This year, April/May rains give way to an “it’s as dry and hot as August” June and early July. The rebellious corn paid no attention to the high temperatures and arid conditions. You could practically hear the fields defiantly celebrating and shouting, “Knee high by the 4th of July! We did it!”
For years now I have been riding my motorcycle through the vast corn and soybean fields in the northern plains of Illinois. When the corn is proud and adorned with tassels, it feels like you’re surfing along ocean waves of green and gold as the wind turns the stalks into an emerald sea with “goldcaps” worthy of carrying, or capsizing, any sea vessel.
One of my favorite rides is heading north on U.S. Route 52. To be more precise, Route 52 follows a northwest, southeast orientation. Taking it northwest, towards the Mississippi River, I marvel at how the landscape lets go of the plains and clothes itself with gentle, rolling hills that can feature fantastic vistas of endless farm land, farm houses, and corn silos. My destination: Savanna, IL.
On this 4th of July ride it is almost too hot to ride. Bright, blinding sunlight bounces off of everything, giving the world a washed out, desaturated feel. It feels good to finally make it to the river. Savanna has a simple riverfront, with a boat launch and a path along the banks of the river.
I find a bench and, as I sat, I noticed an older gentleman sitting to my left at a covered picnic table. I kept my foam ear plugs in and enjoy an apple and some cold water. I couldn’t have been on the bench for more than 3 minutes when muffled words breach my consciousness and I turn to see the older looking gentleman walking towards me, greeting me, and taking a seat right next to me. His bright blue eyes match his blue jeans and blue plaid shirt.
“Are you from this area?”
“No. I am about two and a half hours from home. I ride a motorcycle and come here often to enjoy the river.”
And that’s how my connection with Richard began. I say connection instead of conversation, because that’s what happened. We connected. Of course, we had a pleasant conversation, but it was the connection that turned this 4th of July ride into a delightful memory and meeting.
Richard is 82. He tells me he is related to many, if not most, of the people in the county. His family came to the US by boat from Germany. His dad was a farmer. He has two brothers: one is a preacher, the other is a teacher, and Richard was the farmer.
He tells me he comes to the river to talk, because he is alone now.
Of all the scenes of his life that he shared – I mean, how much can two old guys cover while they talk along the banks of the Mississippi River on a hot 4th of July? – it was his recounting of his marriage to his wife that I found so captivating.
“What is your wife’s name?,” I ask.
“Twila. Not many people named Twila anymore.”
“No… not anymore. Such a pretty name.”
He tells me that Twila passed away 4 years ago and that she battled cancer for most of their life together. His life included countless trips to the emergency room, endless doctor visits and arranging for help to take care of Twila at home. He speaks with no regret, or bitterness in his tone.
He recalls taking riverboat rides with Twila and their friends. I comment on how Twila must have been quite a force to be reckoned with and he tells me the doctors all said the same thing.
I don’t know how long we talked about Twila, grandkids, our own kids, and a number of other topics, but suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Well. I’m going to go eat some potato salad.”
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Can I pray for you Richard?”
I told him earlier that I was a “preacher” like his brother, and that I have been pastoring for the past 20 years in a church in Minooka, IL.
We both bow our heads and I prayed for my new friend Richard.
Here is a bit of what I remember of my prayer: I am thankful for my new friend, Richard… I am grateful for the love and care that he faithfully gave Twila and how his example is helpful for me and a legacy for his family… I pray that he will continue to bear his loneliness with the same grace that he brings to connections along the banks of the river…
After a pause, I say Amen. We both lifted our heads and opened our eyes at the same time. His tears are flowing and make his blue eyes sparkle even more. We just look at each other in silence for a moment. I gently place my hand on his shoulder and simply say, “Life is hard.”
We both shake our heads in silent agreement. He rises and walks to his vehicle.
I wipe away my tears, filled with gratitude for a chance to connect to such a wonderful man. I make a commitment in my heart to do the best I can to welcome and connect to anyone that God brings my way. Because sometimes I fail to do so. Spectacularly so. That will be the topic of my next post.
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