You really were a GOOD MAN

Dear Papaw,

We buried your body today. Most of the time I find the viewing and the burial a strange activity. In my heart I understand that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. So last night at the viewing, and today at the funeral, I find myself thinking, “that’s not my papaw. That’s the empty shell he left behind.”

I had no idea what would hit me today. But before I tell you about that, I should give you some context to my feelings.

For the last 6 months, I’ve known that you were writing the last chapter of your life. I saw your body weak—a reality that made me uncomfortable. I saw your spirit longing for something further than today—that wasn’t like you at all. I saw your will grow tired—perhaps the greatest tell of all. I knew your time here was short.

That made me sad. But it is inevitable that you had to leave us. And being in your bloodline, I dare not linger too long at the wishing well hoping to change reality.

I’ve seen you a few times in these last 6 months. What once was a strong oak offering shade and shelter to all the surrounding life, had become a brittle plant looking for some shade and shelter itself. And I was quietly happy. I pondered why God’s ordained seasons of life go from weak to strong and back to weak again. But I was so happy. I had fond memories of your magnificence. I remember your glory. I remember your majesty. You were my Papaw. To have your love sprinkled on me was a thrill. But the way you saturated me with your passionate love was heavenly. And I was happy. I was ready to say goodbye, because you had filled my cup. Maybe filled it so full, I would never be empty. That will make a man happy. Even if he does have to say goodbye.

Less than 3 weeks ago, your health started failing fast. I didn’t know if this would be the last sentence of your story. But I was ready. I wanted you to touch Jesus. I was eager for you to see your reward. The news of your health continued to point toward death. And truthfully, I did not feel sadness. I was pleased. Your story was a good one. The kind that borders on myth and legend. But I knew it was all true. And I was happy. I began to reread your story in my mind. I was so overwhelmed with the need to share your story, that I created this blog. I needed a place where your story could be retold. It felt good to tell your story. And honestly, it felt good to be the story teller. As if it made me a greater man, because I knew the great Ralph Woerner. And because I could tell you stories of when I walked with him.

So in the last 3 days of your time here on earth, we told your story. It was so fun. And I was happy. Happy because of you. Happy in you.

Jon called me on Saturday morning. He said that you had left that old body. And I felt something in my heart that I had never felt before. It seemed to be like an earthquake. Like the spiritual world shook. I felt that the final punctuation of your story was put in place. An exclamation point—! You were with God.

And again, I felt joy. A deep joy. Your story was now complete. I was excited to share it.

The family, all 30+ of us, gathered at your old house. We shared stories and hugs. Then more stories and more hugs. You were on our hearts. And I felt peace. I thought, “look at the fingerprint this man left behind. We will tell his story. And as we retell it, we will be writing our own story. But our story will sound so much like his. And when someone tells our story, whether they know it or not they will be telling his story.” That made me feel delight.

So I showed up to the viewing last night with a smile. I was laughing. I was happy. I was proud. There was no mourning in my soul. I did feel sadness for Memaw. I do feel anxious that the void in her life will be overwhelming. But as for me, and my cousins, and even my aunts, I felt no sadness. I felt lucky. And I would let that glow of joy shine. I was happy.

Now back to the original point of this letter. (I’m sorry for the length of that introduction. I know you were a man who tried to cheat time, and you didn’t like giving time the chance to cheat you back. But I trust now that you are in heaven you have a little more patience. No, a ton more patience.)

So back to the original point.

I showed up for the funeral ceremony in the same mindset—joy. I was happy. I belonged to you. That doesn’t change when you go to heaven. And so my happiness held true.

The family met in a separate room before the ceremony—just like we did at Harold’s funeral. Don shared some thoughts with us. I held Memaw’s hand. Because I love her. Because you love her. Again, I was happy. Then we all lined up outside the auditorium. And Maclaren started playing a song on the guitar. And my throat closed up. My eyes teared up. And something very strange happened. I wasn’t happy. That happy feeling I had for weeks just went away.

What I felt was strange. It was actually something I’ve never felt before. My happiness was gone. It wasn’t replaced with sadness, pity, or pain. Today I was held captive by an emotion I had never known before. Even now, some 10 hours later, I still don’t understand what I feel. And that is why I must, I must tell you what’s surging inside me.

I walked down the aisle and quickly found a seat. Thank God. And then the wheels came off. I came unglued. Like Ron said, “I’m a mess.” I had spent weeks meditating on your departure. I had actually found peace and happiness in your exit. And now, three days later, I’m out of control.

I’m still not sad. Nothing was left unsaid between us. We didn’t miss an opportunity to hug. There were no regrets. That was because of you. That’s how you lived. I had nothing to be sad about. Yet, I dripped tears from my eyes as if I were irrigating the flowers lined up near your casket.

Carolyn started talking. Her smile reminded me of yours. She knows your story so well, and she tells it so beautifully. She mentioned some of the chapters I’ve already read. And she gave me glimpses of the ones I have yet to read. I felt like I was having an emotional seizure. I was gritting my teeth together trying to keep from having a physical seizure.

I don’t like feeling out of control. You know, I could easily blame that on genes I got from you. I kept asking myself, “what is going on?”

And slowly I began to see it. I’m so madly in love with you. We were cramming your life, your legacy into one ceremony. And I overdosed. I kept drinking of you. I kept seeing your qualities, your love, your quirks, your smile. I couldn’t get enough. My heart was saying, “stop, I’m going to explode.” And my mind kept racing through the pictures, the memories, the feelings of you. My love for you caused my emotions to go into shock.

About 15 minutes into the ceremony I found myself silently calling out to you. I kept speaking to you in my heart, “you did it good….you did it so good…you lived so good…you did life so good…”

I desire with all my heart to please God. I want to live according to his dreams. I want him to say “well done.” More than likely, that is because of you and your story. I’ve often daydreamed of the moment that I hug Jesus. I want so fiercely for him to say, “Well, Rich, you sure licked your plate clean.” I want to eat everything that he puts on my plate.

And with that very desire simmering in my heart, it all made perfect sense. You did it. You licked your plate clean. You were so obnoxiously in love with Jesus, and life and us, and nature. You paved the path that leads me to my dreams. You lived. You really lived. I don’t mean you lived a good life. I mean you lived your life the way God scripted it. And you did it so well.

I’ve lived as a small character in your story. I’ve watched you. I saw you eat a normal breakfast on a normal Thursday. I saw you rake leaves. I saw you get pulled over by a policeman. I saw thousands of normal links making up the chain of your life. You weren’t superhuman. And because I was looking at each link, I missed it. I missed how each normal link of your chain connected with the next normal link. I missed how the chain of your life actually was supernatural. I missed how your extraordinary life was written one normal word at a time.

And I swung at your curveball, you old rascal. You acted like you were a common man. You wore true humility. You talked about your life like no one noticed. You worked outrageously hard each day, for the hope that you would make a difference some day. You had me believing that one day you would do something special. And all the while God was using you to transform lives, and communities, and cities.

Looking back, I have no doubt that on any given day you took me out to lunch. And we ate a hamburger. And you asked me about simple things. And you told me that before long you’d be planting the tomatoes. And you acted like nothing big was going down. Meanwhile, you had just paid off someone’s college debt, or donated tens of thousands of dollars to God’s work, or just mailed a gospel presentation to 3 million people.

You’re something else, old man. You were the biggest under-cover Kingdom of God warrior that I’ve ever known. And you pulled it off right in front of my eyes, one normal link after another.

And love. How do I talk about your love. I’m not sure you knew exactly how to show it, but you had more love in your pinky finger than most people have in their whole body.
And passion. You never did anything half-heartedly. You never aimed for average. You never cowered from a challenge.
And perseverance. The list goes on and on.

So I was sitting there at your funeral ceremony completely drunk with my love for you. So dangerously close to overdosing on my affection for you. I was so utterly taken by your life. You lived as good a life as any man. You showed me the way. You showed me the qualities, the methods, the attitudes, the work-ethic, the way. I had the perfect example as my Papaw. And that thought was messing me up.

Today was something special for me. I feel like for the first time, I felt the full weight of who you are. I’m a little embarrassed to say that. I mean I know you. I can tell stories about Ralph Woerner with the best of them. I know who you are. But somehow today, I felt it all at once. I felt deep inside me just how big you are. I sat there, crying, saying, “you are so fierce. You are so mighty. You are so heavy. You are so broad. You are so powerful.”

For the first time, I understood the bigness of my Papaw. And I felt awe. I don’t mean proud. I don’t mean inspired. I mean deep, breathtaking awe. I get you now. I see you in your fullness. And I am mesmerized. I am smitten with a fresh love for you.

I feel like today was a pivot point. I came into today, knowing you as my Papaw. And I loved you. I respected you. I adored you. I was so proud to be your grandson. I was so thankful for the years I had with you. However, I am no longer the same. I met you as Ralph Woerner today. I found the clearest picture of Ralph that I have ever seen. And I am more taken by you than ever before. You will always be my Papaw. But from today on, I will call you Ralph Woerner. That will be a simple way for me to remember the day when I felt the full weight of who you are. That is a very basic change that will represent a dynamic change in my life. Before today I was who I was because of my Papaw. After today, I will be veracious man, with a deeper mission, and a scorching passion. I will not change me, but I will release a fuller me than this world has ever seen. I will not grow tired. I will not slow down. I will embrace the full weight of Ralph Woerner. And I will release the full weight of Richard Mitchell. And that is how I will honor you, RW. Your legacy will expand. The seed you planted will multiply season after season after season. Now that I have a clear understanding of how big you were, I will live my life that big.

Leslie and I held hands and cried this afternoon. We talked about how you were quite probably the closest thing to Jesus that we’ve ever seen. I will cling to that—to your memory. I will hunt for Jesus with the tenacity that you did. And I hope that on occasion, you and Jesus will sit together, eat watermelon, and listen to your story be retold.

Richard Mitchell
RW