Sunday November 20, 2011
The first time I met Mac I was on a ladder painting the trim against the front porch ceiling of our not nearly completed new house. He and Phyllis had walked up to say hello like next door neighbors do in the South. I craned my neck to take a peek as I heard David say hello.
He was tall. Really tall. Grey, stringy hair hung just past his bony shoulders. His frame was too thin for the enormous voice that boomed out of him. Tattoos. Holes in his sleeveless shirt. Muscles no one would have wanted to mess with. And veins that would have made even a student nurse smile with confidence. He carried himself with a confidence that bordered on cocky. His stutter surprised me.
I dipped into the paint again, moving the brush back and forth and listening to the easy dialogue between the two men. Mac didn’t live on a schedule as far as I could tell and apparently he thought no one else did either.
In the next four years I would feel more aggravation and compassion for that man. Oddly enough, the feelings sometimes happened simultaneously.
(His pasture was terrible and he didn’t have enough money to buy hay for his horses so more than once I looked out to discover them in the front yard happily eating clover. I could not walk past his horses without feeling sorry for them, they were so thin. Race horses with a tremendous pedigree, starving.)
We all loved him. No one could not like Mac. (And yes, I know that’s a double negative but it says what I mean so much better than everyone loved him.) Mac and Phyllis lived in a barn converted somewhat into a house. You could smell the smoke from inside whenever you walked past the outside. His house was nothing, but inside were amazing antiques. His tattered Goodwill clothes belied his speech. There was something about the way he phrased his sentences that told me he’d been raised in wealth. I watched the way he cussed until he saw the boys and then looked at David with those brown eyes that could have bored an axe right through a tree without raising his missing finger and he “mmmm mmmmm mmmmmmmmm’d” for emphasis. Whatever he was, he wasn’t raised redneck.
Most of the time he talked to David. Especially when he got mad. And could he ever get mad. Most often it was at his cousin. Time and time again he’d find David. His neck muscles bulged. His eyes shot daggers. And the rant began. More cussing. Death threats. More pacing back and forth. More cussing. And more cigarettes. Eventually he’d get to the end of the story and David would quietly ask a few more questions. And sometimes when he wasn’t talked out enough at the end, David would tell him, “You come talk to me before you do anything serious to him.” Mac always agreed. Then he’d go home and get stone drunk and sleep it off and be okay the next morning.
Slowly, slowly, one conversation at a time, we started piecing a little bit of the story together. Mac grew up two counties down in an extraordinarily wealthy and influential family. But his soul was plagued with bitterness because he was, in his own words, “a bastard child.” He desperately wanted to know who his mother was and he was convinced she was probably family and probably even more wealthy than his adoptive family because he knew in which hospital he was born. His adoptive parents never told him he was adopted until his sister dropped the bomb on unsuspecting him when she was furious at him and trying to make him mad. I’m not sure he ever really recovered.
Phyllis stayed mostly out of the picture. She was friendly when we talked to her, but she mostly kept to herself. She also seemed to leave Mac often and come back whenever he got another big check from the estate. Then things got really rough between them and she left again. Mac wasn’t doing so well. He’d been sick off and on all summer. The $100,000 check was gone. He couldn’t get a job. And his cough was getting worse. We started inviting him over for dinner occasionally and again, the finesse in his mannerisms validated the truth in his story. The first night we sat riveted to our seats for hours as he told us more about his life.
His childhood was laced with injustice and harsh punishment from an angry father. He was sent away to a private boarding school as a punishment for committing a crime he insisted he didn’t do. The details got sketchy about his teenage years — maybe because he didn’t want to shock us. And as all men do, he fell in love with a girl he adored. They had a child but soon after, for whatever reason, her dad (who always hated him) called her home and would not let her come back. When Mac got close he showed him his gun and dared him to ever try to come closer. He never saw her again. He took the baby and moved to the city where a family helped him out with childcare while he worked his job. He’d come home at night and be the best dad he knew how to be. And then they turned him in to Social Services (can’t remember the details but I think he got drunk one night) and he ended up in the slammer. And lost his child to adoption.
His entire life story was filled with several recurring themes. A series of injustices and bitterness. Hypocritical christians. His love for race horses and the way something out of his control always happened to make so he wouldn’t win. His fearsome anger at his cousin who was in charge of his inheritance funds. Everyone always giving him the bad end of the deal and using him wrongly. The way he went to the mountains whenever something was wrong or he needed to figure something out. Like the time he decided to quit using cocaine so he went to the mountains for a week. Alone. “You did what,” I asked aghast? “Cocaine withdrawal is horrible. You could have died up there and no one would have known.”
“Oh, I know,” he said with that raucous laugh that grated across all the scratches in his vocal cords from years of cigarette and drug abuse. “It was hell, let me tell you.”
That was him. Tough. Invincible. Unafraid. Determined that he was right. Even when he wasn’t. And he mostly wasn’t.
His stories were fascinating. Until I’d heard the exact same race story four times. He was always a gentleman. He’d ring the doorbell at 9:30 in the morning with his empty coffee can and sugar container and beg for just enough coffee for this morning and three teaspoons of sugar. That’s all. And every time I brought the nearly refilled containers to him he’d look in and gasp in surprise and shake his head saying, “You shouldn’t have, but thank you darlin’.” He rolled up and down the road slowly in his diesel truck, always looking for us. If I was in the yard, he’d yell “Good mornin’ sweetheart” so loud I was sure he could be heard an acre away. More than once I happened to be walking past the window when he drove by and he’d wave wildly. Clearly, we should get blinds if we ever want some privacy. Although no one but Mac has ever strained their eyes to look in the windows as they drove past.
Neither, to my knowledge, did any of our other neighbors ever grow marijuana in their house. Or talk about running a bar in their house so that wealthy people can come and get as drunk as they want without worrying about their public image.
But for all the times I felt compassionate, I had plenty of times when I felt downright aggravated. The last six months of his time here, he was really out of money. I mean, he’d been out of money before but this was worse. He’d lost his driver’s license for driving drunk and then he lost it again because he drove without it being valid and finally he wasn’t allowed to drive at all. He didn’t have enough money for a cell phone anymore. He was forever running out of coffee and sugar. And he had this completely annoying habit of coming to use my phone fifteen minutes after I put Liam down for a nap. I didn’t mind giving him coffee. I did not mind that he sat on my front porch (or paced it when he got really mad) and talked on my phone for an hour. But I DID mind that he always came right after Liam fell asleep but before he fell into a deep enough sleep not to be bothered by noise. So he’d wake up. And of course, not be able to sleep again. With one extra long ding dong from the doorbell Liam’s nap disappeared and I was left with a grouchy child and no down time for me.
(Mac could never do the normal thing and ride down the road past our house … he had to gallop in and out our circle drive … and leave his souvenir)
There were aspects of our neighborhood that felt a little slimy. I couldn’t lay my finger on it, but something made me feel a little on edge. Somehow, I always felt safer knowing Mac was 300 feet down the road. Because while I’d seen him so angry he couldn’t speak in complete sentences and while I knew he’d gone after his wife’s son with the poker stick from the fire … I also knew he had our backs. (Interestingly, though, when Mac left, so did the strange traffic.)
What I did not know that warm summer day as I painted the front porch ceiling, was how much Mac would teach me. That Christmas when he was so down and out he came to our house for coffee and dog food and the phone all at once, I felt so sorry for him. We were getting our annual gifts ready to deliver to the neighbors. This time, I suggested we fix a box for Mac instead of giving him only a few baked fineries. We headed for the grocery store and filled a big box. A big tub of Folgers, small bag of sugar, deli meat, bread, and other staples. But when David and the boys delivered it, he seemed less than thrilled …. none of the normal exclamations of delight and surprise and pleasure. Suddenly I felt embarrassed as I realized that I’d classified him as way more down and out than he himself did. And what I meant as a gift, may have come as an insult.
But it went deeper than that. That winter, we started noticing odd things about our woodpile. The tarp wasn’t always in place. One spot seemed to be growing smaller rapidly. And then one day I glanced out the window to see Mac piling his little cart full and furtively tucking down the tarp. The wind whipped his flannel shirt and his body leaned forward once again with that racking cough. I called David. “So did you know Mac is stealing our wood?”
“Yeah,” he said easily. “I’d figured that out.”
As the days grew colder, his trips to the woodpile became more frequent. Some days we happen around the corner just as he was loading up. “I’m stealin’ your wood” he’d yell over. “I’m tryin’ not to use too much, but it’s awful cold over there.”
“It’s ok,” we’d yell back.
But there were days when I didn’t feel ok. Why is it that we WANT to give until we meet up with the sacrifices of giving? I would call David already feeling ashamed of myself, yet needing to hear him say the words. I KNEW Mac was cold. I KNEW he was sick. I KNEW that I would gladly pull a load of wood to his house and give it to him. But WHY when he just came and helped himself without asking did I feel resentful? Why did I have flashbacks to all the days and days and days when David had split wood and we couldn’t do other things I wanted to do? Did I really only give because of the good feeling I got from giving? Is that why I felt resentful? David’s voice cut through my feelings again with fact. “You need to let it go, sweetie. I’m going to take a load of wood down to him tonight after work.”
I was ok with the wood issue. I wasn’t so ok with the selfishness that had surfaced. Whatever happened to my idea of living out Jesus?
In the Spring Mac moved. Sold his place and moved to his hometown. Phyllis was back. By then he’d been diagnosed with stage V cancer. The doctor said he’d been misdiagnosed for over a year. One last time of being taken advantage of because the first doctor continuously blew off his symptoms as “an abscessed tooth and asthma.” He put the next house in Phyllis’ name and every ounce of energy left in his frame went into making sure she was taken care of. How he loved her.
We were back and forth some, but not nearly as often as when he lived next door. He was still tough and full of stories, but his energy was waning. And he was still bitterly angry at nearly everyone in his life. And God. We talked to him several times about God. But in it all I wondered, would I believe a God of love existed if I’d experienced that much horror?
His thin body was now painfully skinny. His eyes were glazed with pain. And the cough. Oh, the cough. Some nights he didn’t talk as much. We’d just sit on his front porch and listen for the train. Listen to his stories when he had the energy. Listen to Phyllis talk about the house. He’d laugh at the boys antics and smoke another cigarette. Over and over and over he would tell Adam and Liam, “You boys have no idea how lucky you are. You have the best parents in the world who love you. You are so lucky.” And all the way home I would think about his life. Where he was born and where he was now. And I would think about our boys and wonder. What is their story going to look like?
(Adam, Liam, Mac when he was little …little boys with big dreams …)
We knew it was coming, but I still wasn’t prepared. Phyllis called in desperation one night. “Mac is at the hospital. We almost lost him yesterday. Can David please go talk to him? I’m so afraid he’s going to die without being right with God. And I know you guys are the only people he trusts.”
We stopped, dropped and rolled. I knew that I missed Mac after he moved. I did not know how much I had grown to love him until that night. Hearing he was dying and knowing how bitter and angry he was at God …. I could not bear the thought of him going to hell. We dropped the boys off, not sure what we’d find, and drove as quickly as we could. He looked a hundred times better than I’d expected, reaching out his arms to give me a hug. “I’m on my way out,” he said. “I’m going over to the other side.”
We sat and talked until Phyllis came and his other visitors left. She took his hand and started talking. “I have something to say to you. I am so afraid that you are going to die without making peace ……”
“I know,” he said, with those brown eyes boring into hers until her tears stopped. I understood why she stopped crying when I started crying later. It is impossible to cry when Mac’s eyes look at you like that. We talked to him about Jesus. And I didn’t stop quite in time because he finally looked at me and said, “You are just quite the little fire cracker for Jesus, now aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but half the time I’m just the firecracker part without Jesus and it gets me into trouble.”
“I know, me, too” he snickered. “Dad said I was like a piece of dynamite and if you got the fuse lit you never could get away fast enough. It was one of three times in his life he was right.”
He promised to think about it. One minute he promised he was going to be in heaven. That he was thinking about it and that he would make peace. But it wasn’t going to be like we would and he wasn’t going to say certain words. David kept telling him it’s not about certain words. It’s only about accepting forgiveness through Jesus and extending it to others. The next minute Mac said if he didn’t make it to heaven, he was going to start the third world war and kick his butt all OVER the place.
“Who? Your cousin?” I asked.
“No. Satan. Because he’s made so much trouble.”
“I don’t think you know how powerful he is,” I said.
“Oh, I know. And I’m going to get there (to heaven). I just need to do it on my own time.”
He was still Mac. Tough. Invincible. Unafraid. Determined that he was right.
We all held hands and prayed. And I cried again because this time his eyes were shut and he couldn’t stop me. I didn’t expect to see him again. But we did. He didn’t talk much that next Sunday night. Just sat quietly on the porch, and then, his body swaying with every step, he carefully went down to the yard to smoke so he wouldn’t do it in the boys’ air space. Still, always the gentleman.
The next week we went to say goodbye. Before we walked in Phyllis told us she’d heard him praying the night before. She said she came around the corner in time to hear him say, “Thank you, Jesus. I love you, Jesus.” And then she couldn’t understand him anymore but she could tell he was praying so she sat there beside him and prayed, too. And one more time, Mac would teach me about myself. Because while one side of me wanted to shout with joy at the thought of that hallowed moment, another side of me felt instant doubt. I still don’t know why. Except that I was afraid she was telling us that just so that we would feel good about things. And maybe I had a little bit of doubt about Mac letting go of his bitterness. But I wondered even more if I doubted God’s forgiveness? Did I somehow believe that it took more? Did I not really believe God’s grace? How had I become so doubtful within my own heart? I felt so ashamed of the lies I’d believed without even realizing they were there. Later, my friend would remind me of Jesus on the cross and the thief next to him who said nothing more than, “Tonight, remember me in your kingdom.” Who is to say that God’s grace is not so big that He will forgive even someone who wants to come to Him … even if they never get to the end of the struggle and ask for forgiveness verbally? Do we really know how big God’s grace is?
Mac was more cleaned up that night than I’d ever seen him, a warm, red, wool sweater hiding his bony protrusions and the narcotics keeping him fast asleep. He tried so hard to open his eyes, but he just couldn’t. There wasn’t much left to say. David talked to him most, telling him how happy we were to hear Phyllis’ words and that we were still praying for him. We sang a few simple songs the boys could help with before taking turns saying Goodbye. I stared at Liam’s tiny, perfect hand inside Mac’s gnarled fingers. I listened to the boys say, “Bye Mac. I love you,” in their sweet, childish voices and I thought about his big, rough voice that had been many places I hope they’ll never go. Why was he there and we were here? Why had his life started with such promise and ended with this?
We walked out, knowing that was it. Mac died that Saturday. He’d asked David to have a prayer for the family at the memorial service and David agreed. When I spoke with Phyllis Sunday she scheduled the memorial so that we could be there for sure and said whatever David wants to share is fine. I know Mac would rather have had him speak than anyone else. And then she didn’t get back with us until the night before. We arrived home to discover she left a message while we were gone (she knew we would be), “Hi David and Michelle … I know you’re busy. We’re going to go ahead and have the service on Friday (when she knew we’d be gone again). Have fun at camp. Give the boys kisses for me. I love you guys. I feel your love and prayers. And I’ll get back with you after the weekend.”
And that was it. Neatly phased out of her life.
Still, hardly a week goes by that I don’t think about Mac at least once. Not in a sad way because I am so happy he doesn’t have to suffer anymore, but in a glad way. Glad because I really do believe he is in heaven. And glad because the man I once pridefully thought had nothing to offer me, showed me so much about life itself.
This time, it’s my turn to yell “thanks.”
Powerful I am crying and all Ican think of is God be merciful to me a sinnet(sorry punctuation doesnt work)
Wow!! What a gripping real life story! You all were such a blessing to him, I’m sure!
this entire story so got me.. but this part especially, “Why is it that we WANT to give until we meet up with the sacrifices of giving?” and i stared at those words for several seconds as the conviction wrung at my heart.
i’m glad you took the time to write out his story, michelle… i feel i learned from his life too and am chiming in with you in saying, “thanks!”
That was a beautiful story. God bless your family for looking out for Mac.
Tears… so much sadness. We are so blessed and yet, so often forget.
When I got to the end of the story…I wasn’t ready for it to end. Nor did I think it would end that way.
How beautiful. How convicting.
Thank you for sharing. This was a wonderful tribute to Mac’s life….and what wonderful friends you were, showing him God’s love and grace, even when he did something like take your wood. What a blessing you were to him while he was here. (and I’m sure he was very thankful to have you guys =)
I’m with Amber….I want to say thanks too.
So much to learn from your story. =)
Happy Monday to you.
Wow. Amazing story! You lived Jesus’ love!
This was such an awesome story. I can so relate, especially to facing your own heart and prejudices and seeing that it is much uglier in there than I would want to admit. Honestly I can’t think of a better compliment than “Firecracker for Jesus”! Thanks for writing this.
Wow! Think that what this Christian life is all about. Not trying to impress, just living Jesus and rubbing shoulders with those who need him too!!
Thanks for sharing.
Michelle… Thank you so much for being there for him. I know a just little bit about the sacrifice of “being neighbors” like that – the interruptions to “me moments,” the struggle to keep your hands open… Just thanks! You know that song, “Thank You for Giving to the Lord”? Keep giving! You never know what influence may lie in your open lives. And thank you for telling us about it.
this is what living is supposed to be about. this is what GOD is about.
Amazing story & you did so well at showing Christ’s love to a neighbor. It was written so well & I’m in tears.
You made us love Mac too. My favorite parts? Him wanting to kick Satan’s butt. And you being a firecracker for Jesus. Just think of the hug Mac will have for you in heaven.
Thanks for this beautiful tribute.
a beautiful story from a beautiful woman of God. thank you for sharing! I enjoy reading your uplifting posts on here!
powerful and beautiful.
I’ve been greatly challenged by the way you made him a part of your lives. The timing of hearing this story and the 2 messages we heard over the weekend regarding being missional in a way we rarely hear it gives me much to think about and act on. Blessings to your family for giving!!
Wow, Michelle! I was just spell-bound reading this! Like someone else said, I was not ready for the story to end. Talk about being Jesus’ hands and feet in such a real way. Your story inspired me!! And I wish I could have met Mac. Thank you so much for sharing this!
I love a real life story!You and your family have inspired me to be more like Christ.And yes,the wonderful,matchless grace of Jesus!!
Thank you for taking the time to share this story…so much to think on!
This was so touching, yet honest. Loving others, being God to them, isn,t always easy. Thanks so much for sharing this! We all need “Mac’s” in our lives, too, I think……but sometimes our fences are too high.
I read this to Dan & the children tonight at bedtime. They were looking at the pictures and asking, “Is this the lady who wrote We Build a House?” because they recognized your boys. 🙂 We all like this story.
Michelle, what a beautiful story. I kept coming back to read little bits and pieces, till this morning…I got up at 4:00 am thinking of the story and that I was going to finish it before my little interrupters woke up 😉
Thanks, Michelle, for the beautiful story. Your family represented Jesus with skin on. How awesome that you can anticipate spending eternity with him. Thanks for challenging me in my response to the “Mac’s” I rub shoulders with in my neighborhood.
funny. that “when- will- you- ever- learn- cindy?” funny. my ideas of who teaches and who blesses and even who needs what of both…
and how often i am so wrong. in one era we have rugged, smelly fisherman who had others marveling, recognizing that they had been with Jesus. *acts 4:13* and then years down the road a broken hearted tattoed neighbor… who revealed the face of Jesus too.
i can say bless you michelle for sharing this story so very beautifully. so eloquently. and for giving to mac. and i mean it.
but! it means more to me that you shared what mac gave to YOU…and for THAT…i have no words. just silent tears.
This whole thing has so much for me to learn from! Thanks so much for sharing. I think Cindy (down_onthefarm) wrote it perfectly!
It is amazing how God moves, isn’t it? I needed this story today. Thank you for sharing it. And I’m so glad that you obeyed the call of Jesus and lived out His love to Mac. What a powerful story, Michele. God bless you.
Thanks for sharing this, Michelle. It made me cry cause it reminded me of our old neighbor that we moved away from but we go visit every time we’re in the area. I think of him often and should pray for him more. I’m so afraid he’s going to die one of these days and not be right with God. It’s so encouraging to see hard hearts given to Jesus.
just getting around to reading this now. wow what a story of how you were able to be God’s hands and feet and be a blessings to someone who needed Him SO MUCH. Such an example to me. I recently had doubts about someone getting saved the other day as well, but thank God I’m not responsible for deciding if someone really meant it. It’s not the words we say that save us but the heart we have. thanks for sharing this story!
So blessed to read this story. I came over on the give away recommendations and am so glad I did. So beautiful to read of your life as neighbors. Really loving your neighbor. I think God has shown me so much about myself in the resentments and frustrations I have felt over some neighbors, and also shown me His heart for them. Always needing His love to love.