Hope of Things Unseen

As my senior friends walked out of the Senior Home, I held up a proof of my book.
"What's this?" asked Comer.
He looked at the cover, and saw the picture of my dog, Honeybun, and then the author's name at the bottom.
"Why, this is by you!" he said, "Well my goodness!"

After I helped him in the car, he handed the book to Evelyn. She smiled as she turned the pages. I am not sure she got the full significance, but even through the limitations imposed by Alzheimers, I think she understood it was important to me.
As we drove off to "the world's finest BBQ", I glanced in my rear view mirror. Comer had removed his glasses and was already reading my book.

"I have another surprise for you," I said, turning on the new Engelbert Humperdinck tape Asherel and I had found.  These were some of his less well known songs, and even Evelyn only sang along with one or two. But Comer seemed to want to talk, even more than listen to his favorite singer.

"Did I tell you I sang on the radio once?" he asked.
He had mentioned it before. It must have been a very precious memory.
"How did that happen?" I asked.
"Well, I knew the general manager, and he asked me if I'd like to. I sang Blue Moon."
"Oh that's a good one! How did you do? Did you get lots of good reviews?"
"Quite a few people called to congratulate me. In those days there weren't many radio stations, and so I was heard all across Alabama."
"Wow! You sang to Alabama!"
 Comer fell silent and I saw him looking at my book again.

We ate  a glorious lunch of "the world's best BBQ" while  parked on the shore of Lake Wylie. BBQ dripped from our fingers as we  listened to Engelbert Humperdinck, and watched the water tickle the blue sky. As we returned to the Home, Comer said, "You know, I wrote lots of poetry."
"I didn't know that," I said, "Do you still have them?"
"Oh yes, and some short stories too."
"I'd love to see them," I said, "Can you bring them to me next time?"
"I sure can!" he said happily, "I once thought I was a pretty good writer."
"Would you like me to publish them for you...now that I know how? Put them in a book just like mine?"
"Oh that would be grand!" he said, "Can you really do that? They are just written by hand....but they're legible."
"Sure! I can type them up for you and we will get you published. Maybe you will be famous!"
He unbuckled his seat belt with a smile, clutching my book to his side.

"This has been a wonderful day," he said, as he and Evelyn walked onto the little sidewalk, "It always is, but this was particularly nice."

I wondered why this day had loomed so large in his estimation. Really, on our weekly outings, we always get nice food, we often listen to music, we often reminisce,and this time we had not even talked much at all. We had just watched the lake lap at the shore, and he had held my book. But I realized that the memories of his singing on the radio, and the poetry he had written must have held particular meaning for him. Was this 93 year old man joyful today because there was the potential of a long held dream maybe coming true? I don't suppose anyone writes with the intention of it being hidden. There are thoughts that tumble unseen in our heads for that. Was he still eager to leave a mark, some sort of tangible imprint that said, "I was here and I mattered?"  I knew I would have to transcribe and publish that book of poetry soon. Time was rushing by my old friend.

I had been surprised that a 93 year old man would care about such a thing. I guess I thought by that age, dreams had all died. But as I pondered how God had arranged the universe, it struck me that some of the greatest hopes in life are of things unseen, and as yet, unrealized. The hope of something better, something greater, something more perfect, something eternal. I guess that until Jesus calls us home, we are all hoping that what we don't yet see, will one day be.......

Hebrews 11:
¹ Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. ² This is what the ancients were commended for.