He held the thimble-sized glass above his mouth, the last drop falling on his tongue. Never have I seen a believer drink more eagerly. No bashful glancing away for either of us, not with eternity so near.Īfterwards Warren asked for a decent swallow of wine to supplement the sliver of bread I had dipped in the chalice and rested on his tongue.Įven though his throat was constricted, I poured him a tiny portion. Warren’s eyes locked on mine as I held up the bread and cup. Once I regained myself, we shared Holy Communion. For the first time I was nearly undone at a bedside and thought I might have to excuse myself.Ĭan you understand? If God leads us to each other to give or receive what we need most, then God, indeed, sent me to Warren and Nancy’s house to receive the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. My left hand held Warren’s while the right clamped over my mouth. Old Floyd-Warren’s father’s name, incidentally-can see New Floyd coming. All that this husband knew of tenderness shone forth as he reached for his wife, to ease her sorrow. Sooner or later, life boils down to finding a good word, taking a single breath, or touching the cheek of your beloved, as Warren did to Nancy. This fragile man was schooling his pastor about life, death and everlasting hope. “Another chapter?” he replied, almost incredulous. “Boy,” I managed through a tight throat, “you could add another chapter to that story if you wanted.” He was talking-for the love of God!-about resurrection.Ĭlosing his parable with a flourish, Warren pushed aside imaginary clouds and said, “Then the sun came out.” “Not the same body,” Warren explained, “but the same.” Then New Floyd shows up and takes over.Īs in the mysterious possibilities of dreams, however, the Old Floyd is, in fact, the New Floyd. Old Floyd is doing farm work, but eventually breaks down. The Floyds are either tractors or men, depending on Warren’s memory at the moment. The story, which had been birthed in his imagination the night before, evades transcription, but the gist is simple. Barb said, “Dad, do you want to tell Pastor John about Old Floyd and New Floyd?” ![]() “I wish I could make myself understood,” he said somewhere in the midst of the quirky grace he was bestowing on us. Warren was speaking in poetry, which takes inscrutable turns and isn’t obliged to be linear. Not that all his words made sense, but never mind sense. Miracles were coming out of the man’s mouth. Sticking out were his head, shoulders and left arm, which rose and fell throughout our conversation, as if carried on a breeze. Under the covers was Warren, all 90 pounds of him. Three of us sat around the hospital bed in Warren’s living room: his wife Nancy, daughter Barb, and me. ![]() Oniontown Pastoral: Old Floyd and New Floyd
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