Out of routine in a newlywed life, I received word that a friend had died. He was one of the good ones - the ones that existed in my good old days, the days when I knew the secrets to life. He was a kind man - overlooked for serious privileges because of his accent. A decent, hardworking husband with three boys. I always looked up to him. I saw him sweat visibly on the platform as he struggled with difficult english words and glanced quickly at his wife for approval. I saw his three boys look at him with more than simple love.
The day I went to the funeral, it was packed. I must say that Nellie's post brought this back to me. It was at my old hall, the one I grew up in. It was standing room only out to the parking lot. I led my wife to a tiny standing spot in the back room. I saw an elder from my childhood days who had become a circuit overseer. He was surrounded by fans.
During the closing prayer, I started to cry. I wept quietly, but people still noticed. I tried to dry my face during "amen". I got a few comments about how I must have known him better than most.
Every time I want to go public with my feelings, I think of his sons and it throws me into a confusion.