“Today will be a busy day on Hick’s Mountain,” Lori said as we sat on the back porch, sipping our favorite morning brew: Irish Breakfast hot tea.
Lori was referring to the Fourth of July gatherings where we grew up in Oklahoma. Hick’s Mountain happened to be where my parents, and a slew of other locals, owned property on Lake Altus. On Independence Day, the place would be teeming with children, teens, and adults, who would be boating, swimming, relaxing, and eating. In the afternoon, we would sit on the front porch of the cabin, and then Dad would usually have a fish fry, with my brother and his family joining us with the feast, followed by fireworks of our own, and sometimes we were audience to a more professional fireworks display on the lake.
I sighed, with a wee bit of longing for those more festive Fourths. Our present Covid-19 Fourth seemed a stark contrast to those earlier days. Lori and I love each other’s company, but today, just the two of us hanging around, seemed almost too subdued. And, besides, I still had several hours of work in front of me, for this year’s Fourth was on Saturday, with Sunday’s sermons waiting in the wings.
“Remember how we used to take our vacations back home about this time?” I said, unthinkingly casting more clouds of somberness into the day that was growing gloomier the more I talked.
At that moment, my cell phoned dinged: it was a text message from my friend Kenny Moreland, in Louisiana, informing me that his mom, also a friend, had passed away only a few hours earlier.
Peggy Moreland had battled cancer for years. But her disease hadn’t stopped her from living her faith joyously. Every now and then I would call to check on her and her husband, Ken.
“I’m doing fine,” she always would say, even when I knew better. Then she would give me details of her progress, usually ending with an upbeat call for me to stay strong in my prayers for her.
The years passed, peppered by victories and setbacks. It was a slow death; cell by cell the cancer gradually conquered her body. I got a note from her husband several weeks ago, informing me that Peggy was no longer able to stand and barely able to swallow any food.
As I read the text message from her son, I thought about their day and what they faced on this Independence Day. Suddenly, my mild disappointment in our nothing-special-same-as-every-day-Fourth-of-July, struck me, like a splash of cold water on my face, as self-centered.
Calling the family, I visited with Peggy’s daughter, Darlene.
“Mom picked a good day to be free, July Fourth,” she exclaimed.
Later that night, once again on our back porch, Lori and I smiled as we watched the remnants of a firework display in the distance.
It was only a small semblance of the more elaborate firework productions we had witnessed in years past. But even the best memory of the most outstanding firework shows could never begin to compare to the heavenly supernova that took place when Peggy entered Heaven’s Gates on her Independence Day, the Day when she was free at last from the pain her body had endured. No, nothing this side of eternity could ever begin to mimic the glories of that place, filled as it must be, with absolute wonder, awe, and praise.
“You know, it hasn’t been such a bad Fourth after all,” I said to Lori as I shut the back door and walked inside to join her.
“No, not at all,” she agreed.