The Communion of Saints, Part Two

The Communion of Saints

Part Two

I now reflect on and pray for Saints who I have personally known and whose lives have had a direct impact on my own. 

The two saints at the top of my list are Max and Fern Tidwell, youth leaders at Albertville, Alabama First Methodist Church in the 1960’s.  Max and Fern taught us to love God and God’s people.   They were never able to have children of their own and they loved those of us in the youth group with all of the love that they had to give.  That love has passed from them through all of us and on to people in our lives.  Another Saint in my life is Winston Walker III.  Winston was in this same youth group. He was born almost exactly a year before I was and I have literally known him since my birth.  Winston was one of the kindest and most caring people I have ever known.  He was thoughtful and even when he and I disagreed which we often did, especially about politics, he never ever acted superior or put down another person’s ideas or beliefs.  I thought of Winston this week because the Albertville High School Class of 1967 celebrated their 45^th Class Reunion and two members of that class, Cheree Collins Carlton and Dee Walker, Winston’s brother, placed beautiful flowers on our friend’s grave. 

The final saint I want to talk about, is Bennett Alford, Sr., my father, who died on October 8, 1985 of suicide.  For years I could not sing the song with which I began this post.  It was absolutely impossible because of the tears that flowed of their own accord from my eyes. 

Daddy was another one of God’s beautiful and so very human saints.  He did so much for so many people in our small town and all over the world, even though at times he was a troubled soul.  Daddy was the Scoutmaster of Troop 71 of the Boy Scouts of America and in that role influenced hundreds of young men who became teachers and preachers and doctors and lawyers and salesmen and pilots and engineers and filled so many other professions in our country and the world.  More important than the professions, however is the kind of people we all became.  People who loved their families as well as the stranger; people who made a difference in the lives of others in our world; I would go as far as to say, people who have helped bring about the kingdom of God, on Earth as well as in Heaven. 

Daddy’s death was traumatic for all of us, bringing up many more questions than answers and shrouding our world with sadness. I want to share a part of my journey through this “Valley of the Shadow of Death (Psalm 23). 

First, I do not believe that suicide is a sin.  I believe that stress and anxiety and mental illness cause death in many ways.  Sometimes it is a heart attack, or stroke or cancer.  Other times it can be an accident or suicide.  In Daddy’s case it turned out to be suicide.  I believe that in his In his depressed state, that the thought of living as long as his mother (85 years) or his grandfather (96 years) was just more than he could imagine.  I also came to know that he did not kill himself to hurt anyone or to get even with anyone, but that the joy that had filled his life and evaporated and that he could never imagine that it would return. 

Secondly, I got into therapy for the first (but not the last) time.  In fact, 27 years later, I still see a therapist once a mounth, and more often if needed.  I am also open to anti-depressants when necessary. 

Neither My journey nor my family’s journey are over nor will they ever be, but I want to close these reflections with a story of how Daddy and I found resolution over his suicide.  This story brings us back to “the Communion of Saints.” 

During the Summer of 1986, less than a year after Daddy’s death I worked as a Chaplain at Philmont Scout Ranch in Cimarron, New Mexico.  Philmont is a High Adventure Base serving Scouts and Explorers from All of the USA and the world.  The program is centered around backpacking, Western History, archeology and activities.  On a day off I was backpacking  alone (yes, I know this is dangerous).  I was at least on a well used trail where I would be found if I did get hurt.  But, back to the story:  hiking in this beautiful country to which I first came with my father, he and I started a conversation.  Believing in the Communion of Saints, I believe this can be done.  We ‘screamed and hollered” at each other.  I told him how angry I was at him and how sad we all were that he was no longer with us here.  He told me that he was fine and that he and I were fine and that he loved me. 

I cannot explain this, but what I do know is that this was one of the most real experiences of my life and has changed me forever. 

Today and every day, I give thanks for my father and for all the saints, living and dead, with whom I am surrounded, and I give thanks to God for “being knit together in the Communion of Saints,” and for the gift that “for God’s people, that at our death, life is changed, not ended.”