About fifteen years ago, the Mississippi-based rock
band 3 Doors Down sung what was a very popular song of the period “When I’m
Gone”. As the United States was slowly recovering from the terrorist attacks
from September 11, 2001, the band released these words emblematic of the first
half of the 2000s:
And
love me when I’m gone
You
can hold me when I’m scared
You
won’t always be there
Don’t look upside my head like I’m crazy – some of
you still know the words and have even watched the video on MTV and VH1
multiple times, and I bet more than a few of us went to Edgefest in the
netherworld of the early 2000s to see them. You ain’t gotta lie to kick it. We all suffer from periodic poor choices
in music from time to time – from those of us who still own Kid Rock, Master P
or Nickelback CDs to whatever the kids are into these days probably something
from Yung Thug or Lil’ anybody. [Try not to judge me on anything else in this
arena beyond my age – I still like screwed and chopped sounds coming from my little
green Ford crossover’s Bluetooth and antiquated four speakers; consequently, I
would like to think my musical tastes have evolved from saying ugh and
screaming “No Limit Soldiers” or worse, repeating Mike Jones’s phone number -
by the way, it was (281)330-8004.]
Far too often we fawn over being loved or at the
very least, accepted by our peers. As teens, no one expects us to wrap our lips
around that first can of nasty pilsner but most of us develop a taste for beer
due to it being the “cool” thing to do. Over time, that pressure evolves from
abandoning vows of sobriety and the “boring” look of temperance to things
harsher that cannot be easily broken. The things we thought made us hip
inevitably makes a mockery of our character as they 1) somehow begins to define
who we are; and 2) potentially leads us to a string of bad decisions that
remove us from our original beings all because we wanted to fit in! For
example, I enjoy the taste of a cold IPA during the summer when I am smoking
pork loins, ribs, and chicken quarters yet consuming tobacco products legal or illegal never
interested me. It doesn’t mean that drinkers hold a supremacy over the smokers;
I am hopefully making a correlation that my vices do not make me any better or
worse than the next individual, and because of them, I stand on equal footing
with him or her.
What do I mean when I say, “love me when I’m gone”
in this context?
The easy answer is no one notices you or your worth
until you are no longer in the presence but par for most of my writings, it
offers a complexity of responses. Let’s think this through:
Our exes either love us or hate us when we break up
and sometimes, that is carried into the next relationship as the wounds have
not properly healed. In my case, I’m certain the hatred is justified although
there may be a few things each woman may miss momentarily such as not having to
pay for dinner or she may have been accustomed to small trinkets such as an
open car door and flowers, and even a tank of gas to get her from Point A to B.
Over time, the anger subsides to where today they are afterthoughts – and
lessons from what (or not) to do for it is far easier to love them from a
distance than to hate them daily resulting in missed opportunities within our
own lives.
Another illustration comes from the first few weeks
after we change jobs. For most of us, accepting a new role means good riddance
to the organization we are departing yet the people we leave behind end up needing
a new leader to follow. In servant leadership, this would not be a problem;
unfortunately, we are so used to top-down management hierarchy where the person
we call boss has the final word no matter how right or wrong he turns out to
be. While being marginalized as “the computer geek” or just another nighttime
worker, that loss of a key employee brings perspective to untold efficiencies
in making work easier or simply a tolerable place to log in eight- to
twelve-hour shifts. To mitigate the eventual loss of this Delta V here at Rineco,
I am leaving a flash drive and the original copy of the training manual I wrote
five years ago as a guide as a supplement to the notes the new employee takes
during his weeklong apprenticeship.
The third complexity of “loving
me when I’m gone” is homecoming. Growing up, I knew that once I left Conway,
Arkansas that I would not return to live there under any circumstances as
coming back to Friendship Road signified failure instead of seeing the family
members who still live on the street as adults who gave their best efforts in
steering us the right way. I won’t
mention ‘friends’ because of how I remember how my childhood was in a word,
different. The italicized sentence is not an indictment of how I was raised
as much as being sheltered from a few things too many and feeling those bumps
more acutely than otherwise such as the realization that a man’s word was not
always his bond – yes, I’m looking at the people who “borrowed” money and decades later still haven’t repaid their debts to me. Ditto for
neighborhood disagreements on the basketball court that ended up spread across
town in the whiff of an unexpected uppercut.
Since you know me well enough by now to have an
example straight out of the Bible, give Psalm 71:9 a look:
Don’t throw me aside
when I am old; don’t desert me when my strength is gone. – Psalm 71:9
Eventually, we all desire to reach old age and would
like to be remembered in our twilight years as kindly and wise instead of the
foolish hellions of our youth and early adulthood. In the church, duplicity
needs to be a prerequisite for the right reasons – and tradition alone is not
that reason. While some things that carried our elders through some heinous
times such as church bombings and night-capping that some less-than-savory
citizens regardless of their prominence in the community engaged in must be
continued, some practices are outdated and driving great people away from the
spiritual hospital in the name of ritualistic shaming. As much as I would
prefer not to sing them, I do have to learn a few Ike Watts choruses for Sunday
morning praise services and sing them like the late icon Rev. Thomas Flemming,
Sr. AND
remember how the second verse starts. In this regard, loving that country
classic when we are gone all but guarantees it’ll make it to the next
generation even if our temporal outreach efforts fall by the wayside for one
reason or another. Everyone matters regardless of title, position, or familial
connection; we might as well love each other in the present as to escape the
overdone wailing when we are ultimately separated by the physical death.
Christ also reminds us not only to love Him when
He’s gone, but only what we do for Him will last.
Lastly, the concept of “love me when I’m gone”
extends to our family members and friends within the context of not everyone
who is good to you is good for you. Let me repeat myself: NOT
EVERYONE WHO IS GOOD TO YOU IS GOOD FOR YOU. Periodically, we mix up our
feelings thinking the former is synonymous with the latter when it cannot be
further from the truth. Our loved ones can unintentionally grease the skids to
hell like none other if we aren’t careful in several ways not limited to being
permissive of our own misconduct as well as becoming a yes-man to all their
wanton desires to avoid ire and tantrums as the peacemakers we try to resemble.
Over my 39 years on this rock, the 3 Doors Down
chorus is surprisingly relevant to everyone I have loved and lost; the friends
I held down or needed as confidants within various seasons; the distances away
from home I have traveled and lived and those feelings, especially those of
homesickness; not wanting to let down anyone due to the happy-go-lucky façade
of having it all together when I was in truth more screwed up than even I would
have admitted; and the altruistic nature of laying it all on the line for those
who truly matter.
They hated Martin when he was here. Now they love
him now he’s gone each January 15.
They wanted Muhammad to shut up when he was here.
Now they love his catchy rhymes when he’s gone.
They despised Michael for his shrewd business plays
and unapologetic blackness by calling him a child molester and ‘wacko Jacko’
yet remain enamored of his dance moves.
The Pharisees and Sadducees hated Jesus with every
fiber in them when He walked the earth. Now (for some of you), He has been
whitewashed as a sanctimonious hippie who espoused only love to be placed in a
convenient box when it benefits our beliefs.
They hate Barack for leveling the playing field and
shepherding change in the face of sheer racism. Now in the age of 45, they
adore him.
One day we know Brother Colin will be loved for his
kneeling during the National Anthem instead of the hateful drivel they aim at
him today.
I know you won’t always be there so love me when I’m
gone.
