because he just can't get himself there.  Despite his many years of making sure Harold and Dolly and so many others got spiritually fed, he seems to be left alone to starve.

It's hard for me to not feel bitter.  Where is his church now that he stands in need of the very kindnesses he offered to others for so many years?  I guess this is a different era.  Maybe people don't consider the needs of others, especially the needs of elders, as much as they used to.  My father taught me to respect and nurture the elderly, but it seems that somewhere along the way, those important lessons got left behind.  Everyone seems so focused on the lives of theirs and their own that they forget to find that little shred of themselves that they can give to others.  We tend to focus on "what's in it for me" instead of  "what would be most helpful to them." I'm sure his church gives him their prayers.  I'm positive of their love for him.  I just keep wondering though, where are the hands of Christ, reaching out to serve and help?  How are they showing him their love; God's love, by merely praying and not backing up those prayers with their own actions?  How are any of us accomplishing the task of demonstrating the love of God to our fellow man?

I keep reminding myself that my father expects nothing.  He is not disappointed because he has always laid up his treasure in another place.  He never invested in the church hoping to get a return on that investment in his old age. My dad has always known his reward would come later; when he enters Heaven's gates and hears his Father say "Well done."  His reward will come when he sees Harold walking towards him with his arms outstretched, when he sees Dolly looking young and beautiful.  His reward will be all of those with whom he shared his heart in this life, sharing a beautiful eternity with him.  His  reward made even sweeter now,  by the waiting arms of my mother who will be there to welcome him Home at last.