Saying Goodbye

I don't think I'll ever forget how I saw him sitting near the back of the chapel at the end of my neighbor's funeral. She was diagnosed with cancer and was gone within a month. I didn't know it at the time but he knew his cancer was back, and I wonder if he thought he would be the next to have a funeral.

Out of respect to his family, I won't mention the man's name but anybody who was a member of the Waco 2nd Ward for any significant amount of time knew him. He was a former bishop who helped build the meetinghouse back when ward members contributed their labors. He always sat on the west end of the fifth pew.

He was a regular in the choir, although he insisted he had no musical talent. His comments in Sunday school or priesthood meetings were always well thought out and eloquent.

One of the things that impressed me most about this man was his ability to thrive in the two different worlds of Baptists and Mormons. He taught at Baylor for 30 years where he helped expand young minds and forge meaningful relationships among his contemporaries on campus.

He was a pillar of strength in the Mormon community with a natural ability to lead and inspire. It was common over the years for new Mormon students attending Baylor to make their way to the end of the fifth row where they would be reassured about their faith and their choice in a university.

It didn't matter if the new students were former BYU Cougars or Utah Utes, they would have a friend in this man, who loved both universities and their sports programs.

He was the life of the High Priest social and just as skillfully made cub scout meetings a can't miss event.

The last time he spoke in church he knew he was sick. He told the congregation that he was sure he was given a topic but couldn't remember it. He said he was going to take the liberty of sharing a few things that were on his heart and spoke about how serving in the church provided him with many of the most meaningful experiences of his life.

Several weeks later, in a fast and testimony meeting, his body whithering away, he notified the congregation that the testimony he was sharing would be the last public testimony of his life. There was quiet weeping throughout the chapel as he spoke.

I remember he said he "still wanted to be in the game." He spoke clearly and looked unusually strong in his now frail body. I thought to myself that the strength this man was showing must be akin to what King Benjamin had when he spoke to his people during the final address of his life.

After sacrament meeting was over, I wanted to approach this man, to thank him for his goodness and tell him that I loved him, but the crowd that gathered near the fifth pew was too big. I went on to Sunday school without saying a word to him.

After Sunday school was over I saw him sitting with his wife, so I walked over to talk to him. I'm not good at saying goodbye, but I at least had to try.

He was twisting the cap off a water bottle as I approached him and the cap slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. I thanked him for the testimony that he shared earlier and told him "King Benjamin had nothing on him."

He expressed gratitude as he started to reach for the water cap. I was surprised to see his hand trembling. To be polite and save him energy, I reached down and handed him the cap. That's when he told me that the words he planned to deliver didn't come out quite like he had hoped.

I have thought about these words since our exchange took place. Compared to times when he spoke in the past, he didn't string together his thoughts as artfully during his last testimony. His delivery was the same, but I imagine he didn't feel as sharp intellectually as he did when he was healthy.

He may not have been as eloquent, but I have never heard him speak with more power or conviction or Spirit. It was clear that he was committed to remain faithful to the end, to die with his faith firmly in Christ.

I didn't want things to turn awkward as I spoke with this man for the last time, so I brought up something that I knew he cared about more than any other person in the ward.

Each year our ward changes the time it meets. One year our meetings begin at 9 a.m., the next year at 1 p.m. For some reason as the schedule changes, the high priest group in the ward moves for its meetings from one location in the building to another. It is so noticeable that I have heard one man joke that the high priests in the ward are its nomads, moving wherever necessary to worship during the third hour.

Now, it was not in the nature of this man, whom I have compared to King Benjamin, to complain or murmur. But, I noticed over the years that as the high priests were leaving opening exercises and the elders would stay in the soft seats he would playfully ask why the men with walkers, artificial knees and hips were made to move when the younger elders stayed put.

It was a question I always thought others should consider, but for a several years, there was only one kind, persistent voice speaking about this issue. Without sharing any information with my friend, I approached someone earlier this year who could change the luck of the nomads and asked for a favor. The change was quiet and mostly unnoticed to almost everybody, but a change was made.

So, in saying goodbye to my friend, I told him that next year, when the annual shuffling of the high priests took place, I would voice the concern that I had only heard him voice. He seemed to know what I was trying to say and straightened up in his seat.

He looked me dead in the eye and said, "will you carry on, Brother Romer?"

"Yes, I will," I said. "I promise."

Then I told him I loved him before I turned around and walked out into the hallway so people would not see the tears rolling down my cheeks.

It was the last time we spoke.

That week, I went over to his home with most of the youth in the ward and helped do some yard work, but I never saw him that day, although I heard he graciously walked out into his yard and thanked people for helping him.

The last time I saw him was his last Sunday at church when he used considerable energy to sing with the choir. When it was time to perform, he rose from the end of the fifth pew and his wife helped him up to the stand.

He inhaled deeply and exhaled with emotion and relief when he finally reached the choir seats. It was a difficult climb in a failing body. His wife steadied him as he sang for the last time with the choir, a man who claimed he had no musical talent.

I honestly don't know whether that statement he liked to make was true, but I do know that whatever this man was involved in, he made it better.

I didn't talk to him every Sunday, but he always made me want to be better. I miss him.

I know it's not right, but for a little while, I don't want to see anybody else sitting on the west end of the fifth pew. I would just like a little more time to honor a man that taught me that service is not about how much talent and ability you have.

It's what's in your heart that's important.