A Love Letter Never Received
The former rector (or Episcopal priest) whose Charlotte, N.C. church we attended, and in many ways grew up in, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of Leukemia over the summer. Yet, he was more than just our rector. Fr. Bill Lantz was family.
His son, David, called me to share the grave news. At the time, my older brother Randy lived close to Fr. Bill in Mt. Pleasant, S.C. where the latter enjoyed semi-retirement. David said Randy was planning to return to the hospital later in the day. I asked David to tell my brother call me when he arrived so I could speak with Fr. Bill.
The call never came.
The next ring informed me of Fr. Bill’s passing on the Tuesday following Memorial Day weekend.
What follows is a reflection, a thank you, a love letter to Fr. Bill that I never shared with him. Yet, I was honored to share this at Fr. Bill’s memorial service with his family, friends, and parishioners.
To the sweet unknown at the memorial service: Thank you for approaching and hugging a stranger. Your kind words and tears stay with me. I say stranger, but in the house Fr. Bill stewarded, there are no strangers.
One Question…
After a long Memorial Day weekend, I tossed and turned in bed for hours and lay listening to the gentle rise and fall of sleep beside me before deciding to give up the fight. No sleep tonight.
I walked down the hardwoods of our home to the office and shut the french doors.
In the dark, small hours, I sit alone now in the glow of a computer screen staring at blinking cursor and think of you.
A thousand miles and decades in the rear view, I remember a question you asked me.
After hearing a knock, I opened the door of our home on Starbook Drive. You stood on the front porch, smiling up at me. It was 1987.
Opening the screen door I let you know Mom and Bud weren’t home.
“No, I’m here to see you. Can I come in?” you said in your kind, easy-going way.
As we walked the ten paces from the door to the living room couches, I flashed back ten years earlier to your last unplanned visit.
After emerging from a Sunday afternoon playing in the creek near the house on Brookcrest, Randy and I stopped in our tracks after seeing your car parked in the driveway.
Uh oh.
While kneeling during Communion earlier that day, one of the acolytes caught a case of the giggles which proved highly contagious to the other seven and eight-year-olds serving with him.
We kept it under control until the Lead Giggler leaned a bit too hard on the acolyte next to him, which in turn, started an avalanche. One-by-one little dominoes clad in red and white vestments tumbled to the floor.
I looked up to see the irritation and disappointment in your face at our unintentional disrespect.
A few hours later, we dragged our feet back to the house to face our reckoning. As usual, you were clear in your expectations and kind in your dealing with us.
Fast forward ten years, as we talked in our living room I realized that you were truly here to speak with me, not the Lead Giggler from years prior, and not for any right or wrong, anything done or left undone.
You and I sat in our small family room. You with The Bible and me, well I tried to silence the noise of a teenager’s anxious self-consciousness only certain people who loom large in their lives instill.
I can’t remember much of what we passed between us. Too many years have ticked by. I remember you were there and I was the reason. I know we talked of faith and my plans for the future, my path after graduating high school. I probably sounded as uncertain and rudderless as I felt.
Yet, as vivid as yesterday, I remember one moment, one simple and direct question you asked me as you were leaving.
“John, do you believe Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior?”
I held the screen door and was looking down at the smooth red stones of the front porch. The question shocked me. You turned to face me and I looked up.
“Yes,” I said.
You looked at me, paused, and straightened your gaze.
“Do you really believe?”
“Yes, I do.”
You paused again, still looking at me, before smiling.
“Good.”
On that day almost 30 years ago, your experienced look knew a truth long before my head and heart were ready to admit.
Silent Aisles and Hallways Echo Memories
As I’ve returned home over the years, I jog around the old neighborhood. I see the houses of kids I knew, who are no longer kids or are the houses any longer theirs. I run past the houses on Ridgebrook, Oakstone, and Brookcrest we briefly called home.
As I round the corner to Starbook, I see the A-frame that once housed St. Christopher’s. Occasionally, I run up the black asphalt drive, once simple gravel, and peek in.
Memories echo down the now silent aisles and hallways.
I remember many things, but mainly, it’s the people.
Walter Wilkinson handing candy, smiles and hugs to all the kids. Maurice Seaver’s deep bass voice booming during service sounding like God Himself.
Eating cookies and drinking lemonade on the front lawn, the grass still wet with dew, on cool spring Sunday mornings. Attending Sunday School and memorizing the Creeds.
During one Sunday School class in particular, I was asked to read a Bible passage for the rest of the class. Focused on the text, I didn’t see the Lead Giggler crafting and aiming a three-pointed paper football. With the game clock running out, Randy executed a well-timed and accurate five yard flick across the room and into my mouth right as I opened to read. He scored. We laughed.
I remember the crush of the gravel drive underneath the tires of Mom’s beige VW bug to attend my first Easter service at St. Christopher’s. I was an angry five-year-old. While well intentioned, Mom dressed me in a brand new suit and black shoes— which was fine except for one thing: The suit was red, white and blue…PLAID. I looked like a small, deranged circus clown.
By the way, I do realize now the expression I heard the most that day, “Well, bless his heart,” is not necessarily a sweet southern term of endearment or even a compliment.
Feeling the water dripping off my young forehead after you baptized me…I felt proud and somehow changed.
Martin, Nancy, and Jori Allen. Martin’s excitement and joy each Sunday. The Guthrie and Hodgson families, Velma Toomer, John Highsmith and many, many others but especially our grandmother, Anny.
I remember people speaking in tongues, not because I challenged the practice or the interpretation of Acts from which it sprang (I will keep that opinion to myself), but primarily because Randy spouted gibberish, opened one eye, and then flashed a self-satisfied Cheshire grin back at me. Another victory for the older brother doing something the younger could not.
Years of serving as an acolyte as well as a lay reader…I remember your hands slowly coming down to steady The Bible from which you read the Gospel passage. It was my first Sunday as MC. I was so nervous my hands were making the large, heavy text move around like kernels popping in a hot kettle. As always I looked up and saw your smiling face. It calmed me and gave me confidence.
A couple of decades later, as I helped the rector prepare communion during our wedding, he leaned over and whispered, “Hey, you’re a natural. Have you done this before?”.
“Retired acolyte and I learned from the best,” I replied.
I still serve in our church today and that’s a great return on investment, I’d say.
The music…To this day, I hear bells chimes during The Great Thanksgiving, voices raised in sung praise and the piano with Bud’s interpretation of Holy, Holy, Holy as I sit with my family in our Texas church.
I remember one eye popping open while at the altar rail during communion one Sunday during your prayer, your arms raised and tears streaming down your cheeks.
Most importantly, St. Christopher’s was the first place I felt at home and at peace. You taught us servant leadership through your own example. You gave us all, the faithful and faithless, the lost and wounded, the alcoholics and addicts, the broken, the young and aged alike…you gave us all a place to call home, to find our feet and our way, without judgment, and return to life with peace.
That’s a gift you gave me, and countless others, and one I could never repay. I know what you’d say. It’s not your gift, only the gift given through you.
…Answered 30 Years Later
You are so foundational to our lives and faith. I hope you are proud of your work, your family, and your life. I know I am.
I love you, Fr. Bill. Thank you for everything.
In all honesty and truth, I hope my life has answered the question you asked me decades ago on our front porch steps.
In Thanksgiving and Celebration of Your Life
He smiles and laughs with the angels now, without fear nor pain, in the presence of God experiencing the reality he spent his life here in service of and about which he taught us. While our hearts break for our loss, there’s strength in knowing he’s reaping the rewards of a life well lived.
In Memorium
Father Federick William Lantz
Credits: Photos courtesy of One Sojourner
