On the Life of My Uncle Charlie

My earliest memory of my Uncle Charlie isn't really of him at all. It is of a plastic cup full of paintbrushes. "Those are Charlie's," my Aunt Diane would say. "Don't touch them." I didn't. I was filled with fear and wonder any time I walked near them. What did this quiet, mysterious man do with these valuable paintbrushes I wasn't allowed to touch?

There were always Oreos in the cookie jar. I didn't like Oreos, but I wouldn't tell him that. He was always willing to share, and sometimes I took him up on it because he was just so nice about it.

My parents and I saw a guy named Eric Tidwell sing Elvis songs at the Croaker Festival in Oriental one summer and my grandma got his autograph for me. Later he was on Star Search. On one of our visits with Aunt Diane and Uncle Charlie, I was crying because I lost the autograph. Uncle Charlie sat down with me, asked me all about what it was like, and made me a "new one."

I must have been watching a tv show about kites when I was eight or nine, because I wanted so badly to have one. I knew we couldn't afford frivolous things and I had nearly given up on the idea. I remember Uncle Charlie sitting at his kitchen table, perceiving my dilemma. "I bet...you could figure out how to make one." We got some sticks, string, and a paper napkin and made a crude kite. I dragged it around their back yard all day. It didn't matter that it never took flight, but that he thought there might be potential.

He had a way of seeing the potential in people. He could give a criticism and somehow make it feel like he was simply perceiving in you some skill that you couldn't see in yourself. Instead of saying, "Well that isn't great," he would say something like, "You know, I bet you could do like that guy ______ who figured out ______ when he was working on something like this." I was rarely aware of the times he was teaching me something.

His mother was an artist, and his understanding of art was unique in my mostly non-artsy family. When I began to draw and paint, he was one of my biggest encouragers. He told his mother about me, and she sent me a book on art all the way from Florida with a note written inside. It was as if he had given me a million dollars. He always asked if I had been working on anything, and it was his encouragement that got me back into drawing after years of giving up.

When I got my first guitar, at age 17, we really bonded. He had been in a Southern Rock band in the 70s, but he began reading the Bible, found the Lord, and left the drugs and crazy living behind. By the time I came along he played a classical guitar. He taught me to finger pick and would show me little bits of songs until I could string them together to play "Silent Night" or "Romance." Sometimes he would get me to play a simple blues rhythm and he would play lead. I was horrible at it, but it was my favorite thing for us to play.

He supported me when I majored in political science and I enjoyed talking politics with him. I would sit in on his Sunday School class when we were in town and enjoyed watching him challenge the teenagers there to really examine the Bible and their faith, to always be learning, and to ask hard questions.

He could teach himself anything. He was an artist, a musician, a theologian, a website designer, a computer programmer, a teacher, and by trade, a plumber. He was one of the most brilliant people I've ever met.

During Holy Week, in March, he was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. We thought he would have a year to live. Five days ago I got to hold his hand and tell him I love him. He had a hard time speaking, so I said, "I know you love me too. You've shown me in a million ways." He squeezed my hand and smiled. I told him I was drawing and painting and that people were buying my work. He labored to say, " Do you enjoy it?" and smiled again when I answered, "Yes." Even in our last conversation he was more concerned with encouraging me than anything else.

I played guitar for him one last time, the songs he had taught me. I held his hand and prayed, thanking God for all the beauty he had brought into the lives of so many, and praying for God to give him beauty in each day. He pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek. I asked him if he was scared. He put his hand over his heart and he said, "No. I know." He squeezed my arm and said, "It's gonna be ok." This afternoon he went to be with the God he has served so diligently for four decades. I can't express how much I will miss him.