Good Omen

Something touching happened to me this morning that really gives me faith in my fight.

From time to time, I receive a get well card with an encouraging message in the mail. Usually these cards are from my aunts, uncles, other family, or friends that don't see me regularly. And of course, I've received cards from caring co-workers at Prudential.

I really appreciate these cards, because people take time to let me know I'm in their thoughts and it helps me feel less alone. A lot like this blog and comments section. For a lot of people, they want to help me and just don't know how, and I think they send a card almost because they don't know what else to do. It's a good move, at least I appreciate it.

One friend of mine, who was almost like a 2nd mom to me growing up has sent me like 20 cards. She's a cancer survivor herself and is such a positive bright light. She posts comments here a lot, too. I really love and appreciate it.

Well, today the card came from a very unusual sender. The envelope's return address read Westview Missionary Baptist Church. It was postmarked Beckley, WV.

Beckley is the county seat of Raleigh County, West Virginia. A place where I spent a lot of time as a kid. You see, that's where my grandparents lived when I was growing up. Not in "urban" Beckley, but 40-minutez outside in the back country hills. Very rural, and poor but proud. It was also incredibly beautiful. The song Almost Heaven made sense. There was no town to speak of where they lived. Their road was gravel and wound through a hill and hollow. At the end of the gravel road, where it met a paved state highway was the small, wooden church where everyone went on Wednesday nights and Sundays, if not more. This was Westview Missionary Baptist Church.

Every summer I went to my grandparents place. They had a good amount of land, where a boy could shoot, hike, tend chickens and pigs, and meet kids whose lives where very different from his. My grandfather was a man's man bigger than John Wayne to me, and my grandmother was a very religious and made sure that I got to church while we were visiting.

So, I worshipped more than once in Westview Missionary Baptist Church as a kid. It was not the quiet, calm of the Presbyterian Church that I was raised in. The preacher here was fire-and-brimstone and the services very interactive, and filled with lively spirit. There was no hiding in that small church. If you didn't sing, you'd get called out on it. Questions were asked from the pulpit and you better be ready to answer.

The last time I was there was probably 1987, so I was very surprised to get a card from the church. My grandmother hasn't lived out that way for almost 20 years. Nevertheless, when I opened that card, I found it was signed by dozens of members of the congregation one Sunday morning. I'm in their thoughts, they'd tell me, and in their PRAYERS. Now that's the sort of Jesus power you have to love.

Cancer doesn't stand a chance when I've got people like that praying for me. And I'm very moved to be remembered and loved this way.