God's Time Is Always Now

This verse tells me that now - every day, in every circumstance - is the time for God's favor. Too often, though, it's only when I look back, well after the moment of His favor, that I see the perfectly timed "now" of God's listening and helping. I know that such a moment came this past December. It came when, once again, we just weren't quite sure "what to do with Whitey."

It seems that, for all of my dad's 81 years on this earth, folks who knew Merritt Wilbur White - "Whitey" - and lived with him and loved him - well, we didn't always know what to do with him.

He certainly ran circles around the old maid aunts who raised him from the age of 3 when his parents died in the influenza epidemic. Perhaps losing the expected script for family life so early was why my dad never quite followed anyone else's script either. Whatever the reason, young Whitey would not stay put and would not do what was expected. At 14, he left school and home to hop a train for California. Adventure - the riskier the better - was what life was about.

Whitey eventually took the test for his high school diploma, attended college and acquired a pilot's license, a real estate license, a degree in mortuary science and a license for driving ambulances, 18-wheelers and a Greyhound bus. He also passed the civil service test to work as a federal corrections officer - and learned to make book on baseball, basketball and football games. Gambling was, without a doubt, his most successful financial adventure.

Somewhere in all this, Whitey talked my mom, a serious nursing student with two feet on the ground, into marrying him. Their engagement was long enough for her to know what kind of domestic ride she was in for. Before their vows were said, Whitey, on separate occasions, had flipped her from the back of his motorcycle, set the sirens screaming on his ambulance to get her back to her dorm on time and landed her safely but unexpectedly in a soybean field when his flying skills called for it.

Did marriage and six children rein in my dad? Did he fit in with the other dads? No, now there were seven of us who didn't quite know what to do with Whitey - except go along for the ride and enjoy his wit and exuberance and uncanny ability to keep landing on his feet. Without a thought for safety belts or helmets, we'd all pile into the trailer pulled by his Italian motor scooter and head out on the expressway to the city swimming pool. Or we'd pack the Volkswagen van (my dad bought one when folks were still pointing and laughing at this "box on wheels") and drive all night to Florida in time to jump into the waves before the sun came up.

Did golden years and retirement finally tether Whitey to the hearth? Not quite. When he wasn't, as he liked to say, "traveling vicariously" through his children who, at one point, landed on four different continents, he was packing his bags for some sailing in the China Sea or casino hopping in Macao.

Need I say that my mother knew how to pray? She laughed and cried and prayed her way through 57 years of marriage to Whitey. She never did go along with the gambling. The other thing she balked at was my dad's insistence that, upon death, his body would go to Emory University for medical research. He would joke that this was one way to get into med school.

Then came the verdict of cancer that finally confined my dad to home and bed for the last year of his life. Prayers ARE answered. During those last days, there was no pain, no impatience with having to stay put, no railing against this last card that life had dealt. In fact, Whitey's uncharacteristic peace with himself and his spoken peace with God was a last gift to all of us who knew the flighty Whitey that no one knew quite what to do with. He died in his bed with his wife and three of his children at hand.

Now, back to the perfectly timed "now" of God's listening and helping. For the two years after my dad's body was donated to Emory Medical School, my mom was not entirely at peace with what to do when his ashes were returned to her. The question hung about, sometimes brought up when we all got together, but never fully resolved. We children worried that the "package" would arrive when no one was home with our mother. What to do with Whitey when he arrived was the big question.

And then it all came together. This past December, five of the six children had agreed to meet at our mother's house right after Christmas to do some painting and fixing. The day the four sisters arrived, our brother called to say that he had Whitey's ashes. He had picked them up that day after making an inquiry about my mother's returned check sent to cover the mailing expense.

The next morning dawned with blue skies and a surprisingly warm winter sun. Two years and 10 days after his death, Whitey's ashes were lovingly returned to the earth on the five acres of woods where he and my mother had lived for more than 40 years. There were 14 children and grandchildren surrounding my mother at "the rocky place" - a favorite play spot of our childhood. We were sure Whitey wouldn't mind being there either.

— Barbara Appling

Courtesy of The Church of the Good Shepherd United Methodist