Chapter 1

The First Day

I sat in the bank vault. That afternoon slipped away and I was still working my way through stacks of papers — old insurance policies, health care bills, tax records and legal papers, trying to inventory the safety deposit box of a dear old man who recently had passed away from my neighborhood.

The vault was actually a vault within a vault and the doors were all shut just before it happened ... whatever it was.

The bank staff was testing their emergency lighting and fire alarms that afternoon. One of those tasked with the testing stuck his head around the vault door and said they would be closing the doors until the testing and repairs were done, so that the loud alarms would not annoy me.

Earlier, one of the obsequious assistant managers had told me all about the original bank. The founding of the bank dated almost to the civil war. It seems the original vault was small — as befitted a small, out-of-the-way cow town in the 1870's.

Orlando was little more than a train stop in those days. The town banker agreed to acquire another bank whose owner had passed away after an unusual run of bad luck (including a pregnant neighbor girl and a fortuitous, fatal, heart attack that avoided a lengthy jail term since the girl in question was a minor.) When the town mob came to extract a little frontier justice that included hot tar and a rope, the banker's heart gave out and spoiled the event.

As the newly widowed owner of a bank that happened to be in financial trouble, widow was advised to allow her stock to be absorbed by the bigger, friendlier banker; he would forestall any unpleasant government inquisition into her husband's other illicit activities. With no other alternative, she accepted a cash payment sufficient to take care of her needs for the foreseeable future. After the sale of their home and furnishings, she disappeared up north in search of better times.

Since the newly constituted bank was bursting at the seams, another vault was desperately needed. Because citrus and cattle were on the upswing, a number of newly minted ranchers had money that needed protected. The little bank quickly became the big bank.

At that time a young, up and coming architect suggested adding on without building on. As strange as that sounds, it made prefect sense to the parsimonious banker and his likewise parsimonious board of directors. Thus, a newer, larger and more modern vault surrounded the original vault without constructing additional space above ground. And to save money, the newer, larger and stronger vault was lead lined, concrete reinforced for strength and water tight in case of rising waters, floods or hurricanes.

The basement area was expanded without increasing the street level bank facilities; the financial savings pleased the board of directors and gave the otherwise absolutely average assistant manager an interesting story to tell.

If I had only realized how key to my future that parsimonious banker would be, I would have paid more attention and thanked him profusely. Things of great importance are often overlooked. Just ask the royalty in Jerusalem during a certain winter period.

My elderly neighbor had no family. He had named me sole beneficiary in his will. The bank had been accommodating to me as the old man had been a customer of theirs for over forty-five years. And they seemed to have honestly liked him.

I know I did. He was quiet but strong with an amazing intelligence. I couldn't begin to inventory the free wisdom he had given me — and on a myriad of subjects.

When he discovered that I was serving as pastor to a local mission church, he introduced himself at a neighborhood association meeting. He asked all kinds of questions about my background, the church, what the term mission church actually meant and if one had to be of a special religious background to receive welcome there.

I answered honestly and factually — often a very different thing — and invited him to attend and perhaps ride to and from the service with me on Sunday mornings.

Our friendship developed naturally. He and I talked often and long about a variety of things. His insight was sharp, his wit sharper. Nothing short of amazing, he could turn any conversation into an opportunity for me to open up about myself.

I tried to learn that skill to no avail. He had a gift that I did not.

His personal affairs were a mess. He asked me about helping him with tidying them up more than once. I always assured him I was willing to set a date to start. But like so many things in life, he never committed. Now his affairs were a jumble of this and that. I knew this was going to be a lengthy process. I didn't mind, though. Working on his affairs helped keep my mind off my sadness.

After Arthea died, I searched for things to fill my days and nights. Nights were the hardest. Many evenings would start out just fine. As the evening dragged on, I often found myself full of unfocused energy. It was as if my mind didn't know my heart was grieving and tried to propel me into activities to fill the silence.

I needed silence, but I hated it. I needed it to grieve and hated grieving.

Arthea never dwelled on things she couldn't change. When bad things happened, she immediately looked for ways to make the best out of the situation and went right to work about making that true.

As her cancer progressed, we spent many evenings deep in conversation. She was determined that I would live after she died. I know she knew I would nearly drown in sorrow after she was gone. Her goal, I think, was to force me to grieve while she was there in an attempt to lessen the pain later.

I looked forward to the busyness of solving my deceased neighbor's affairs. I embraced the chance to work on his life history. In organizing, shuffling papers and filing his things away one last time, I discovered another man. He had a whole life that I never knew about, And in completing his record, I realized how much I had missed by not knowing him better, spending more time with him and sharing myself with him ... as he could have shared himself with me.

I made sure his wishes were followed. As executor of his estate, I was tasked with making a series of gifts he had spelled out in his will. So many things had to be read, understood and completed before the bulk of his estate could be distributed and the rest trucked to the landfill and forgotten.

It was a lesson in the temporary nature of life. He had lived, died and already been forgotten by the world in general and our neighborhood in particular. Nothing lasts. Everything changes.

When I was satisfied that I had done enough for one day, I carefully put things away. Once completed, the list I was compiling would provide a structure to divide his estate and see what, if anything was left for my inheritance.

Lifting the last box onto the shelf designated as my working area, I stepped out of the vault. The day had flown by. I couldn't remember how long since I'd spoken to another person. I knew just that it had been hours and hours.