okieinexile
Well-Known Member
By Bobby Neal Winters
I have been lucky in the people who have crossed my path.
My Uncle Joe was my Grampa Byrd’s son by his first wife. She was a Choctaw Indian who died from the Spanish Influenza right after the First World War. Grampa’s Anglo-Irish and her Choctaw blended in Joe to produce quite a handsome man. Joe had a full head of jet-black hair to the day that he died which had not been touched by “color-back” regardless of what the world might suspicion.
I say that Joe was an old wildcatter for lack of a better term. It is probably not quite accurate, but he worked in discovery end of the oilfield in both the Oklahoma and the Illinois fields. He had made a fortune in his life and had spent it. Though his money had been made in the oilfield, I don’t believe that I ever saw him without his hair neatly combed or a nice shine on his shoes. People cannot say the same thing about me.
The oilfields are a place with their own culture. When oilfields first startup, the population is—or was in the old days—entirely male. Consequently they are a bit rougher than ordinary polite-society. I liked it whenever Uncle Joe visited us. Typically after one of the fabulous old-fashioned meals that my mother prepared, the men-folk would excuse themselves to the out of doors where they could smoke and cuss and be out of the way while the women-folk did the dishes. While this sounds rather lazy of the men, this is the way that the women in my family preferred it, and if you knew the men, then you would understand why.
Stories about the old days were prominently featured at these gatherings. World War II and the oilfield were the main topics. The men in my family didn’t usually tell jokes, but Joe did. One of his favorites was about another old wildcatter who had feared neither God nor man. One day he was working on a big rig alone. He was way at the top, his feet slipped from beneath him, and he fell. His hands caught the edge of the platform at the last second, and he hung in space suspended between heaven and earth.
He prayed, “Now, God, I have never prayed to you, but I need your help pretty bad now.” He paused and then added, “And don’t send your son this time. This is a man’s job.”
This is an irreverent joke, but I find it funny. This is a true presentation of whatever theology there might me in the oilfield, and whatever we might say to ourselves the oilfield does not differ much from the rest of the world in this instance. The subtle nuances of the mysteries of the Holy Trinity might escape us even though we are Trinitarian Christians. The wildcatter of the story is not interested in the niceties of theology. He simply desires help.
There is another man that I know whom I will call Billy. That is not his real name, but he deserves his privacy.
Billy’s father died when he was young. His mother remarried, and some said that his stepfather abused him, but we may never know. He had a brilliant mind and graduated near the top of his class in high school, but somewhere something went wrong. By the time I got to know him, he was living a lonely, reclusive life and was cut off from his fellow man except for his connection with our church.
He frequently dresses in a suit and tie, but a not too close inspection reveals that his dress shirt is filthy, and his shoes are falling apart. It is difficult to say whether he combs his hair often. It is badly gapped, and his wounded scalp where he has cut himself shows through in many places.
Conversations with Billy are often difficult. Sometimes when you talk directly to Billy and ask direct questions, he simply will not answer. Sometimes his answers are elliptical in the extreme, and yet there is no one who can pronounce those names in the Old Testament as well as Billy does. It is quite amazing. Sometimes his comments on the scripture are range from non-sequiturs to deep insights, and sometimes his words seem as if they are coming from an internal dialog that is several steps ahead of the rest of us.
An incident with Billy happened in church a year ago last December. The service had begun with “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” and had come to a close. People were processing out. I was called over to the third pew from the front on the left hand side where a small crowd had gathered. There was Billy. He had passed out as service was closing and was lying unconscious. Cell-phones were removed from purses and an ambulance was summoned.
With the wailing of sirens still in the distance, Billy stirred to consciousness and began to pray. When I heard what he was praying, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He prayed, “Big Buddy, we need you to draw us close to yourself now. Come and help us now, Big Buddy.”
I don’t know how Billy came to know God as “Big Buddy” or exactly how “Big Buddy” fits into the Trinitarian view of the Godhead, but like the wildcatter hanging from the oilrig, Billy didn’t call upon any highflying theology. He approached God in the only way that he could, the only way that he knew. Just as we all do, whoever we may be. We can be sure that when we seek to approach God, he we be there to meet us.
I have been lucky in the people who have crossed my path.
My Uncle Joe was my Grampa Byrd’s son by his first wife. She was a Choctaw Indian who died from the Spanish Influenza right after the First World War. Grampa’s Anglo-Irish and her Choctaw blended in Joe to produce quite a handsome man. Joe had a full head of jet-black hair to the day that he died which had not been touched by “color-back” regardless of what the world might suspicion.
I say that Joe was an old wildcatter for lack of a better term. It is probably not quite accurate, but he worked in discovery end of the oilfield in both the Oklahoma and the Illinois fields. He had made a fortune in his life and had spent it. Though his money had been made in the oilfield, I don’t believe that I ever saw him without his hair neatly combed or a nice shine on his shoes. People cannot say the same thing about me.
The oilfields are a place with their own culture. When oilfields first startup, the population is—or was in the old days—entirely male. Consequently they are a bit rougher than ordinary polite-society. I liked it whenever Uncle Joe visited us. Typically after one of the fabulous old-fashioned meals that my mother prepared, the men-folk would excuse themselves to the out of doors where they could smoke and cuss and be out of the way while the women-folk did the dishes. While this sounds rather lazy of the men, this is the way that the women in my family preferred it, and if you knew the men, then you would understand why.
Stories about the old days were prominently featured at these gatherings. World War II and the oilfield were the main topics. The men in my family didn’t usually tell jokes, but Joe did. One of his favorites was about another old wildcatter who had feared neither God nor man. One day he was working on a big rig alone. He was way at the top, his feet slipped from beneath him, and he fell. His hands caught the edge of the platform at the last second, and he hung in space suspended between heaven and earth.
He prayed, “Now, God, I have never prayed to you, but I need your help pretty bad now.” He paused and then added, “And don’t send your son this time. This is a man’s job.”
This is an irreverent joke, but I find it funny. This is a true presentation of whatever theology there might me in the oilfield, and whatever we might say to ourselves the oilfield does not differ much from the rest of the world in this instance. The subtle nuances of the mysteries of the Holy Trinity might escape us even though we are Trinitarian Christians. The wildcatter of the story is not interested in the niceties of theology. He simply desires help.
There is another man that I know whom I will call Billy. That is not his real name, but he deserves his privacy.
Billy’s father died when he was young. His mother remarried, and some said that his stepfather abused him, but we may never know. He had a brilliant mind and graduated near the top of his class in high school, but somewhere something went wrong. By the time I got to know him, he was living a lonely, reclusive life and was cut off from his fellow man except for his connection with our church.
He frequently dresses in a suit and tie, but a not too close inspection reveals that his dress shirt is filthy, and his shoes are falling apart. It is difficult to say whether he combs his hair often. It is badly gapped, and his wounded scalp where he has cut himself shows through in many places.
Conversations with Billy are often difficult. Sometimes when you talk directly to Billy and ask direct questions, he simply will not answer. Sometimes his answers are elliptical in the extreme, and yet there is no one who can pronounce those names in the Old Testament as well as Billy does. It is quite amazing. Sometimes his comments on the scripture are range from non-sequiturs to deep insights, and sometimes his words seem as if they are coming from an internal dialog that is several steps ahead of the rest of us.
An incident with Billy happened in church a year ago last December. The service had begun with “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” and had come to a close. People were processing out. I was called over to the third pew from the front on the left hand side where a small crowd had gathered. There was Billy. He had passed out as service was closing and was lying unconscious. Cell-phones were removed from purses and an ambulance was summoned.
With the wailing of sirens still in the distance, Billy stirred to consciousness and began to pray. When I heard what he was praying, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He prayed, “Big Buddy, we need you to draw us close to yourself now. Come and help us now, Big Buddy.”
I don’t know how Billy came to know God as “Big Buddy” or exactly how “Big Buddy” fits into the Trinitarian view of the Godhead, but like the wildcatter hanging from the oilrig, Billy didn’t call upon any highflying theology. He approached God in the only way that he could, the only way that he knew. Just as we all do, whoever we may be. We can be sure that when we seek to approach God, he we be there to meet us.
