Goodbye, Mr. Ken

I usually try to keep my blog posts general, so that any person from any walk of life who reads it will read truth that can be applied.

But today I may be writing to a select few people: those who knew Mr. Ken Greene.

I started working with teenagers in my church in 2003 after a holy calling from the Lord. And the first Sunday that I stepped into that overwhelmingly-noisy room full of high schoolers, there was Mr. Ken. He was as predictable as the morning sun. He was there every single Sunday morning, taking the roll and shaking hands with kids. (I just realized that some of those teenagers didn't shake hands with anyone BUT Mr. Ken. Shaking hands is a lost art, unless you knew Mr. Ken.) And he was there every Wednesday night, handing out gum from his fanny pack. Yes, I've taken some myself, and I don't even like gum. But I loved Mr. Ken.

I thought of Mr. Ken as one of those guys who would never die. Seriously, the man never aged and never slowed down. He had endurance that betrayed his health and years. Did you know how very sick his wife was and how many dozens of surgeries she's had over the past years? He was her diligent attendant and loving caretaker. And what did he do whenever he had a few hours of free time? He came to church to take care of teenagers. The man was a pitcher of love and mercy and compassion. He never stopped giving to others. He was from a generation that, quite frankly, may have given up on a ragtag group of teenagers like y'all. But not Mr. Ken. He knew God could snatch any life from the pit and set it on His path of righteousness. His greatest desire was for you to know and believe God. 

And that's why he gave out gum. That's why he was always there. That's why, even when he was in such pain and sorrow that surely the tears were piling up behind those big eyes, he greeted you and shook your hand.

I texted some of you yesterday when I heard the news. Y'all were shocked. Maybe, like me, you thought he would live forever. Maybe, like me, you realized you never told him how you appreciated his kindness and dedication. Maybe, like me, you wish you could shake his hand just one more time.

Death is always shocking to me. Not that people die; I know everyone dies. But I am always shocked at how I respond. I know Mr. Ken knew and loved Jesus. I know where he is at this very moment: singing praises eternally to His Savior. I know that God spared him from any more pain or suffering or loneliness or disease.

Yet I still found myself crying yesterday. Not for Mr. Ken; for us. We are now called to be the Mr. Kens to people around us. We are to hand out gum (or skittles, as my choice would be) to people just as a conversation starter. We are to shake hands and look people in the eye and ask them how their day was and really mean it.

We are called, like Mr. Ken, to pour out our lives for others. As I cooked supper and cried over Mr. Ken last night, what I heard over and over in my head was 2 Timothy 4:6, which says, "For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time for my departure is close." That pitcher of love and selflessness and testimony was empty. And God, in His mercy, simply let him be done. Hallelujah.

I hope to see you at the visitation or funeral. I hope you send a note to his family online or in the mail. I hope you think fondly of him and praise God for the blessing of knowing him. 

But I hope you also see him as a living, breathing example of what we're called to be: servants. Filled with Christ, pouring Him onto others who need His love and mercy and salvation.

We love you, Mr. Ken.