I couldn't debate with you the theology of a person having a mantel come upon them. I mark it up to one of those things that either you believe in it or you don't. The first time I heard about a mantel was when my youngest daughter, Konnie, was about 10. She told me that she knew what her spiritual gift was. She just blurted it out one morning. As in, "I know what my gift is -- it's intercessory prayer." She was 10. Hello??? I was 38 and hadn't a clue what she was talking about. Intercessory prayer was a word I was just learning. I told my girlfriend about Konnie's mid-morning announcement and she said, "God has given her the mantel of praying for others." That was a newbie for me, too. I'd never heard the term mantel applied to anything other than the shelf above a fireplace. Okey-dokey, I thought. Is there something more I ought to do with a child who has the gift of praying?

Turns out, no. That's God's job. So I've pretty much stayed out of the training part of it, except to call her whenever I needed prayer. It's not only good for children to have praying parents, it's a terrific blessing for parents to have children who pray. Nothing has ministered to me more over the years than the prayers of my own kids.

I'm bringing this up because yesterday for no apparent reason I had a wave of grief flow over me. Deep,desperate grief. The sort that rarely afflicts me. I was just sitting at my desk, working on an article about those damn ticks Amy and I got into this past spring, when it hit me. Tears started pouring out. I shut my office door. Shelby was downstairs and I didn't want to bother her. I tried to figure out why I was crying -- what had I been thinking prior to the tears? Whatever it was, I couldn't pinpoint it. It was just a few moments of immense sadness.

Gordon called me this morning. He wanted me to know that our buddy Bill Thurman of Crossville passed away yesterday. Regular readers of the blog will recall Bill as the fellow who tried to give me his chickens during my first visit to Crossville in 2006.

I'd seen Bill in April, before Gordon was stricken with the brain cancer. Pam, Gordon and I dropped by the Thurman's home for a chat. Like Gordon, Bill had a story for every moment. Bill had dropped some weight -- about 20 pounds. He was wearing his usual uniform -- a white t-shirt and blue workpants. A leftover habit of his Navy days, I'm sure. Bill bragged about his weight loss. Telling me he felt better than he had in years, with the exception of a little stomach trouble. The doctors had given him a prescription for a case of colitis. Bill pointed to the fat pill bottle and told me he had spent nearly $400 on a month's supply. That's enough to give a person colitis, I said, and we all laughed.

Bill always had us laughing. The first time we met, Bill regaled us with the tale of how he got stuck in the Philippines after the war. He and buddy were shacking up with these beautiful native women. The war ended and Bill's tour of duty was up, but he saw no reason to hurry home since he was enjoying himself so much. So the ship took off without him or his buddy. When the native women found out their sailor boys no longer had a paycheck rolling in, they tossed them out on their butts.

Bill didn't know how he was going to get back to the states, with no money. It wasn't like he could hitchhike. So he had to reenlist. The problem was Bill couldn't read the eye chart. When he first enlisted there was a war going on, nobody cared. But the war was over. So Bill's buddy stole an eye chart, Bill memorized it and that's how he got stuck with another tour of duty. But, he maintained, those native women were worth an extra tour of duty.

Lois was indulgent of Bill's war tales. I think she enjoyed them as much as any of us. He'd get so tickled at himself, it was a delight to hear him tell a story. Of course, it was obvious to anyone that Lois and Bill adored each other. They did everything together. Traveled the world. Raised roosters, chickens. And the most beautiful garden in all of Crossville, with sunflowers and beanstalks fit for giants.

Turns out Bill didn't have colitis. He had pancreatic cancer. Something we didn't find out about until well after Gordon's hospital drama. There was very little that doctors could do, so Bill came on back home, to Crossville, to Lois, to the chickens and roosters and the garden, gone by the wayside.

"I'm going to miss him," Gordon said. "He was a good one. No matter how many times he told me his stories, I'd let him tell them to me again."

That's the sign of true friendship in my book. Somebody who will indulge hearing my stories, over and over again, as if it was a first-telling.

The part I hate most about death is its abruptness, its invasive nature. It's like the loud drunk who ruins a delightful evening by imposing itself where it isn't wanted.

Gordon said Bill went peacefully, silently. I know there are some who think that's a good way to go, but not me. I think given his druthers, Bill would have wanted to go in the midst of a bawdy good laugh, with the rooster crowing in the background and Lois, shaking her head saying, "Oh, my!" Her blue eyes, twinkling with the adoration of young love, that lasts and lasts and lasts. 

That mantel of sadness is upon me again. So I'll close with these shots of my first visit to Bill and Lois Thurman's home.