Waltz Across Texas

I got an email from Bruce yesterday, only it wasn't exactly from him. Someone at his church used his computer to send a message to everyone in his address book. The email said that Bruce's mother had died that morning.

I called Larry right away and no, he hadn't heard yet. We talked about how long it had been since all of us were together, and we decided I would ride with him to the funeral. 

After I hung up the phone, I thought of an old song by Ernest Tubb. It's been running through my mind ever since.

“Waltz Across Texas With You.”

Bruce, Larry, and I roomed together in college and seminary, back in the 80s. A lot happened to us in that decade. We graduated from high school, went to college, felt “the call”, fell in love, got our hearts broken, graduated from college, went to seminary, got engaged, got married, graduated from seminary, started having children, and began our lives as pastors.

Now I know why I felt tired for most of the 90s.

Bruce was the best man at my wedding. He stuck me in the butt with the stickpin from his corsage when J. started down the aisle with her father. I returned the favor a year later when I was his best man. I was licensed when Larry got married, so I performed the ceremony. It was my first. They both came to the hospital to hold my first-born, and Larry flew in from Georgia just to sit in the audience at my ordination.

We were always there for each other in those moments that mark the big changes in life.

It’s been 15 years since seminary, and we ended up scattered all over Texas. All three of us are pastors. Larry and I have managed to stay close. He lives in Dallas. Sometimes we "deep six" our church calendars and meet in Waco at our favorite burger joint. It's a 4-hour drive for me, but absolutely worth it.

We haven't remained close to Bruce though. I don't know why. Good friendships take time and effort and we just didn't keep up. We let it get away from us and after 15 years, neither of us feel very connected with him.

Only we're going to connect tomorrow. The funeral is on Saturday, and I'm going to waltz across Texas to put my arms around my long-lost friend and be with him as he passes over this very important marker.

It's a way of paying homage to what we had, and hoping that we might have it again.

I'll leave at 5am tomorrow for the 6-hour drive to Dallas. The first part of the waltz is a solo, but I like that. I could fly, but I want to feel my journey. I like to watch the South Texas brush turn to Central Texas plain.

I’ll hook up with Larry in Dallas. He’s going to drive us to a tiny town on the Oklahoma border where a woman who once fed us all at her table will be laid to rest.

Bruce doesn’t know we’re coming. He’ll look up from his grief and the three of us will be together again after all these years. It will not be the time or place for catching up or making promises. We’ll just be there. There’s nothing more we can do and nothing more we should do.

Then the journey will go backwards until I end up driving alone back to my beloved brush country. I should be home around 11pm.

One and two and three and two and one. That's the waltz across Texas.

If you do happen to be on I-35 south of Dallas on Saturday, and you see an old brown Honda covered with bird shit, that would be me. If I'm talking to myself, I'm either practicing my sermon or singing along with Ernest.

“I'll waltz across Texas with you.”

The Preacher

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