Somewhere in my picture files on this computer, I have a photo I took in Atlanta, at one of the parks there. It is a place where fountains spring up out of a concrete bowl, and people, especially children walk around in the mist, cooling off on a summer day. It's a striking picture. Some of the figures are easily seen, others farther back are in mysty outline, while others are so far back that we can no longer see them.
The photo makes me think of the passage of time. We know the people who occupy the earth with us at this time and place. They are clear and very real. We know he outline of others farther back, who appear as dim outlines in the mist--our grandparents, and great grandparents. But there is a long line of people in the mist we canot see, going back to the first man and the first woman. We know they were here, but we can no longer know who they were.
One generation after another marches into the mist, crossing that impenetrable boundary between this world and the next. As they go, we wish them well. But we know that the others who come after us will never know them, except as dim outlines in the mist.
I thought about that this week when I heard that Frank Williams had passed away. Frank was an elder in the Neely's Creek Church, and a dear friend. He was not a saint, nor was he the worst of sinners, but he was a man who sought to please and honor God in all of his days.
The children who come after him will know of him, but the will not know him. It's sad that they didn't. Frank was a very special man. He was often gruff on the outside but he was always tender and sweet on the inside. Whenever things needed to be done, Frank was there. Whenever a person needed comforting or encouragement, Frank was there to do it.
Some of my fondest memories of Frank were from a trip to Israel we took together. I remember Frank, standing beside me on a boat crossing the Sea of Galilee, looking up at Mount Hermon. "As Herman's dew," He whispered in awe, as he saw the mountain he had sung about his entire life from the Bible Song hymnal. I remember being at a restaurant in Magdela, eating fish with the head on them. "Why can't I just have a hamburger?" he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. I remember swimming with him in the Dead Sea.
I remember Frank and his quiet works of charity, how he worked on buildings for mission buildings and even going to Germany to do menial labor for the mission there. I remember his love for the King James Bible, and how I once caught him with an NIV "That's cause of people like you!" he said with mock gruffness. He was always the first to take in missionaries, the first to come to prayer meeting, and the first to visit the sick. Once when I was sick Frank was the only elder who thought to drop by. I remember Frank and his buddies at Tuesday visitation before they went out to evangelize the lost laughing like schoolboys, calling each other by nicknames they gave each other in elementary school. Most of those friends are gone now, and their laughter fades. It's a shame that the younger generation will never hear it.
Most of all, I remember Frank's devotion to the Gospel, and it's passionate intensity. Frank really knew how to pray. He had experience the grace of God, not just at conversion but through a whole lifetime. He endured tragedies in the family, sickness, misunderstanding, and pain, but Frank never let it stop him. He kept going for the Lord.
Now Frank is in his reward in heaven, and his outline recedes into the mist. But for those who knew him, he left a lasting legacy of dedication, service and love.
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