I’ll Meet You in the Morning

I don’t believe I spent nearly enough time with Ernie. That’s to my loss.

Whenever their battle worn bodies allowed them to come to town for services, she would scoot to the tech booth to give me the one of the best parts of my Sunday morning. Braced with one hand on her walker, she’d stretch the other up to greet me, barely able to reach over the wall surrounding my elevated platform. I’d stand and lean over the short wall of my pen to clasp her hand and absorb the light of the most gorgeous smile on the most tested — and found faithful — woman I know.

She’ll catch you off guard, Marge will. Her petite and sometimes unsteady frame belies the rock she houses within.

But if Marge faithfully started my Sunday mornings, Ernie finished them. Our paths would cross week after week as I’d leave the booth and he’d come to return their hearing devices. Always a handshake, more often a hug and for certain an encouraging word. He’d tell me how they were weathering life’s bumps and bruises, which were plenty, and he’d always draw a smile as he prodded me to keep on with whatever it was I needed to keep on with.

I don’t remember when was the last time I shook Ernie’s hand. The last few months kept him pretty close to hospital and home. But whenever it was, I sure didn’t know at the time that I’d not get another big grin from that old cowboy.

::

I joined friends and family this weekend to wish him well on the latest of his lifetime of adventure. I learned some things I’d never known about this soldier, cowboy, gold miner, barge builder, and truck driver that spawned legends. It’s really no wonder he swept sweet Marge off her feet at the USO dance so many years ago.

But I did know his three rules. You didn’t need long with Ernie to know this was how he lived . His son reminded us nevertheless. The reminding was good.

Love God.

Work hard.

Do what’s right.

::

I remember visiting him at his farm after his garage burned down and wondering if he’d listen to anybody when they told this old fella he needed to have help putting it back up and that he really ought to stay off the ladders.

I remember the time we met up waiting for service at the cell phone store and we talked about figuring out all those fancy features on his phone he didn’t care about. He only wanted a phone just in case.

And I remember Lane getting an earful when he wondered out loud when Ernie thought they might leave the farm and come live in town.

But what I remember the most? Maybe it was on one of our Sunday morning path crossings at the end of the service. That part doesn’t stick. What sticks was that he came to me in the midst of what may have been the blackest moments of the darkest days I can remember in the painful history of a troubled church. Ernie and I had never spoken of the turmoil before. But I suppose it wouldn’t take much for a guy paying attention to know on which side of the massive gorge I stood trembling. That day, he took my hand and held it tight, met my eyes and wouldn’t look away.

With a little trembling himself, he whispered, “This is your church.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t feel like that, Ernie. It doesn’t feel like that at all.” I hardly felt at home there anymore.

“No, this is your church. You’d best be gettin’ her back.”

::

That’s the man I’ll remember. And miss.

Sure, Ernie had his three rules. But if you knew Ernie, you know he lived by a fourth as much as any other.

Love your bride.

Ernie loved Marge. She was beautiful as always yesterday in her blue suit, ever present joy peeking round the corner of her grief.

Pastor brought out the old cowboy’s Stetsons during his message. One crumpled and stained, softened with work and wear. The other, still stored in the box, was clean and held its shape, perfect for driving in from the farm to church. The Sunday Goin’ to Meetin’ hat.

As her children helped her to her feet, his bride lifted the worn felt hat in her hands and held it to her face. A private, tender moment stolen in front of a room full of loved ones. I should’ve looked away, but couldn’t persuade my eyes to give her this one moment alone.

I was captivated. And broken as tears held back poured free.

Whether she meant to brush past it with a kiss or to take in the scent of her cowboy one more time, she clutched the battered Stetson that embodied her beloved, now absent. She laid it to rest back on the table and turned to go, family surrounding and bearing her up.

His beautiful, beautiful bride.

::

I will meet you in the morning by the bright riverside
When all sorrow has drifted away
I’ll be standing at the portals when the gates open wide
At the close of life’s long dreary day

I’ll meet you in the morning
With a how do you do
And we’ll sit down by the river
And with rapture our auld acquaintance renew
You’ll know me in the morning
By the smiles that I wear
When I meet you in the morning
In the city that is built four square

I’ll meet you in the morning, Ernie.

And yes, I’ll no doubt know you by the smile that you wear.

But mind you, donning that old Stetson sure wouldn’t hurt.

::

I’ll Meet You in the Morning, Albert Brumley, Public Domain
Sung for Ernie at his memorial service.