I regret deeply being unable to be there earlier today. You know me. You know if it were possible, I'd have been present. But life has given me a series of curve balls of late as well, as you well know. But I did not want this day to pass without sharing some of my own thoughts and reflections on Mike, his life, and his impact on my own. I also did not want to discredit or preempt the contributions of my colleague, Pr. Tom McKee, who I am grateful was able to be present with you on this day. I am certain he shared with you the Gospel truth of the resurrection, a truth we all need to hear in the midst of such things.
But, regardless, here now are my reflections on Mike Wanbaugh.
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It was Monday afternoon. I had just finished office hours and was on my way home for lunch. As had been my habit for the past several working days, I took a detour on the route home to swing by Yorkana to stop in and see Mike Wanbaugh. I arrived at the house to be greeted by enthusiastically by the dog (He was good at announcing my presence.) I stepped inside and there was Mike, lying as he usually was on the sofa, surrounded by his family and friends. I slipped in, greeted him and began my visit.
I had not intended to stay long, knowing Mike was low in stamina at this point. He was a shadow of the man that I had known and yet, there was still his spark. Still his heart. Still his soul present in that broken down body. Still, I didn’t want to overtax him. But Kathy did offer me some lunch, namely some of Chuck Van de Water’s notoriously delicious pulled pork BBQ.
Well, I wasn’t going to say no to that. So I made myself a plate and sat at the table to eat. But the whole time I was watching things in that living room. I saw Kathy, after a few moments, slump into the recliner in tears. Sensing a moment, I jumped up to console her. I took her in hand, offered some words of comfort. But then Mike caught my eye.
He was still were he had been, but he was watching the two of us. And then, with a smile, he flashed me a weak “V” sign with his fingers from across the room.
It was a simple gesture. Identical to the one I often jokingly give in church as my “long distance peace.” Was that what he meant by it?
Perhaps. It would be something fitting. No one had any clue was about to happen to me. Within 24 hours of that visit, I would find myself in the hospital in the midst of a desperate battle with a condition I had no clue I was battling. A week long stay, five of which was in ICU. Had the Holy Spirit given Mike the foresight to see what I was to face and was he doing what Mike always did? Caring for others in whatever way possible?
Because that’s who he was. Monday afternoon would hardly have been the first time he’d done that sort of thing for me. I remember sitting in my pulpit on that All Saints Sunday where I’d spoken about my friend Dan who had died unexpectedly. After I finished preaching, emotion overtook me and I burst into tears as we were singing the hymn. Mike came up to console me.
When I could barely stand in the sanctuary due to the pain of my colitis last May, it was Mike who comforted me. It was he who drove me home that day. That’s what he did.
And not just for me, but for so many of us. For Freddie during his battle with cancer. For others at the cancer that he provided rides, conversation, and support. For those who will one day benefit from the knowledge doctors gained from his experimental treatments. For many of us here at Canadochly. Our brand new chair lift was his final project for us. I’ve said several times, to Mike himself among others, that he gets it. God loves us so we can love others. God takes care of us so that we can take care of others. He personified that Christian ethos as well as any soul I’ve ever met.
I envied him that, in some ways. I always want to do better on that front. I wanted, to borrow an advertising phrase from a few years ago, to “be like Mike.”
So maybe that’s a takeaway. Keep up the good fight. Keep on taking care. Let the work continue. Let God’s people continue to receive what they can of our bounty, our skill, our talents, and our love. Words of encouragement, all wrapped up in a simple gesture. A v-sign.
But there’s another way this gesture can be read. Past generations know that the V didn’t just mean peace. It was the symbol proudly flashed by Churchill upon the defeat of tyranny two generations ago (as evidenced in the picture above). It means also victory.
Was that what it meant for Mike? I don’t doubt that. Because he did have victory. He knew. He never doubted where this was going to end. Jesus had claimed him in baptism, held him in his arms all these long years, and now was going to take him home. Of that, he had total and complete confidence.
Would I be able to say the same in the face of such a tragic and unexpected end? Would any of us? I don’t know, but we can. Those promise he received, we’ve received. That embrace? That adoption through baptism? Those are ours. God will not let us down. All that we’ve ever needed he’s provided. We belong to God and neither death nor life, nor things present nor things to come will ever be able to snatch us from his grasp. I may not know what the future holds, but I know who holds the future. GOD WINS!
And that victory he shares with all of us. His victory is our victory. His empty tomb is our empty tomb. His resurrection is our life eternal. I want to be like Mike. Thanks to Christ and his resurrection, we WILL BE because we too will have the victory.
Of my friend, I will miss him terribly. Writing these words, knowing that my present health issues will prevent me from saying these things from the pulpit, hurts me deeply. But things are what they are. I know Mike would understand. I know that he loved me and I loved him. And as the tears flow as I sit here, I know also that I will see him again. God be praised. He was a blessed man and he was a blessing to so many. And a blessing to me. I am so grateful to have known him. He’s the sort of person I aspire to be. The person I hope to be. He was a hero to me.
All that he was can really be wrapped up into that one gesture he flashed to me that afternoon. Do not forget what this means, he seemed to say. Do not forget this truth, this peace, this victory. It’s mine and it’s yours and it’s all of ours. Do not forget. Amen.
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