My dear boy,
Your downtimes are precious seeds; plant them. My maternal family were Methodists and my paternal family Catholics. At some point in church history, the union of my parents would not have happened. It would have been a reality if common sense had parked in the lobby. This letter has little to do with your grandparents but more about my favourite maternal uncle. He died a Methodist.
I didn’t call him as much as I should have. Truthfully, I didn’t call him at all. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. I called him, if two calls a year count. I had always thought I still had time with them: my favourite uncles, now gone.
One died owing me a camera. He owed me that since I was a child. He made a lot of promises he never fulfilled. Maybe uncles are like that. As an uncle, I understand. You have to serve the appropriate amount of attitude adjustment in the guise of disappointments and failed promises. Most times, parents love their children too much to do it. The other was sophisticated in his approach. Perhaps it came with age and his discipline.
Anyway, they died nine years apart. I doubt they ever met. One was a Catholic but died a Pentecostal. The latter stayed true to his methods.
Uncle Joshua’s Mercedes 230 E was, for me, the epitome of wealth growing up. It was in his house that my younger brother and I would play a game called “Conductor and Passenger.” There we spent time with our late grandmother. It was in his house that I watched the rain for the first time. It was he who taught our mother about life and, by extension, taught us.
He taught me not to be afraid of hunger because a man will have his best ideas when he is hungry. He trusted me so much that he allowed me to make decisions concerning his water business on his behalf.
Perhaps the best trait of Uncle Joshua was how, in his presence, one was proud of Jesus. Around him, it felt natural to love Jesus.
He made me admire the Methodist Church. If I were to ever attend a theological college, the Methodist Theological College would be my first pick. It should make him smile up there. He didn’t smile often. His smile was beautiful and warm like the sun piercing through curtains on a cold morning. You wanted him to smile. I did not understand it, yet I was certain he loved me. He loved me in a way that only made sense when you were of age. As a child, I perceived his love in fragments. Nonetheless, in retrospect, his love was whole.
Uncle Joshua remains alive for me because he made me love the corporate world. He taught me to love the boring things, and I am grateful, in that the boring things sustain life; the boring things birth the brief great moments.
I miss him.
However, neither The Methodist Church nor the devotions of my uncles are my matter of concern in this letter, save the Patriarch John Wesley. There will be no Methodist Church without him. The manner in which this came about is what I wish to discuss. Romans captures this aptly when it says, “All things work together for good”
A man who had purposed in his heart to stay celibate would ten years after the Indian incident, marry a widow in a moment of weakness. He would eventually suffer domestic violence and emotional abuse at the hands of this bitter and jealous woman, who somewhat believed that the single and married women who wrote to their spiritual leader, seeking guidance, were competition. She fed malicious stories to the press; however, the great John Wesley never fought back. Once, she dragged him by his hair around the floor of their house.
He took off preaching. The road became home because there lay peace. The hell that was his marriage kept him perpetually road-bound. Consequently, propagating the gospel. That singular event has led to an eighty-million-congregation worldwide. He admitted that had he had a peaceful home, he probably wouldn’t have travelled so much.
Again, I say, my dear son, your downtimes are precious seeds; plant them. Don’t have what you seek yet? Take up a skill. Lost something you once had? Pick up the pieces, never saying a word. Let it never be said that you missed out on life because of a hard time. Hard times are necessary, for hard times create strong men. Besides, smooth seas do not make skillful sailors. Some of your father’s greatest strides came after a downtime. Always remember that miracles happen in the worst of times. As Lao Tzu said, “New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.”
Love,
Dad.
