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by Phil CallawayTwo major events took place during the week this book was due. First of all, I turned 40. Don't worry, I am not having a midlife crisis yet. I will wait to finish this chapter before I dye my hair. Several birthday cards arrived from friends who were trying to be helpful, I'm sure. One contained a bumper sticker that said, "Forty's not old. For an oak tree." I also received enough Grecian Formula to outfit the Golden Hills Lodge. And Preparation H, a cane, suspenders, and calcium pills. I was sent the following note:
Dear Phil,
Because of the advancing age now upon you, we thought we would help you out with some new book ideas to appeal to your aging audience. Perhaps it is time to consider a new direction for your pen. Here are the ideas. You may keep the royalties all to yourself.
- Honey, I Blew Up the Balloon and Got Winded
- Who Put My Bifocals in the Fridge?
- Making Life Rich Without Any Hair
- Honey, I Forgot the Kids' Names
- I Used to Have Answers, Now I Can't Remember the Questions
- I Used to Play Hockey, Now I Have Arthritis
- Who Put the Wrinkles in My Cheeks?
After my fortieth birthday party, my eldest son said, "Don't worry, Dad. They're working on a cure for old age, you know."
At their worst, birthdays are an odometer, a depressing reminder of how fast life flies. At their best, they provide a milestone, reminding us to celebrate another year, to give thanks for the gift of life, to follow the psalmist's advice and "consider how short our lives really are so that we may be wise."
Our entire community has been considering such things this week.
On Sunday night I returned from a trip and noticed that the customary sparkle in my wife's eyes had been replaced by sadness. "I have bad news," she said, putting an arm around me. "Cordell is gone. Killed in a car accident."
I slumped to the floor in disbelief. "No," was all I could manage. My friend. One of my biggest encouragers. Gone. It couldn't be.
On Friday morning the thirteenth of July, I had talked with him.
"This is the happiest day of my life," he had said. "I've given the family business over to my son. I'm ready for the next step." A few hours later he had taken that step into the presence of God.
The world slows down remarkably when a friend dies. Things you once thought important don't mean a thing. Things you worried about yesterday vanish today. Money won't buy what you want, and sometimes you find yourself wishing for five more minutes to say what you didn't say when you knew you should have.
On the weekend, Kathy, a longtime family friend, had told me the story of a small dog, abandoned by someone on a country road when Kathy was a little girl. The dog took up residence near the church Kathy's family attended, and each Sunday it waddled through the parking lot, warmly greeting everyone who arrived. "It didn't jump all over us," smiled Kathy, "just wagged its tail, as if to say, 'Good to see you ... what took you so long to come back?"'
Cordell did that at our church. He didn't leave things unsaid. He met you in the foyer with welcome written on his face and encouragement all over his lips. Some people have been bitten in church parking lots. Never by Cordell. Some consider it their spiritual gift to complain about the music, or the hairdos, or the sermon. Cordell told you how wonderful things were. Some delight in pointing fingers at the world. Cordell told you what God was doing there. "Awesome" was one of his favorite words. "Fabulous" was another. Though he was 20 years my senior, he called me Uncle Phil.
A few days after his death, I found myself stopping to talk to children, adopting Cordell's vocabulary, encouraging people I should have encouraged long ago.
Sometimes you can measure a man's influence by the volume of cigarette butts in the church parking lot at his funeral. There were plenty at this one. Fifteen hundred people don't show up to much in a small town, but they gathered to say goodbye today. Many were "pre-Christians," as Cordell liked to call them. Dozens considered him their best friend. As a member of what the insurance world calls the Million Dollar Round Table, Cordell had worked hard and experienced much of what we term success. But he always seemed to have time for people. Teenagers in our town called him their mentor. He was my high school hockey coach, my cheerleader, and one of my biggest fans. He climbed so high because he helped others up.
"Who makes a humorist laugh?" someone once asked me. "Guys like Cordell," I replied. "My father was part Scotch," he had jokingly told me over a glass of Pepsi a week before his death, "part ginger ale."
This morning as we left for the funeral, I told my sons I would pay them a dime for every adjective they wrote down that was used to describe Cordell. Their pockets are jingling tonight. "He loved God and he loved baseball," wrote my son Stephen. Comforter. Encourager. Servant. He was honest in business. He enjoyed life. Cordell had the ability to make you think you were his best friend even if he'd just met you. "He invited us over to watch the World Series," said Stephen. "He kept filling my glass with Pepsi and he got me more chips."
When my wife and I were first married, Cordell took us out for lunch, hoping to sell us life insurance. And he told us that no matter what our decision, the very best life insurance policy wasn't for sale. The assurance that we can live forever with Jesus by simple faith in God is the best present we'll ever receive, and it's free for the asking. It is a message that has changed our lives.
Hours before Cordell's death I spent some time on the phone with one of my favorite authors, Philip Yancey. He was talking about people who have increased his faith and helped him survive hypocrisy in the church. We compared notes a little. Our backgrounds have similarities, yet both of us find ourselves drawn to the church like moths to a flame. Sometimes we experience the light. And sometimes we get burned. But certain ones along the way keep bringing us back. They are the tail-waggers. People like Cordell.
I wish for every church a Cordell. For every community and every home. If something blessed him, he said so. He was human like the rest of us, but he kept pointing us higher. Cordell couldn't sing to save his life, nor could he change a lightbulb. But he could light up your face with a compliment. He never met anyone who was just plain ordinary. They were fantastic, unbelievable, or incredible. Cordell liked to catch people doing something right, and praise them for it! Cordell used exclamation marks when he described you. He looked past my faults and embellished my attributes. I picture him walking around heaven now, patting angels between the wings, saying, "Wow! Good job! You're amazing! You've been doing this how many years?"
A few months ago Cordell sat in my office, struggling to balance a busy schedule with God's will. He was tired. Worn out. He laughed when I told him the topic of the book I was writing, and he thanked me for making him laugh late at night while he read my others.
"We've confused successfulness with fruitfulness," said Cordell, staring out my third story window. "Success brings some rewards and maybe even fame. But real joy comes from being fruitful."
I nodded and thought about his words.
"I'm learning to slow down," he said, smiling. "To squeeze the day. Six grandchildren help you do that."
"Let's get together soon," were Cordell's last words to me.
One day soon I'll keep that appointment. I can hardly wait.
