God used to be a smoker

For a period of time in my childhood, God smoked Marlboro cigarettes. I know this for a fact. And it was okay, really, really, okay. When I was growing up, it seemed that most adults around me smoked. Even church people. I remember thinking absolutely nothing about the groups of men, elders and deacons all, standing around just outside a church building entrance smoking and talking in that spot of time between Sunday School and worship. No one judged that as a vice in the late 60's and early 70's. But maybe that was true only in the south, or in east Texas, I don't know. But it was common. It was my world. Both of my parents smoked, as did my grandfathers for a time.

But God, a smoker? Bear with me.

Sometimes children develop irrational fears for periods of time and I was no exception. When I was around 9 or 10, I developed a fear that someone would break into my grandparents home and kill us all during the night. I have no idea how or what caused me to take up that scary scenario. I had stayed with my grandparents many, many times and loved being with them. When school would be out in spring, I often went to my grandparents home right away and would stay for at least several weeks if not the entire summer. My mother worked, and I loved being at my grandparents, so it was a sweet deal for all of us.
They lived in a 12 x 60 mobile home in a small east Texas community where my grandfather was also the preacher at the small church of Christ. Although the white and gold mobile home wasn't much to look at, it was in a beautiful setting, in the middle of four huge pecan trees. At night, pecans would occasionally fall on the metal roof, and rainstorms could be pretty noisy affairs too. But none of that scared me. I don't remember exactly when or why my fear started.

I would lay awake after going to bed, listening to my grandparents at the other end of the mobile home talking, brushing teeth and gargling Listerine, and I would try so hard to fall asleep before things got quiet. That hardly ever happened. My grandparents always kissed goodnight, and I would hear that little smack, then the house would fall silent. Then the dark fear would creep up, filling the bedroom. I was afraid that someone or several someones would come in the front door between my bedroom and my grandparents and do horrible things to us. Maybe even kidnap me.
It wouldn't take me long to start getting spooked, and on many occasions, I would go and stand next to my grandmother's side of the bed until she woke up. I probably scared her half to death on several occasions. She would inevitably walk me back to my room and lay down with me. Then I would be fine. What I didn't know is that my grandmother had problems of her own with insomnia and once I woke her up, she often did not go back to sleep. My grandfather eventually took me aside one day and told me in no uncertain terms to NOT DO THIS ANYMORE. He was worried about my grandmother's health, and I am sure was ready to ship me back home.
I knew he meant it, so there I was, stuck with my fears and vivid imagination in the middle of the night, trying to figure out how to cope.

Isn't that often the case with all fears? Thoughts become fears when we cannot figure out how to allay them or slay them. Growing up in a family that believed in what the Bible said, I knew that I was supposed to give my fears to God. He was big enough to handle my vivid imagination, but I could not figure out for the life of me how to just "give" my fear to Him. It's tough even today, as an adult.

So my 10 year old self lay awake many nights, waiting for the man or men to break into my grandparents home and do away with us on the spot. On some dark nights, I even made my peace with the whole thing. I was ready to die. Come and get me. I just hoped it wouldn't hurt much. Seriously, I was that afraid, and it was that real to me. Funny thing is, I don't think I ever told my grandmother just what it was I was afraid of, just that I was scared. Kids are weird.

On one of those fear-filled nights, I had lain awake until about 4:00. I wanted so badly to go wake up my grandmother, but I knew I just couldn't do that anymore. I was also mad at myself. I was 10 years old, not 3. Why was this happening? I got up and bravely peered out the window into the dark east Texas summer night, trying to convince myself to not be afraid. That was a huge step on my part. I had always imagined a face peering right back at me if I looked out the window. No faces peered back, but I did see something. A light. A soft, warm and comforting light. When you are afraid of the dark, even a small light can bring blessed relief, can't it? The neighbor's porch light was on. My grandparents' nearest neighbors were another elderly couple that lived in a big old country house that had a screened in porch on one side. It was maybe 50 yards away from my grandparents home. The couple's granddaughter was my best friend, and I even called them Memaw and Pepaw, like she did. My grandparents had other "grandparently" names, so it all worked.
I saw the lit up screened porch, then saw that Pepaw was sitting in his chair. What?? Someone other than me was awake? I was astonished. But there he was, big as life, drinking a cup of coffee, and smoking a cigarette. And Pepaw was big. Well over 6 foot, to me he looked 10 feet tall. I wondered how long this had been going on. This pre-dawn cup of joe and a smoke. Wow. He just sat there, in the quiet, looking out over the big yard between the houses. Sipping and smokin'. I came to the realization then that all of my fear had vanished. Gone, kaput, slayed. I stood there awhile just watching him, and finally crawled back into bed, and was sound asleep in about 3 minutes. It was the most amazing thing. All of those miserable nights put to sleep at my discovery of a big man keeping watch. From that night on, when I was afraid, I would relax knowing that Walter "Pepaw" Handley was keeping watch. I can still see him in my memories, sitting on an old chair, slowly drinking coffee and a wisp of smoke drifting up in the night. I eventually figured out that he went to bed at 8 o'clock every night, and liked being up before daylight. I'm sure years of country living gave him that body clock. He never knew what he did for me. His presence dashed away some of my worst childhood fears.
I'm not afraid of the dark anymore. At least not much. Okay, only on occasion. My fears now are more real than my imagination was at 10. I've had some fears in life come to pass, but most have not. In my journey of living with chronic pain, I've had to deal with many new fears. Will I have to deal with severe physical pain the rest of my life? Is it going to get worse? Many times I've approached treatments with a lot of fear and apprehension. I had surgery last week that I was pretty afraid to have, but I got through it and have some real, tangible hope for the first time in awhile.
I have had many, many, dark nights awake and afraid. God doesn't come anymore and calm me as an elderly east Texas grandpa smoking on the front porch in the middle of the night. I talk to him now instead of peering out the window at him. I tell him lots of things, and he calms me and dries my tears. He is still the Big Man keeping watch. Amen.

"He who watches over you will not slumber." Psalm 121:3