Not One Mistake
He Maketh No Mistake
My Father’s way may twist and turn,
My heart may throb and ache,
But in my soul, I’m glad I know,
He maketh no mistake.
My cherished plans may go astray,
My hopes may fade away,
But still I’ll trust my Lord to lead
For He doth know the way.
Though night be dark and it may seem
That day will never break;
I’ll pin my faith, my all in Him,
He maketh no mistake.
There’s so much now I cannot see,
My eyesight’s far too dim;
But come what may, I’ll simply trust
And leave it all to Him.
For by and by the mist will lift
And plain it all He’ll make,
Through all the way, though dark to me,
He made not one mistake.
When I read this poem first, I was inexperienced in life, inexperienced in love, and completely inexperienced with the notion of the death of someone I cared for. Consequently, though, it was at a funeral that I received my first copy of it. Then life happened and I forgot about the lines. If memory serves, I believe that the credit for the copy I initially received, was given to “Anonymous,” though years later, and with the advent of the information superhighway, parts of the poem revisited my memory and I performed a search. I learned that AM Overton was the author of the poem. I found the poem and printed it on some nice cardstock and presented it to a friend during a low period in her life. Somewhere, I have a couple of copies of the poem, though, if need be, I can google it at any time I wish to read it, that is as long as stay at my right mind enough to remember the title.
I confess, poetry isn’t my bag, it’s not my thing. Lines and numbers, words and verse, and rhythm, the elements of poetry, the abstract, the sublime, I was always more of a “Don’t tell me about the labor pains, just show me the baby,” kind of guy. I attempt to read a little poetry from time to time, but I find that I rarely have the time required to connect to it.
Why this poem, why now? The truth is, there is never a significant reason as to why I choose this or that to write about. My methods, as I’ve pointed out in previous writings, cannot be defined. I merely try to keep an open mind as I travel through this life and I try to look upon my world with fervor for some thought, some recognition, some spark, anything that will allow the creative process to arise and walk. I attempt to draw some pearl from my everyday observations that might be something that I can work into an entertaining storyline. Often I miss it completely, spending hours trying to develop an idea, only to relegate it to the slush pile where it may lie dormant forever. Daily, I continue to search, often drawing from a song, from memories, or from a picture that I see.
Tonight I’m sitting here at my bar with music playing, my dogs napping behind me, and a cocktail to my right. I’m digesting all of the sites I saw, the people I’ve met, the conversations I’ve had during a weekend of riding motorcycles with friends. There is so much about the motorcycle subculture that is just plain fascinating. I won’t bore anyone with play-by-play details of the weekend, I will just speak about two things that stand out.
First of all, I’d like to share is that one never knows who they will meet and what impact the stories of complete strangers will have on your life. Today, we rode about 95 miles to a place that is not on Google maps, at least by name. The destination was a place called Manshac, Louisiana. According to Google, if that is your destination, you would need to ask Google about Akers, La. At any rate, if you plan a trip to the area, you have to have something in mind. Something specific, that is. Our quest, was, of course, a motorcycle destination, but more importantly, according to unknown sources, home of the “BEST Bloody Mary around.” Manshac is home to the infamous Middendorf’s Restaurant, and we ate at a small Hole-in-The-Wall place called Fat Boys which is next door to Middendorf’s.
After lunch, we crossed a bridge and exited directly in front of a watering hole named “Gator’s Den.” The barroom was like any of a thousand roadside bars across the south, and maybe across the entire country. An ample bar, low ceilings, a single barmaid, and in this place, dollar bills stuck to the ceiling. The patrons were friendly and seemed to appreciate the change in scenery in a group of traveling bikers. When we pulled up and parked, there was a beautiful Indian Chieftain parked outside. I eased up to the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary and a Diet Coke, and watched closely as the “Best Bloody Mary” around was produced. Not to give away a recipe, but I now hold the secret to the Gator’s Den Bloody Mary, and from this day forward, it will become the Bloody Mary of the DBeazy One-Man-Think-Tank. After settling into our table, my wife asked an older gentleman sitting alone if “he was the owner of the Indian” outside. He admitted that “yes, he owned the Indian, he was in fact, an Indian, and that his name was Calun.” Calun explained that his choice of bikes had always been Harley Davidson’s until one night a guy in a pickup truck ran over him and left him for dead. He drew a deep breath, looked off as into the distance, and began by saying that when the State Troopers arrived on the scene, they found that his face was covered by his jacket, and upon further inspection, they found a note from the truck driver apologizing for “killing someone’s father.” Calun explained that he had survived that crash and purchased Indian motorcycles henceforth. Calun also explained that for whatever reason, he didn’t qualify to be a sniper in the Viet Nam Conflict, and for the same reasons, never saw the sunrise on a day of freedom that he didn’t appreciate. He nursed his drink, content to sit alone, then arose to leave. We thanked him for his service to our country and for assisting in saving the freedoms that we appreciate today. He left and my mind zoned out a bit, wondering what Calun’s everyday life was like. I wondered if people cared for him, and a flash of thought crossed my mind. He may not know it, but I do. I care for this man. This man who I will probably never see again, but a man who I feel that I owe more to than I can give. We heard the big Chieftan fire off outside and I listened as he rolled on the throttle and barrelled off into the distance to wherever. He disappeared out of earshot and I secretly longed to be that man. He left and without a doubt, lives will forever be changed a bit by meeting Calun.
I promised that I’d limit my ramblings to two of the things that stood out over a weekend of riding and I will honor that promise. I ride a 23-year-old Honda Valkyrie and in any group ride, I usually stand-alone, for that reason. With this fact in mind, I noticed a guy staring intently at my ride and walked up to speak with him. He saw me and asked, “Is this your bike?” I proudly answered “Yes,” and offered my hand. (even in a pandemic, when you come across brothers, you just shake) This young man began to tell me immediately of the potential of the Valkyrie engine and of the modifications that can be done to her. He began telling me about some amazing things that this engine was capable of and the speeds it can reach. I admit that I have exceeded the speed limit on my Valkyrie and possibly may have even doubled the posted speed limit for a moment or two, but generally, that is not my thing when riding a motorcycle. It’s a guy thing to at least give it a try, but I prefer to keep it in the double digits as opposed to triple. He showed me a picture of one of his bikes, complete with “wheelie bars” and told me about taking it to the drag strip and hitting 238 miles per hour. He followed with the fact that he got off of it that day and immediately put it up for sale. This is one of the cool things about the “brotherhood” of riders, we often meet and are only strangers for a minute. He said that he told his wife after the 200 mph plus ride that he had kids that needed him and he needed to switch from the sportbikes to a cruiser and has been riding a Harley since. I told him that I tended to agree with him and that I am aware that I could drop dead in my sleep, or die in an accident walking to the mailbox, or bust glory wide open while doing 85 on my bike, and that the Lord above only knows. These thoughts are a given when you ride on two wheels. I seldom slip on my boots without acknowledging the fact that today could possibly be the day. My new friend nodded in agreement with a musing stare, he spoke without looking at me, as if staring off into a distant mirror, counting all of the close calls over a lifetime of riding. “I watched my best friend die one night.” He relayed a story of a group of sportbike riders, in the first miles of freedom from traffic on Hwy 49 South of Jackson, Mississippi. He shared that they had just reached the outer limits of city traffic, out where the street lights end. He said he was third in a group of 9 riders when his friend rolled the throttle, hit 5th gear, and saw the front wheels raise off of the pavement. That’s the way it is with sportbikes, they have tremendous torque and will forevermore get down the road. I can imagine the 9 bikes screaming down Hwy 49, the lights of town growing small in their rear views, and at that speed, the centerline was probably more like a single stripe. He told me that his friend in the lead topped a small rise, only to find a fully grown horse there. He paused and said, we didn’t know if we were picking up our friend or parts of the horse.
I just listened as he spoke, He said they were doing better than “a buck forty” when he hit the horse. Then his conversation jumped to the funeral and he shared the words that the preacher spoke. He said the preacher asked, “Why are you all crying?” The preacher continued, “You should be celebrating.” He continued with the final summation of the pastor which are words that are among the most profound I’ve heard. The pastor said something to the effect of, “Cry at the birth of a child, celebrate when someone dies.”
I think at that moment when his words filled my almost deaf ears, my draw dropped. To me, within a span of maybe 5 – 7 minutes of meeting this guy, he told me something that resonated within my soul. Personally, I take on the philosophy of “everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to go right now.” But in light of most religious thought that I know of, life is but a moment, the blink of an eye, then comes what’s next. In most of the mainstream theologies the “what’s next” is the big payoff. Yes, the big payoff. The dance after the Homecoming Football game. The ticker-tape parade welcoming soldiers home, (back when patriotism was a thing) The “after prom” activities, in which, from a guy who graduated from a school where proms were forbidden, has always been built up to be the absolute “end-all, be-all.” What it is all for. The truth tells us that while we die on Earth, it is only then, we reap the benefits of the journey.
The words of the pastor regarding the celebration at funerals and the weeping at the birth of a child, appear to be paradoxical in light of the fact that most all humans shed a tear at the death of a loved one. According to the theologies and religious doctrines in which I’ve been exposed, it is common for there to be much celebration over birth, the most famous of course would be the birth of Jesus Christ. So why would this pastor reverse the responses? However, my exposure to those theologies and religious doctrines lead me to the same conclusion that my motorcycle riding friend was attempting to relay. That we both understood what the pastor’s message about.
At birth we are forced to leave the warm safety of our mother’s womb, only to meet an often cruel world and a life filled with disappointment, strife, and pain. Certainly, there are bright spots in life. There is joy, there is laughter, there is victory, and there is love. Then there are the successes and the good times that we experience according to Earthly measurement. But back in the garden, in paradise, the actions of Adam and Eve changed it all. Forever for us all; from our first breath to our last, relegated to separation from direct and physical interaction with our creator. So in this context, yes, birth should bring tears.
Regarding the poem, it could be easy to argue with its theme, but I know it to be true without doubt. Years ago, maybe 28 or so years ago, I met a child, a young girl of maybe 4 or 5 years of age. She was the daughter of friends and during development, a membrane broke away from the lining of the uterus and attached to the face of the developing child. The child was born, disfigured, and immediately needing cosmetic surgeries to make her as humanlike as possible. To accuse God almighty of making a mistake would be understandable, to say the least.
On the day that I was to visit and meet the child for the first time, well, apprehensive would be a terrible understatement. When I arrived, I was immediately taken to a back room to be introduced to Shanna and the child took my hand and pulled me over to a small table to play with her. The other adults retreated and left me terrified to spend time alone with this very special child. I was amazed at the job the surgeons had done with reconstruction, but I was nervous because she had to get real close to see me, close enough to hear the wet “nasally” sound that she made with every breath. She had me sit at a small table and she left the room, closing the door, leaving me alone inside. Then I heard a knock on the door and she said “come in” and she opened the door and re-entered the room. She approached the table asking, “Want some pizza?” We pretended to eat pizza and drink water and she repeated the same scenario several times until I caught on that she wanted me to be the one to say, “come in” when she knocked and she wanted me to treat her as a visitor and offer her pizza.
While driving home, I considered Shanna and what a blessing I had received that evening. I also felt troubled for her as I knew that her life would be a long one, filled with difficulty and adversity. Later on, I can’t recall if it was months or even years later, I learned that Shanna had been killed along with both of her grandparents in an automobile accident involving a log truck.
I attended the funeral, the first and hopefully last funeral I will ever attend featuring 3 coffins at the front of the church. I sat quietly at the back and said a prayer, thanking God for bringing perfect resolution to the life of this precious little girl. You see, I will always look at the passing of Shanna with a smile, knowing that this child escaped a difficult life through early death, and by the grace of God, walked through those gates holding hands with her loving Grandparents.
I’ll close by adding that I was finding it difficult to wrap this essay up until this morning. I’m not sure about the circumstances, but Shanna crossed my mind as she does from time to time. To this day, I can still hear her voice saying “Come in” and “Want some pizza?”