FRONT-PORCH GOSPEL: This life story begins in 1973 (kind of) – part 40

Cheyenne knew by now that we were about to embark on the theme that would be the most difficult of the summer of ’73. He knew that when he asked, “Popman, did Corrina ever get to meet my great-grandma?”

That question not only moved the plot along, it allowed two of the key plotlines to merge for the first time.

This first date with Corrina, I said, was a week or so before the Preacher and Grandma came to our old Juniper house to talk to her about moving home with Grandma. I am glad of that, especially now, because it gave Corrina a chance to see where we lived; and, while it was in a far different part of town than where she lived in downtown Roanoke, and though it could not hold a candle in most people’s estimation to the house we were bricking up on the hill, I was proud of our house and proud of Mama’s hard work in making it a home.

To get to our Juniper-Street house as we pulled out of the parking lot of the church on Murphy Avenue, we normally would’ve gone due east up Murphy Avenue and crossed over Fourth Avenue, which ran right next to the church. But I wanted to show Corrina Grandma’s house, too, which was no more than a quarter of a mile away. So, we turned right onto Fourth Avenue when we pulled out and drove by the Callaway Monument, a huge brick structure over a hundred feet high that overlooks our church, and it has a clock at the very top that chimes every hour.

That monument’s clock would chime to mark some key moments in life in my day. It had already chimed once, regrettably, six years before, and I knew it would have to chime again before too long.

We drove around the monument, and I told Corrina a little of its story as we enjoyed the slow drive, and within a minute we were driving by Grandma’s brick house, the only brick house on Truitt Avenue. It was brick because it belonged to the church and served as a parsonage. The preacher and my grandma had lived there as long as I could remember.

As soon as we passed the brick house on our right, we turned left and began the half-mile journey toward our house, a journey that takes you three or four tall hills – hills I’d climbed as a boy hundreds of times. Once you got up the last of the weaving, curvy hills, we crossed over Murphy Avenue again, with the church being about half a mile to the west. We crossed Murphy and made a dog-leg jog immediately onto the street that runs beside our house, which is a street only the length of a football field but runs straight downhill. That hill served us well growing up as it made for a perfect track for riding our bikes and even sailing down the hill on homemade go-carts. I can show you scarred knees today to attest to the hazard of getting up a head of steam coming down that hill and trying to turn into our driveway without braking, our driveway a straight ninety-degree turn about a hundred feet before running dead-end into a tee at Juniper Street.

I couldn’t help but laugh as I told Corrina about crashing and burning a hundred times coming down that hill, and the good laugh would be a welcome relief from the bit of reality into which we were about to walk.

We pulled into the gravel driveway and parked between our house and the Rowe’s, and I turned the car off and turned to Corrina with a slight grimace.

“Sweetie,” I said, “I want you to meet my Mama. Before you do, I need you to know that she’s sick.”

“What’s wrong?” she said, looking at me, her brown eyes suddenly becoming sympathetic. Tears began to appear in them quickly, as though she could look straight into my heart just by our sudden quietness the moment we pulled into the driveway.

“She has a brain tumor,” I said, as stoically as possible, “and it’s not good. It’s inoperable.”

I paused.

You generally can keep your emotions bottled into a well, but when you have to tell someone something such as this, all of those emotions you've bottled up all seem to want to come out at once. My voice cracked and my emotions began to well up, so I hesitated before going on.

“You don’t have to go in and meet her,” I said, after a moment, “it’s okay if you think it’s goin’ to be too much.”

“No,” she responded, cutting me off. I had never seen her that forceful before. 

“Cheyenne,” I said, “I learned a great deal in that moment about the dark-haired girl. She had emerged into our lives out of nowhere that summer, and after all this time, telling this story makes me realize more and more how she was kind of like a flower in the desert.”

Cheyenne smiled, without responding, which was the cue for me to keep going with the story.

“I want to see her,” Corrina responded to me that night. “That’s what friends do. Friends stand by each other, help each other out.” And hesitating, as if to make an important announcement, she said somethin’ that surprised me.

“You’re a friend,” she said with conviction. “The Lord works mysteriously like your grandfather said tonight, and to find a best friend before the summer has hardly gotten started – that’s the Lord’s working, and I’m so thankful for it.”

I still marvel today at the maturity that came from a sixteen-year-old girl who was not yet a junior in high school. But, still, I had to ask another request of her, and that request was going to put her courage to the test.

“When we go in,” I said, “I don’t want you to be sad at all. Just be yourself. Be the kind and happy person you are. You don’t have to be sad, because Mama is a strong woman, the best Christian woman I know, and she’ll see you for the lovely young lady you are, too. But if you get sad, that’s okay, too. Mama will love you, regardless.”

Corrina didn’t answer, just smiled and shook her head, an assurance that she was up to the task.

With that, I opened the door of Sweet ‘65, and we both got out of the car on my side and walked across the gravel driveway to the back screen door. I hesitated there just for a second, then took hold of Corrina’s hand for the first time that night.

“Cheyenne,” I said, coming back to the present, “I think I took her hand for the both of us. I knew we were awfully young, and we would need as much courage as the Lord could give that warm July Georgia night.”

Coach Steven Bowen, a long-time Red Oak teacher and coach, now enjoys his time as a writer and preacher of the gospel. And, after a ten-year hiatus, he’s also returned to work with students at Ferris High School as well.

In addition to his evangelistic travels, he works and writes for the Church of Christ of Red Oak at Uhl Road and Ovilla. Their worship times are 10 a.m. Sundays and 6:30 pm. Wednesdays. Email coachbowen1984@gmail.com or call or text (972) 824-5197.