April 16, 2001
___Randall entered mother earth near Cross Plains in the community of Atwell. I never heard Randall talk about it much, maybe because he did not remember the occasion or, more likely, because his father was a preacher--and preachers don't stay in one spot too long. Randall made way to Tyler, where he went to high school, played basketball and began singing in churches. He then attended Howard Payne College, played basketball there, and cheered for the fighting Yellow Jackets. ___Randall received the call from God and served the Lord as a youth minister and minister of music. He served in churches in Devine, in Haltom City (Birdville Baptist), in Dumas (First Baptist), in Pampa (First Baptist), Hurst (First Baptist), in Pheonix, Ariz. (North Pheonix Baptist), and numerous other churches in Granbury, Gordon and Strawn. ___Friends who knew his booming voice called him "Leather Lungs." Few folk called him by his first name, Marlin. Many called him friend. Six hundred friends gathered in the high school gymnasium for the memorial service. ___I, too, called Randall friend. He forever quipped homespun proverbs like "We're just sittin' here like a bar of soap," or "Don't get your dauber down" or, his favorite, "A blind hog finds an acorn ever once in awhile." ___As a sophomore at L.D. Bell High School in Hurst, I had the opportunity to shoot two game-ending free throws to win the game for our basketball team. I missed both free throws. After the game, I rushed to the locker room. I sat on the bench in front of the locker. I buried my hands in my face as tears watered my eyes. ___Randall arrived, put his arm around me, and uttered unforgettable words: "Hey, don't get your dauber down. At least you hit the rim--both times." That was Randall, boiling life down to its basics, putting life in perspective. In the locker room, Randall reminded me that your best is all you can give. ___ How amazing that for all the things we do in our lives, life boils down to the simple things--a locker-room hug; time shared digging together on a farm; instruction on a baseball field; a meal shared with laughter after a revival; skinning a racoon in the middle of the night; a choir trip; changing a flat tire in the desert on a mission trip; a coaching tip on how to shoot a basketball ("Point your elbow toward the basket, and keep your eyes on the goal," as heíd often say); small talk driving down the road in a van; a phone conversation about old times. Life climaxes not in the big moments of accomplishment but in the small slices of life shared. ___Randall and I shared slices of life together. ___Once we served together at Lakeside Baptist Church when Randall, as he was prone to do, arrived before the worship service and gave instruction to the organist as to the song he would sing during the worship service. He went about the business of preparing for the worship service without rehearsing the song. The climactic time arrived for Randall to sing the special music. He sang one song while the organist played another. He never skipped a beat as he improvised, sputtering created musical notes and words, old Leather Lungs bellowing melodious sound against the dissonance of wandering organ music. Randall, not wanting to embarrass the organist, kept plugging along. ___Try preaching after the song service goes flat. At the end of that worship service, Randall asked the organist to play the original song he had selected, stating with a chuckle, "Let's try that again and see if we can make it sound better this time." That was Randall, making the best of an awkward situation. We shared side-splitting laughter over that story, which we discussed several times. ___The stories rolled off tongues, one by one, after the memorial service. The stories filled in the gaps from Atwell to Strawn, from 1935 to 2001, stories of the agony and ecstasy of Randall's life. Stories filtered down, signaling the numerous lives quietly touched in churches and in his days as the band and music teacher at Strawn High School. ___It was my job to do the impossible--to summarize Randall's 65 years and point people beyond death to life; beyond the musical scores of earth to the music of heaven that echoes in the shadows; beyond Randall to Jesus, who guided him and called him home. Randall, like Peter stepping out of the boat on the water in Galilee, responded to Jesus' call, "Come." Like Peter, Randall knew the grandeur of high moments and the angst of sinking on life's journey. Along life's path he aimed to keep his eyes on Jesus. As a child, as a servant and as a teacher quoting homespun proverbs, he both believed himself and invited others to hear the cry of Peter, "Lord, save me!" ___It was also my job to do the unbelievable--to offer words of comfort to his widow, Glenda, to his sons, Randy and Ritchie, and their families, to his mother, Rebecca Faye, and to a host of family and friends. I watched as teenagers wept, as family members grieved, and how, in death, Randall's faith lived on. Somewhere, now in this moment, Gerard Manley Hopkins comes to mind, naming heaven as a place longed for and haven of beauteous rest: ___I have desired to go ___And so this is life, a season of musical notes played, of Lady Greyhounds racing the floor, of laughter at church and tears in memorial. And so this is death, of a husband and father and friend and teacher. And so when life and death meet, all we can say is what an 80-year-old lady once said to me when her husband died, "A big hole is left that cannot be filled."
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