FIRMLY PLANTED

One of the most “firmly planted” men I’ve known was Mr. Frank Tillman. I first met Mr. Tillman when he walked into the rural post office in Hartwood, Va., where I worked Saturday mornings. I remember thinking of him then as a “tree” of a man — over six feet, standing solid in overalls and flannel shirt, massive, work-roughened hands splayed on the countertop.

He’d collect his mail, buy money orders, pay bills and talk to me about his plum trees and vegetable garden and hunting dogs. He had a long, easy drawl, and his eyes, deep brown like his skin, were quick to crinkle in a wide grin or belly laugh. It wasn’t until I helped Mr. Tillman with some Medicaid forms that I learned with surprise that he was well into his 80s.

As our friendship grew, I learned much more about Mr. Tillman. It didn’t take long for us to share our Christian faith. His ran deep and leaned solidly on God’s love and provision. Years before, he and his wife moved to Washington, D.C., from South Carolina to find work and raise their 13 children. D.C. wasn’t an easy place to live for a man like Mr. Tillman. He loved his church there, especially singing and touring with the gospel choir, but he missed farm life. He also was saddened by the selfdestructive choices he saw some of his children and grandchildren making, despite his prayers and love for them. When his wife died, he found a way to get back to the country — as caretaker of a farm in Hartwood.

During our 10 years of living in Hartwood, my friendship with Mr. Tillman was a source of joy and fun. Many summer mornings my three sons and I would follow his broad back down rows of beans, squash, tomatoes, okra and corn – “pickin’ on the halves,” he’d say. We’d leave with a van full of fresh vegetables that I’d can or freeze, then split with Mr. Tillman. Christmastime we’d tromp through the farm’s woods, and Mr. Tillman would help us pick out the perfect cedar or pine for our tree. All he wanted in exchange was a sweet potato pie – which I promptly learned how to bake.

He helped us build a pen for “Petunia” and “Frank,” the two geese he gave the boys. He showed us the best way to bait a worm when we’d join him for fishing along the Rappahannock. And though it took some long talking into and the promise of a sweet potato and strawberry pie, he came to school with me one day and spoke to my 8th grade English students about what it was like growing up on a South Carolina cotton farm during the Depression.

When my husband’s job brought us to Vienna, Mr. Tillman and I kept up our friendship through phone calls and visits. He always said “Sure” to meeting at Hardee’s for a cup of coffee anytime I was heading down I-95. He was a faithful ear to my little problems and irritations with city life, always reminding me that I was where God wanted me to be right now. He never complained himself and helped remind me not to either.

A year ago when failing health forced Mr. Tillman to let his children bring him back to D.C., he was still the voice of faith and acceptance. He laughed about scaling his farming down to a potted tomato plant. We talked by phone a few weeks before he died. For me, Mr. Tillman still shines as a man who knew who he was and who — wherever life took him — stayed firmly planted in God’s love and provision.

— Barbara Appling

Courtesy of The Church of the Good Shepherd United Methodist