Two Old Men

Marion Berry McKinney, August 31,1919 - August 22, 2010 (Age 91 less 9 days.)

Wylie Columbus Westbrook, September 1, 1919- September 10, 2012 (Age 93) 

Born one day apart and living rich lives that peeked into their ninetieth decades these two men, my Dad and my father in law, have significantly shaped my life.  It probably says more about me than I would like to admit that it is in reliving the memories rather than in real time, that I am able to see how much.

One of my favorite things about reading my daily Psalm is the constant repetition in the Psalms of the refrain, "His steadfast love and faithfulness."  This phrase is taken up all through scripture, but it is in the Psalms that it is repeated over and over that I might never forget.  These two "old men" have been a visuals of these traits of my heavenly Father fleshed out in my life.  Neither man was particularly verbal in expressing their love.  I seldom recall my Dad ever actually saying the words, "I love you," to me, though his hand on my shoulder, his prayers, and his steadfast faithfulness communicated it well.  Wylie was even less verbal, but no less faithful and clear.   

My Dad's greatest accomplishment in the eyes of most who knew him was his mission work in Honduras, 1948-1970. Building a mission hospital from scratch in the back woods of Honduras was a worthy accomplishment.  A man before his time, he left an indigenously led and run,  self sustaining, work that is the model for present day missions.  For twenty years he was the visionary, the leader, the designer, the trainer, and the doctor for what was to become a sixty bed hospital.  Forty five years later the hospital continues to serve the Honduran people.  His last forty years of life  was lived in East Tennessee, mostly in Knoxville, quietly serving his friends, community, and family.

Over the years I have had several pastors tell me that one of the sad things about doing a funeral for someone in their late eighties or nineties is that no one comes.  They have outlived all their friends, and the only ones present are the remaining family.

When my Dad died nine days short of his ninety first birthday there were 500-600 souls present to remember him and praise our Lord for a life well lived.  Most of those present had only heard of his work in Honduras, they respected him for what he had done, but they were there to remember and honor a quiet, gentle man, full of wisdom and kindness who had been very present in some special way to them.   Five months later I attended another memorial service for him in Honduras.  More than forty five years after leaving Honduras there were still over 200 souls who came to remember and pay their respects.  I heard in those days and still do almost weekly, someone's testimony of what my Dad meant to them.

I suspect that in Dad's mind, and to many who knew him, his great accomplishment in life was encompassed in the 22 year hiatus in Honduras, but I believe that was just one example of steadfast love and faithfulness in a life full and rich with many smaller things just like it.

At his funeral I made the statement that it is easy to find myself wanting to do big, significant things like my Dad did, but have come to realize that I cannot be like him by doing big things.  If I want a life that is full and rich like his, I must want what he wanted.  I don't know anyone who wanted Jesus like he wanted Jesus.

Wylie, my father in law, a WWII vet in the Pacific theatre, worked in sales for Belnap hardware when Jan and I met. He loved a good story and carried his file of funny anecdotes to share with the group on the bus tours that he and Esther enjoyed taking for vacations.  Never an "up front" person, Wylie could usually be found doing the things behind the scenes to serve those he was around. He was the one in his eighties driving the bus to get "seniors" to church or setting up chairs for the next meeting, whatever that might be.

When his sister in law's husband died very young, leaving a widow and three young boys, Wylie made sure the boys experienced the affection and admiration of a man in their lives and got boy toys at Christmas.

Wylie did it right from a health stand point. I think "compressed morbidity" is the phrase used these days.  For ninety years he was able to do any thing he wanted, from driving to mowing the yard.  The last two and a half years of his life were a rapid decline in health until he died.  

His greatest lesson to me, in many ways, was those last days.  I cannot imagine a man approaching those last days with more humility and grace than he did.  Always kind, even when in pain or discomfort.  Always with sense of humor intact. Gracious to whomever was tasked with changing his clothes, his diaper, his bed, or feeding him his meal of the moment, he was always appreciative and tried to make them comfortable.

His funeral, like my Dad's, had a chapel packed with folks who came to celebrate, honor and remember a special life.  I heard old and new stories, and met neighbors, colleagues and customers from his work, and "young" men Wylie had mentored through the years.  Each of us present was touched and resonated with the words of the marine honor guard as his flag was given to his wife of 63 years, Esther, "We appreciate his service."

In a world that admires celebrity, bigness, large success, where image is everything, and growth is king, neither of these men will make a top ten list, or be written up in a history book somewhere, but, these two old men have given me something to live up to,  and to live by.  A model of steadfast love and faithfulness.