I Can Only Imagine Read online

  Dad then talked about my finances. Although he hadn’t made much money at the highway department, he had set up his retirement pension to be awarded to Stephen and me. He said we could take a lump sum right away, but he really wanted me to take the amount in monthly payments over the next ten years. This was going to be around six hundred dollars a month, which at that point in my life was an incredible amount of money. But then he explained to me the greater gift of why he wanted me to receive this blessing.

  “I know for a long time I told you not to follow your dream,” he said. “That’s only because mine never came true. You’re not me. You’re not like me. You have a gift. A real gift. I want to take care of you, Bart. I want you to have the money so you can give your full attention to singing, so you can go chase your dream . . . and I want you to catch it. Don’t you ever look back. You promise?”

  I nodded. “I promise.”

  With a slight smile, in a sort of a half-joking yet oddly prophetic way, he added, “I don’t know what will happen after those ten years, but I’m sure I will find a way to keep taking care of you.” (Bookmark that line for later, okay?)

  Not long after, Dad slipped into a coma. After a year and a half, our time together had come to an abrupt stop, forever, just when I had become dependent on those late-night conversations. I know they say you should talk to people who are in a coma because there is a good chance they can hear you, but our back-and-forth dialogue was now over.

  His sudden absence created a huge void in my life. I wrote in my journal, “The dad I always wanted and have just gotten to know is about to leave me. How is that fair?”

  But during those many months, in the still of the night while the rest of the world slept, the Lord had given me an example to follow—an example of who I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be just like my dad in every way. Only God could have possibly orchestrated such an outcome.

  A Bad Word and a Final Breath

  Remember when I told you about my “super-Christian” season of life? One of the convictions I adopted during that time was that I never cussed. If I stubbed my toe or someone scared me really bad, I used euphemisms or made up my own nonsense words, but I never used any of the major cuss words. (I know the proper phrase is curse words, but, hey, I’m from Texas, remember? We say cuss.)

  When Dad would hear me use one of those substitute words, he would always ask, “Did you just cuss, Bart?”

  And I would respond with, “No, Dad, I didn’t cuss. You know I don’t cuss.”

  But he would press and push. “Are you sure? Because I think for sure I heard you say a cuss word. Yeah, I think you did cuss.”

  I would fire back, “No, I didn’t! I wouldn’t do that!”

  So we had this ongoing game we played all the time about my “cussing.” For many years, even after he became a Christian, this was my dad’s go-to inside joke.

  Stephen had gotten married my junior year of high school and moved an hour away. When the hospice nurses let us know that Dad’s health had taken its final turn, Stephen and his wife, Darcy, came and stayed at the house. When he walked in the bedroom and saw Dad for the first time in a while, Stephen got visibly concerned. I had been with Dad every day and Stephen hadn’t, so Dad’s condition scared him. He motioned to talk to me outside the room.

  “Bart, Dad looks really bad. He doesn’t have much longer.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “No, he’s fine. We have some time.” I assured Stephen he didn’t look that different to me.

  But something about that exchange made me paranoid that Dad would die when I wasn’t in the room. I worried he might slip away while I slept, and I tried to stay awake all night. Sometime in the wee hours, I sensed the Lord tell me I wasn’t going to miss anything. Everything would be all right. Finally, I dozed off.

  Early the next morning I woke up with a jolt. My heart reminded me about Dad, and, in a panic, I rushed into his room. My sister-in-law, Darcy, was there sitting beside his bed. His breathing was labored, and he was still unresponsive, as he had been for a while. But he was still alive.

  Whew. Thank You, Lord, I thought.

  But his feet were ice cold, which I thought was certainly not a good sign, so I went to get the hospice nurse. Just as I got past the bedroom door, Darcy suddenly called out to me, startled. Dad had reached out, his hand going for right where I had been standing.

  I was so surprised. I hadn’t seen Dad move in the past few weeks. I ran back in and grabbed his hand. Stephen came in the room and, from the opposite side of the bed, took his other hand.

  Fluid was filling his lungs, just as the doctor years before had told him it would. His breathing became more shallow and faint, the breaths coming farther and farther apart. The hospice nurse counted the seconds between them and quietly, gently, told us that his time was getting close.

  I watched the lack of movement in his chest. Finally, I was so anxious that I yelled out, “Damn it, breathe!”

  Dad took a normal breath.

  His eyes opened. He nodded faintly, gave me a slight grin, and closed his eyes.

  And he was gone.

  As I witnessed this surreal moment, I went from crying to laughing. In his final moment of life, Dad had finally gotten me to cuss. I hadn’t had any communication with him in almost two months, and now, in his last breath, he got me!

  He heard it. No mistaking it. He knew exactly what I had said. Game over. He won. Dad had nodded, smiled at me, and then left for heaven.

  That moment forever marked the kind of relationship we had worked so hard for and forged together over the previous two years.

  Dad went to be with Jesus on the morning of November 11, 1991, just three weeks before I turned nineteen.

  The Empty Space and Amazing Grace

  Dad died just after nine in the morning. We had to wait for Jeri and for Dad’s brother, Uncle Mike, to get there, which allowed us to have a few moments together to say our final goodbyes. When the coroner took Dad’s body out the front door, the hospice crew began taking all the medical gear out the back door. They wasted no time clearing the room; I assume their protocol is not to linger, out of respect for the family.

  By noon, everyone was gone from Dad’s bedroom, and I walked back in. I was not emotionally prepared for the life I had lived for the past two years to be completely gone in what seemed like a matter of minutes. That room had become holy to me, a sanctuary of healing and a place of grace. Now the room was empty. It was as if Dad had never been there. The finality knocked the breath out of me. I slumped down, melting to the floor.

  I looked around the room in the deafening silence and stifling absence. One of the few items left was a framed picture of Dad and me. Without warning, an engulfing wave of grief swept over and enveloped me. I started crying, then weeping, then heaving, and couldn’t stop.

  My brother heard me, slipped in, and quietly closed the door so no one would disturb me. What felt like years of bottled-up tears flowed out of me for the next three hours. Especially for a guy, there are very few moments like this where you just cannot stop the emotion from taking over and pouring out.

  The emptiness in that room matched the new hole in my heart.

  I thought about all the late nights and the many words of healing and help Dad and I had shared. This room was the place God used to give me a real dad, a loving father, and an eternal example. This room was where, in my heart, God transformed the monster I hated into the man I wanted to become.

  There was a time in my life when if Dad had died, I would have felt rescued. Honestly, I would have thought, Good riddance. But the change Jesus had brought in him over the past few years had also brought about a change in me. In fact, everything had changed.

  When we open our hearts up to Christ, that is exactly what He does. He’ll finish what He started.

  The Cowboy Way

  Several years ago a country hit had the line, Everybody dies famous in a small town. Well, as popular as Dad was, word had gotten out
in Greenville about his death, and a lot of people had gathered at the house. Shannon, Kent, and several of my friends from the youth group were there. Uncle Mike, who was always funny, began telling stories about Dad. Mom had come, too, and Stephen and I decided that her entrance would be a good time for a break. We left to take a drive.

  Here’s another one of the Mammaw stories I promised you earlier.

  Mammaw Millard always watched a lot of the classic western TV shows, such as Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, and Bonanza, and listened to old-school country and western music (back when the stars really rode horses and the boots and hats weren’t just props to create an image). At the end of one particular TV show she watched called Riders in the Sky, the characters ended every episode by reminding kids to do the right thing. They closed with, “Remember, it may not be the right way, but it’s the cowboy way!” Those influences showed up in Mammaw Millard’s life in random ways.

  When Mom saw Stephen and me walk out the door, she asked, “Why are they leaving? What’s wrong with those guys? Why won’t they show any emotion or let out their feelings?”

  Mammaw Millard looked at her, then looked out the window and said, “Just leave them alone. They’ll deal with it the way they need to. It may not be the right way . . . but it’s the cowboy way.”

  Everyone must have thought, What? The cowboy way? Bart and Stephen aren’t cowboys! What is she thinking? But that’s the kind of quirky comment my grandmother would blurt out at precisely the perfect moment. It made sense to her, so it didn’t matter who else got it. (Over the years, Mammaw’s classic “cowboy way” line has been a long-running MercyMe inside joke. Now I’ve shared it with the world.)

  Matters of Life and Death

  To no one’s surprise, Dad’s funeral was packed. In the days after his death, a lot of people brought food and offered their condolences and support. But when the grief really sets in is when everyone leaves, when everyone goes back to their normal lives. Everyone except you.

  What was real life supposed to look like now? I had no idea. After all, it was just Mammaw Millard and me—an eighteen-year-old and a seventy-six-year-old—living in the same quiet, lonely house.

  I went to Dad’s gravesite a lot. I also went through the normal ordeal of walking in the house, momentarily forgetting or denying his absence, and going to his room to check on him. I would walk over to a phone to try to call him. I would glance outside the house and think I saw him. And then I would remember he was gone.

  When I went through Dad’s personal belongings, I came upon a box of letters and cards that I quickly saw were connected to Mom. They had been written in the past year. It was clear from reading Mom’s responses that Dad had apologized for everything. Mom also expressed deep regret for leaving him. It was obvious they had made peace with each other and wished they had worked harder to save their marriage. Dad actually stated in one card, “My biggest mistake in life was letting you go.” Maybe deep down it was another reason why he had never remarried.

  To get to read my parents’ words of reconciliation was an interesting but welcome bit of closure. Dad clearly did all he could to make things right with Mom and ask for forgiveness. All those times he had read through the Bible brought practical steps he had taken to leave his business here on earth in the proper order to be above reproach in the sight of God and man.

  In the following months, I realized how much harder Dad’s death would have been for me if he had died suddenly. But near the end, I saw how much Dad was suffering and the pain he was in. I knew he wanted to be with the Lord. He was ready for heaven. That made my letting him go a little easier.

  For so many years, Dad’s anger and pride had gotten the best of him and ruled our home. He could never admit he was wrong. I really believe that had he not gotten cancer, he likely would have died a bitter old man.

  I have heard many pastors over the years say that two of the most important words in Scripture are, “But God . . .” When He shows up, everything changes. After just five years of growing spiritually, Dad was a “man after God’s own heart,” the godliest man I knew.

  He was ready to go. He was so ready. He wanted to stop the chemo and the suffering.

  I learned from how he lived, but I also learned so much from watching him die. My dad had no doubts about where he was going. His faith was strong, and his belief was certain. We can talk big about death in church and in Christian circles, but when you are staring it in the face, that’s a very different perspective. My dad embraced his death and trusted the Lord. He persevered and knew God was in control of both this life and the life to come.

  No one else besides Mammaw Millard and me—the two people who had lived with Dad—had seen the change that Jesus had made in him. As we were driving away from the cemetery after the graveside service, Mammaw Millard looked at me with a sense of awe and wonder and said, “Bart, I can only imagine what Bub must be seeing right now.”

  Seven

  BRING THE RAIN

  And I know there’ll be days,

  When this life brings me pain,

  But if that’s what it takes to praise You, Jesus,

  Bring the rain.

  —MERCYME, “BRING THE RAIN,” FROM COMING UP TO BREATHE (2006)*

  When I was growing up, if someone decided to go into ministry, there was an assumption that he or she would serve through the few traditional positions available in the local church. Being involved in FBC Greenville’s youth ministry had given me life and hope through tough times in my own journey, and I wanted the opportunity to pass that same love and care on to others. So I assumed my career path, coupled with my calling from God, would be college, seminary, and then a youth pastor position in a church. Even with Dad’s encouragement and provision for my music, I decided to stay on the traditional ministry path.

  Dad died in November, toward the end of the first semester of my freshman year. In the middle of my second semester, during spring break, Rusty called me. He had left Greenville during my junior year of high school to become the youth minister at Lakeside Baptist Church in Lakeland, Florida. He asked if I would sing at an event at their church, which I was glad to do.

  During that visit, the two of us talked freely, as we always had. In those conversations, Rusty offered me a completely new direction to consider: move to Lakeland, work for him as his junior high minister, and enroll in the local university to continue my education. After such a difficult two years of caring for Dad, I was really ready for a change and desperately needed some new scenery. I accepted.

  Rusty had been an integral part of my life, and working with him was a great honor and awesome opportunity for me. I went back home to finish out my second semester. In May, I packed up my few belongings, said goodbye to my roommate, Mammaw Millard, and moved to Florida to start writing a new chapter in my story. I arrived just in time to join Rusty’s summer student ministry program.

  I stayed in touch with Dad’s girlfriend, Jeri, as much as possible. I would call to check on her and tell her what was going on in my life. It would have been so much easier if Dad had married her; then she would have been my stepmom even after he died. Unfortunately, she felt less and less like a second mom to me as time went on. She eventually married another man, and I was really happy for her. When she died, I went home to sing at her funeral.

  It’s funny how dysfunction can make blood relatives feel like anything but family. I guess it’s like they say: you can’t pick your family but you can pick your friends. Jeri had certainly been my friend for all those years, and I am grateful to have known her.

  Planting Roots

  I lived with Rusty until I got used to the area. Then I moved into an apartment by myself, enrolled in classes for my sophomore year, and started my ministry work. For the Wednesday night youth group services, Rusty had put together a worship band composed of high school students. I thought this was so cool; I had never seen a live band lead worship for a youth group, especially a band made up solely of students.

 
The guitar player was a junior named Mike Scheuchzer. We connected quickly, both personally and musically. With my love for singing and my desire to be in a band, it didn’t take long before I was leading worship with them. So it was at that church, in a youth group worship band instigated by Rusty, that the nucleus of MercyMe was formed. Our roots were put down there. While over the years we have experimented musically, as all bands do, we seem to always return to this same kind of ministry—leading people in worship.

  The youth group gathering was called The Attic, so we cleverly named the worship band The Attic Band. We worked up a strong set list of popular praise songs, and soon other churches in the area started asking us to play for special student events, Disciple Now weekends, retreats, and so on.

  When I was in high school, the Gospel Music Association (GMA) had put on a student singing competition in Dallas. I sang Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Waiting for Lightning.” The judges told me that I sounded great—but they didn’t like how I was dressed, and they thought I needed to lose some weight. (That was back before our politically correct days.) But the one important encouragement the judges gave that has stuck with me all these years was that everyone who had competed should start writing original songs to perform. They told us that all serious artists who maintain longevity in the music business write and sing their own songs. Music is not just about how well you can perform, they noted, but about what message you sing to the masses.

  As Mike and I started playing music together, we began trying to follow that advice. As with all young writers, our first offerings were really rough. To quote Leon Russell, we “sung a lot of songs and made some bad rhymes.” But at least we were starting to hone our craft. Before long, when we played at events, we would do ten popular worship songs that everyone knew and then throw in two of our originals.

  Miracle on the Mountain

  During my days in Florida, there was a well-respected student parachurch organization we often hosted called Awe Star Ministries. They traveled and put on weekend church events for youth groups, with a secondary goal of recruiting students to go on short-term international mission trips to give gospel presentations. They came through Lakeland regularly and put on their program at our church. They asked Rusty to come with them on the weekends to help with production of their events, so he would leave on Friday and come home Saturday nights in time to be at church on Sunday mornings.