Visiting my 96 year old friend, Mr. Nelson on this beautiful Kentucky afternoon would forever change how I awakened each day for the rest of my life. I approached the screen door along the side of his farm house beside the old well-pump as I did many times before. Entering his home, I could smell that his morning coffee had already been poured by his caregiver, so I knew where to find him. Walking down the hall filled with black and white photographs welcoming me with their kind, yet tired eyes, I soon approached his wedding day picture of him and his late wife, Mildred. It was at this photo where I turned into the den to meet him weekly.
With the assistance of his daily caregiver, he sat peacefully in his favorite recliner, slowly rocking back and forth with his arms resting along the pant legs of his torn overhauls. His coffee, which was placed beside him on the table he had made many years earlier as an anniversary gift for Mildred, was cooling off. A minute or two had escaped from me as I just stood and watched the aroma from his cup of coffee dance into the morning light that was pushing through his bay window from across the field of corn. His trembling hand reached for his coffee and grasped the cup with caution and faith with which only a farmer with mild dementia can achieve in these hours of the morning offerings.
Not to startle him, I waited for Mr. Nelson to gently position his cup between the fold of his overhauls as they both rested in the light.
“Good morning. It’s just me.” I said.
“I heard the screen door. Come on in young fella.” Mr. Nelson replied.
I should have known that he heard me come in. He had been blind now for years since struggling with diabetes and relied heavily on his other senses to gauge his surroundings. I was almost certain that he knew I was standing there at the door way watching him…but I knew better than to ask.
I sat down beside him and we talked for a while about the weather, of course, and how he and his late wife, Mildred, always enjoyed taking the family on drives through the countryside of Kentucky after church on Sundays with their three boys and two daughters. I sat there listening intently as the words came alive with emotions to the point where I could touch and smell the back seat of his automobile of which he so proudly spoke. In between the breaths where he was sharing his life with me, he would graciously pull the coffee cup with all its depth to his mouth and sip his way into another place of joy in a life that seemed so far away now.
It had been almost a year since Mr. Nelson had stood upright for longer than ten or fifteen minutes or even willingly asked to be up on his feet, according to his family and caregiver. Today, all that was about to change with a few simple spoken words, “Get my boots. I want to go to work.” Mr. Nelson said. I knew what this request intended.
For him going to work was attending to his fields and walking through the rows he had planted. I smiled and gladly went to his hall closet and began searching for his boots. “There not in there!” he yelled from down the hallway. “Under my bed,” he said. Sure enough, his boots were neatly positioned there under the head of the bed along the same side he had risen and rested upon for so many decades before without the disruption of time itself. His boots had cobwebs strung across the tops of the eyelets and laces from being ‘parked’ for so many seasons. His boots spoke to me as if saying, “thank you for remembering me, and if you have the time I’d like to walk you through some stories I have been wanting to share.” I paused and looked at the worn, oily markings that had a million ‘yes sirs and no ma’ams’ prayed into them. I grabbed them and placed them at Mr. Nelson’s feet, allowing him to feel an ‘old friend’ once again.
Finally, after about five minutes, and the coffee now at room temperature, we reunite both boots back to their rightful owner. For his safety, I cannot allow him to walk outside by himself between the rows of corn and into the seventy-three degree morning sun pouring down upon the shingled roof of his Kentucky farm. So, I wait to adjust my words as necessary, watching him move his ankles left to right inside his boots while sitting in his ‘starting gait’ before a long days work ahead.
“Well…let’s go,” he said with a sharper tone of assurance this morning. His legs weak and unsteady, I moved closer to his side to comfort him in his attempt to arise from the chair with the use of his walker, or as Mr. Nelson called it, ‘my buddy’. After several failed attempts, he made it to his own two feet and fulfilling his boots with the weight of his frail but willing body. His arms were reaching for the walker with both wonder and intent of finding the edge of his field.
Mr. Nelson had no words to share as we walked down the hall and past the generations of family pictures and colored pages from grandchildren hanging along the wooden paneling. I was aware that he knew his way around his home and every required turn even without his sight. We arrived at the screen door, and he leaned forward to push it half way, allowing him to step down onto the limestone he strategically placed there when he and Mildred bought the farm so many years before. We had made our way across the uncut lawn and down along the gravel lane where the welcome sign swung to a farmer’s tempo. I just went along with it…still, nothing spoken between us as I held onto him making his way to the edge of the field where it met the side of red barn. I have learned that sometimes silence is the best communication. I was prepared for a conversation about safety and not being allowed to go into the fields unless a family member was present and so on. That was, if Mr. Nelson were adamant about inspecting his rows of corn.
Leaning into one another, we stood at the edge of the field and gazed at the tall, green stalks of corn as they swayed back and forth in the morning breeze. I could see that Mr. Nelson was breathing in all the familiar sounds and smells that nature and farm life could present to him. In everything that he could not see with his eyes, I watched him absorb his surroundings through his grateful love he had for his farm. Then, somewhere between his long life of farming memories and being present with God, Mr. Nelson shared these words that forever changed my life: “The days are long, but the years are short.”
We both just stood silent in what felt like the weight of truth he had lived was speaking into the life I was seeking. It was at that moment I felt God speaking to both of us along this walk of faith we had just taken together on his farm. The power of his own faith, along with the faith I had in him, carried us across his farm and delivered us both to God’s purpose: using our strength in Christ.
As we turned back and walked back toward the house, I could see that Mr. Nelson was filled with such joy and achievement. Looking back on that moment, I knew it was me who really needed that walk. Seeing Mr. Nelson in those boots that had carried him home safely to his kitchen table so many times before, just made me feel like God put me exactly where he desired on that day.
In my own words of faith and listening to God, I believe Mr. Nelson and I had been delivered to each other for a brief purpose of renewing our daily walk with God. By allowing him to lace up his boots again and tend to his crops in what was a days work for him in those fifteen minutes we shared at the edge of the field.
Several months had gone by since I had made my last visit to see my friend, and I had learned that Mr. Nelson had passed away. I remember driving by his farm that afternoon and parking along the side of the road where I could have a clear view of where we had both stood just a short time ago. The echoes of his words filled me with, “The days are long but the years are short.” Never were they more profound than at that moment where an empty fence row rested without its farmer and his boots to shepherd the day.
God had shown me that I needed to be a better steward of my own life and produce the yields of my faith in serving Him more intently everyday in all I do. Those words came upon me with the realization that all Mr. Nelson had, and all I desire for my own life are only temporary victories given by God’s grace and mercy. “The days are long but the years are short.” I pray that everyone out there in the world living their lives in faith has the opportunity to walk in the light with their own” Mr. Nelson.”
