Some of my favorite memories are locked up in a little Ft. Lauderdale house, where sat an 80+ year-old boat builder. Whether I was sitting there with him in his living room or we were on the phone to each other, hundreds of miles apart, our conversations were always fruitful. Judson Greene had an old arm-chair by the front door, and if he wasn't visiting grandkids or at church or meeting guys at the diner, I knew I could find him sitting there. He always had time (because he made time) to talk and listen. His patience with me still amazes me. From him, both in conversation and example, I learned what it meant to be a man of integrity, to be a man of God. I learned what was important in life.
He would tell me stories, not just of when he was my age, but of his whole life. He would share wisdom and even pose questions for me to tackle. I can still see his great, rough hands move before him as he spoke and they'd settle on the armrests of his cushioned rocking chair as he finished his thought. They'd stay there on the armrest, comfortable and content, as I formed a response or just considered his words.
Joel 2:28 says, “I will pour out my spirit on all flesh... your old men will dream dreams, and your young men will see visions.” Dreams are the product of memory, whereas visions are projections of what is to come. Old men have the memories to dream dreams, and by this they may instruct the young men, who have visions to strive toward. This is how it is supposed to be and this is how it was with Jud in his living room. He shared with me through story his experiences, and he showed me how they molded him as I watched him interact with others. I saw the man I wanted to be, so I followed what he taught me. I have tried my best to follow his footsteps in the stories he told with pride, and veer away from things in my life that he regretted in his own. All the while, I remember his voice telling me the stories; I remember his hands moving and settling. In my mind, I see them settle as it comes time for me to make a decision. His stories run through my mind and then he pauses. My move.
What will I do with this wisdom I have received?
This is what I will do with it. I will live it out, passing it on myself in story and deed. It is a dying art, to share the Truth in this way. The days of children upon grandfathers' knees are falling away; the things taught there, and the way in which they were taught, are losing ground. The Arm-chair Legacy is forgotten, but it will be redeemed. As the light shines in the darkness, so will Truth break through and reclaim its throne. Just hold onto the stories of old, keep telling them, and find yourself a comfy chair.