My Friend Little Johnny

 When you’re 80+3 (and I made this milestone just yesterday) there are indelible memories that stand still in time.  You want to keep them there.  One of mine was the rebuke from a 9-year-old missionary kid I met, oh, possibly 64 years ago. Here’s the poem I wrote about this.

 

Coffee Break

 

Mrs. B’s home is above the King’s College Vocational shop

where old vehicles sit,

The smell of grease and occasionally, gas fumes

greeted us.

Men with wrenches in their hands,

And red rags in the back pockets of their coveralls,

moved about making repairs, clanging metal.

 

Ludy, a mechanic, would slide under the blue Chevy pickup

That has certainly seen better days.

It was not easy to do, as he was a bit corpulent.

But he worked magic with vehicles.

 

An old, rusty harvesting combine imported from Kansas many years ago,

Sat by the shop, against the wire fence,

Looking like a monster of a machine.

During the rice or corn harvest season,

Faithfully and grudgingly, it did what was expected.

 

We walked up the 17 steps to their home

Reaching the top step, we transitioned to the porch

That ran alongside the living room.

The smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven,

Escorted by the strong scent of Philippine coffee brewing,

Let me know that I made the right decision for the moment.

The papers to be graded and the lesson plan to be prepared

Can certainly wait.

 

Right now, I could sit and visit with Mrs. B in her dining room

She would ask me if there was anything bothering me

She had noticed how quiet I had been lately.

Then she would probe a bit more

Did I think the new discipline system of merits and demerits effective?

Mustering all the authority of a 22-year-old English teacher

With a 3-year teaching experience.

I would then launch into the pros and cons of the system.

Without meaning to, I would sound

As if I really knew what I was talking about.

Halfway through the cinnamon roll,I would take a sip of black coffee

To punctuate my monologue.

Mrs. B would grab this opportunity to put in her 2-cents worth.

 

On and on we would continue,

Trading thoughts as knights of old in a sword fight,

Displaying our profundity to each other.

I gingerly pick up the last crumbs of my cinnamon roll

With my finger,

And finish off the last drops of my coffee.

I hear nine-year-old Johnny from behind me,

“I thought you were Christians.  Why are you drinking coffee?”[1]

 

We called him Johnny Barker, blond, blue-eyed son of the missionaries I worked with in the Philippine Evangelical Enterprises Christian schools in Southern Mindanao, Philippines.  I got to know the family well and have precious stories of each one tucked away in my heart of hearts.  When his oldest sister MaryBeth asked me to be her prayer partner, little Johnny and the rest of the missionary kids decided they wanted to be part of this partnership, too.  We met in the early mornings under a tree on King’s campus.  He was the youngest of the group.  When they were not in school, John could be seen on the school campus, walking barefooted with Princess, the family’s faithful German Shepherd.  

 

The memory of this little Johnny comes back to me as if it happened only yesterday.  But “time and tide wait for no man.”  Forty years went by swiftly.  I left for the US.  John’s parents kept me updated on the mission.  In 2009, on a visit, I met my friend again.  Still blonde and blue-eyed but a grown man, married, and having great leadership responsibilities  for the mission and the schools. I no longer called him Johnny.  I called him John.  When it was time to leave, he drove us the airport.  The parting was quite emotional.  We didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again.

 

Thank God for Facebook, John and I managed to keep in touch.  Somehow, he began baking cinnamon rolls and became very good at it.  Soon he started making other desserts.  I’ve seen pictures of his creations, and they looked quite sumptuous.  He’d sometimes send silly little jokes, to which I responded with equally silly replies.  In 2022, he sent me a message.  He thought his mom, who had been my longtime mentor and dear friend, was in her last days.  I sent back a message.  He arranged a phone conversation between him and me and later with his mom and me.  Two weeks later, Marilee Barker died.

 

Last week Don and I were very busy with preparations for our 10-day trip to San Francisco.  Don was invited to guest preach for two Sundays in the church he once pastored.  Going through Facebook one morning, I saw a cryptic note about John.  I didn’t pay much attention. When we got back home, I read a FB post from John’s wife. John suffered a cardiac arrest and passed away.  I was numb and awfully sad.  Couldn’t believe it. Didn’t he post a joke just a little while ago?  Just like that, in the twinkling of an eye, my friend John, whom I used to call Johnny, was called home to Jesus.  But in a special corner of my heart, is the memory of a 9-year-old missionary kid saying “Why do you drink coffee?  I thought you were Christians.”  

 

I’ll see you in the morning, John.  We can have some of your cinnamon rolls.  Forgive me, but I still drink coffee with it.  Love you. Your old friend Rocks

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[1] Major, Raquel Reyes, Coffee Break, in Woven by the Hands of God, (Philippines: Arise and Shine Publishing and Tamar Foundation, Inc., 2011) p.34