Do a jig

By Owen Collins

I had scooted down the ramp at Eastside Church of Christ in Butler, Kentucky, pushing my walker device gently before me toward my car that I had parked next to dapper Frank Martin who must camp out because he is always there when Janice and I arrive.

Suddenly, the sedate Sunday rush to find Sunday dinner was punctured by the tremulous tones of an elderly lady yelling, “Doc, Hey, Doc, wait a minute; I want to talk to you!”

I recognized the caller immediately.  She was elderly; she had been born in Breathitt County as had I; had moved with her husband to a beautiful mountain farm in Pendleton County; had outlived most of her family and now perched on this exit ramp calling for my attention.  (Oh, yes, and she loves cats!)

She skirted her Cadillac and headed in my direction, skipping and dancing among several cars and trucks toward where I was placing my walking machine in the trunk of my car.

She greeted me with a big smile and proclaimed, “We are living too long!” Too long, too long. We are basket cases for our families.” We need to die and go on to our Savior. She smiled, raised her open hand toward Heaven and did a little hoe down jig as she seemed totally unafraid!

I hugged her and said, “I agree!” “If you get up there, pointing toward a sky of bluest blue, before I do, give me a wave and I’ll bust a button, or follow.” She grinned like she had found an Easter egg.

She sidestepped back to the ramp waving joyously toward me.

I thought, “Oh, grave, where is thy victory! Oh, death where is thy sting?!

I’ll not do anything to hasten my death; but I will not fear it!  I may even do a jig!