Live and Love Life
by Jonathan Daugherty

He was (and still is) Mr. Holt to me, but he was Al to everyone else. Everyone I knew, knew Mr. Holt but called him "Al." He was just "Al" and there was no other "Al." He was a dear friend of my family, especially to my dad. I know for fact and truth that he was held very dear to a great many good people in the community. The Holts were a loving Christian couple and part of the same little Baptist church there in nearby Waterville as my own family.

As far back as I can remember, I didn't think he would be alive much longer. As far as I knew, he was always in and out of the hospital. As long as I can recall, he had a hard time breathing and did so in short quick breaths. The very next day after being released from the hospital he was always back at work completing one project and starting another. When asked about whether he shouldn't be taking it easy and resting a bit, he would give a sneaky grin and laugh quietly.

I don't think I ever did know for sure what brought the Holts to northwest Ohio. I suppose he came north for a manufacturing job as many of the people who talked like him did. Though, I never do remember him working for anyone but himself. I do remember him saying that he grew up in a rough little town in eastern Kentucky coal fields called Harlan.

Mr. Holt was a selfless man. He was a woodworker and carpenter. And self taught, too. He helped my dad build our home and a year or so later my dad, my brother, and I helped him build his. He did odd construction jobs and finish carpentry around town and for people in the church. He did welding in his shop and auto body repair and restoration. He always took on the project that no one else was willing to try. He built camper trailers from the frame up and fixed tractors and implements. Everyone knew he could fix just about anything and solve any problem. He was always busy without ever being in a hurry.

The story is still being told about the time my dad was helping a friend with a small remodeling job in his home. The friend also belonged to the Baptist church and, like my dad, was an engineer. The two engineers were looking at the blueprints and discussing and pointing and sketching and calculating where the new ceiling fan ought best to go. It was at this time that Mr. Holt arrived on the jobsite, saw and heard the meeting in progress, and swung his hammer up into the drywall and said, "How 'bout h'yer?" And that's where it went.

When I went away to the mortuary college in Cincinnati, I didn't expect him to still be alive when I finished. Neither did I expect the blessing of being offered an apprenticeship and job at the local funeral home in Whitehouse, the village I had grown up just outside of. By this point, Mr. Holt really had slowed down, but I still saw him regularly in town and from time to time in the funeral home for visitations for folks in the community. Of course, he and Mrs. Holt were there when Katie and I were married.

Just before Katie and I moved to Virginia, I did a favor for the owner of the funeral home there in Whitehouse - my former employer by this time - and took care of his business while he went out on vacation for a week. The morning after the owner left, I got the call that Mr. Holt had died. He had gone into the hospital again for a couple of days, which was no surprise to anyone. This time, however, he passed away without struggle with his godly wife and daughter and grandchildren at his side. I know they were glad I happened to be there that week to help them through the arrangements and the funeral services, but I doubt that they could know that I was even more pleased and thankful to be there. And that was the hardest funeral service I ever had to direct. There were about three hundred people who attended the funeral service and not a single person whom I didn't know personally. Most of them, I had known almost my whole life.

Mr. Holt loved life, and I don't mean just his own. He loved his wife and daughter and brought them up in the faith. He loved his grandchildren and helped to teach them innumerable skills and how to work hard and creatively. He loved his church and his pastor. No one ever questioned or doubted that Mr. Holt loved his Saviour. And he does still.

Now, I could advise you on life insurance and how much and what kind. And I could walk you through how to set up an irrevocable trust fund for a pre-planned funeral and all the stuff about putting yourself and spouse and family at ease. But I'm not sure how long I could do all this with a straight face.

I remember reading and discussing in a Grief Psychology class in studying to be a funeral director, the Boomer generation of Americans has a unique attitude in general toward death. That is that it has a strong denial of its inevitability. There is some truth to be learned there, I believe. Understand this is the first generation to grow up with air conditioning, chemical herbicides, the Pill, and gender equality. Also this generation has seen and experienced life expectancies climb higher and higher. You could say the generation believes it's on its way to overcoming the curses of sin. That is if it believes in sin. Things which were once inevitable, now don't seem so.

Mr. Holt in his godly wisdom neither feared death nor did he try to out run it. He fearfully obeyed God's command to create and take dominion. Mr. Holt didn't whine or complain about the curse of disobedience, but he took on his job and calling joyfully.

To prepare for death is to live and love life always. To again quote the wisdom of Braveheart, "Every man dies; not every man really lives." The Christian takes comfort in the finished work of Christ. The Christian need neither fear dying nor death of the body.