GOOD-BYE, JIMMY; GOOD-BYE, BEA
FOR THE NEXT MONTH I FOCUSED ON PACKING MY THINGS, selling anything I didn’t need, and tying up loose ends. But there was one loose end that I wasn’t expecting—my relationship with my friend, Bea Costner.
She was eighty-one years old now, and much to her chagrin, Bea was forced to close the woodshop. For almost a year, a For Rent sign had hung in the window, but Bea still went out to the woodshop and puttered around for hours every day. Eventually the building rented, and Bea was resigned to spending her time sitting in the green-and-white metal chair in the front yard facing the woodshop. She sat there for hours on end, reading her Bible, working crossword puzzles, and watching the new people who had moved into her building.
Although I couldn’t help Bea with her personal business, I picked her up and took her with me to every show I performed. Bea loved going along. It didn’t matter what the event was—a cookout, a pageant, a karaoke contest, or whatever—Bea always sat on the front row, directly in front of the microphone stand.
But she rarely paid much attention to me. Instead, Bea sat on the front row and read her Bible. I couldn’t help but notice, and it drove me crazy.
You mean to tell me, I drove all the way to your house to pick you up and bring you with me to this show, and you’re not even going to pay attention to my performance? I thought. Of course, I never said that to her. I wouldn’t offend Bea for the world.
No matter where we went, she’d sit through the entire show and read her Bible. She didn’t read out loud, but I could see her pen moving across each page as she highlighted various verses.
Having Bea on the front row was a problem for me. I couldn’t flirt with the pretty, young girls, and I surely couldn’t sing a song about partying while Bea was sitting directly in front of me reading Scripture. It was annoying, and it affected my performance; but I loved Bea, and I wanted the beautiful, white-haired woman to be there with me.
I RECEIVED A CALL FROM CINDY BALLARD ASKING ME IF I could sing at the 1997 year-end closing ceremony for Highland Junior High. Of course, I accepted the invitation.
I called Bea and asked her to come along. But because I anticipated a number of bubbly high school girls bouncing to the beat on the front row, I planned ahead how I could circumvent Bea’s Bible reading.
When we arrived, I told Bea, “I have a special chair for you tonight, right over here by the exit door, so you won’t have to battle the crowd after the show is over.” I ushered Bea to her special seat and told her I was going backstage to prepare for the show. Bea sat down in the seat by the door, with her purse and Bible in her lap.
Ecstatic that I had moved her out of the fan zone without offending her, I went backstage with a smile on my face. Soon the announcer’s voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jimmy Wayne Barber!” The house lights went down, the curtains opened, and the spotlight was on me. I walked out to the microphone at the edge of the stage, and as I reached for the mike, I glanced down into the audience of young girls. There, right in the middle of the girls, sat Bea on the front row, directly in front of the mike stand, reading her Bible.
Oh, well, I thought. I tried.
About halfway through my performance, I saw Bea close her Bible and stand up. I continued singing but kept an eye on her. She walked to the exit door and stepped out of the auditorium. Cindy Ballard followed her to make sure she was okay.
The moment I finished singing, I ran out to see where Bea was and to find out what was wrong.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Jimmy,” Bea said. “My leg started hurting from sitting so long, and I just needed to walk it off.” I was concerned. Bea was tough, and it was highly uncharacteristic of her to even mention an ache or a pain, much less to get up and walk out of a show. I said a quick good-bye to Cindy and the staff and helped Bea to the car.
It was a short drive back to Bea’s house. As I glanced over at her, she was looking down at her Bible in her lap. Her face was radiant, and her white hair was beautiful, as usual. To me, she looked the same as she did the day I met her.
The familiar voice spoke to me: You need to tell Bea you love her and how much you appreciate all she has done for you.
What? I thought. I had never said those words to Bea, not once. This is weird.
We drove on in silence for a few more minutes. We were approximately one minute from her house. We were both unusually quiet.
“Bea,” I said.
She looked up but didn’t speak.
I stared at the road in front of me, and thought, I can’t believe I’m getting ready to do this. This feels so cheesy.
She simply sat there, as though waiting on me to say something.
Finally I looked at her and said, “Bea, I love you.” I quickly looked away from her. I had lived with Bea for six years and had known her now for seven years, but that was the first time I’d ever uttered those words to her.
“I love you, too, Jimmy,” Bea responded warmly and easily.
The door of my heart opened, like the dikes of a dam, and a Niagara of words flowed out in a rush. I began thanking her for everything I could possibly think of—for opening her home to me, for the opportunity to have a car, an education, my job. I thanked her for encouraging me to pursue my dream of being a musician. I thanked her for all the doughnuts and the Coca-Colas she gave me when I cut the grass. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” I told her. “Thank you, Bea, for my clothes; thank you for all the meals you made for me.” I thanked Bea for everything.
I pulled in her driveway, parked the car, and ran around to her side and opened the door. She reached out and locked her arm with mine as I helped her out of the car. We walked slowly toward her front door, and Bea commented on how much her leg was still hurting.
When Bea got to the top of the three steps leading to her door, she turned around and looked at me. It struck me that she was standing in the exact spot where she stood the day she first invited me into their home, holding open the same glass storm door. I, too, was standing in the same spot as I stood that day I showed up with my bag full of dirty clothes.
“Well, I’ll be back in three days to pick you up and take you to another show,” I said.
Bea looked at me and extended her arm slightly to wave at me. It was as though she was looking right through me. “Good-bye, Jimmy!” she said with so much love as she waved at me.
I thought, This is very weird.
We were three feet from each another. Still, I waved at Bea, and she waved at me again. I waved back, and we stood there waving at each other for what seemed like several minutes.
Bea kept saying, “Good-bye, Jimmy! Good-bye, Jimmy!” over and over.
I said, “Good-bye, Bea; I’ll see ya in three days, okay?”
Bea didn’t acknowledge my comment. She smiled and said again, “Good-bye, Jimmy.” She continued to wave at me.
I got in the car, and Bea was still waving. I pulled out and headed down the road, but when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw Bea, still standing there, waving.
I waved at her one last time.
She was beautiful.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I RECEIVED A PHONE CALL FROM Bea’s daughter, Sandie; she was crying. Somehow I knew what Sandie was going to tell me.
“She had a stroke, Jimmy,” Sandie said through her tears. “They said Mother had a blood clot in her leg that moved to her brain.”
Sandie and I wept together on the phone.
Over the next month or so, I visited Bea in the hospital as often as possible. Most days, she was unconscious, deep in a coma. I’d hold her hand and talk to her, but she rarely responded. Every so often, though, she roused slightly, and I tried to feed her some applesauce. She ate little and before long slipped back into the coma. Whether she knew I was there or not didn’t matter; I went to visit her anyhow.
One day I slipped into her room, and she was in the coma. Some other friends were visiting, so I simply stepped to the side of the bed and held Bea’s hand. “Bea? Bea, it’s Jimmy,” I said softly.
She opened her eyes, and they seemed to roll slightly, but then she focused just enough on me. In a soft, weak voice, she mumbled words that will motivate me till the end of time. Speaking barely above a whisper, Bea looked at me and said, “I’ll be looking for you.”
She closed her eyes and slipped back into the coma. Those were her last words to me, and to all who knew her. “I’ll be looking for you.” And she will be.
GOD PROMOTED BEA TO GLORY ON JULY 29, 1997. WHEN Sandie called and said, “Mother passed away,” I was terribly sad, but I was glad that she was not suffering anymore, and I knew that because of our mutual faith in Jesus, I would see Bea again.
Still, her funeral was difficult for me. I knew that Bea would want me to sing, so I walked up to the podium and turned around to face the congregation. I looked down and saw Bea lying in front of me, in the casket. Her white hair was done perfectly, although it didn’t look quite right without some sawdust in it. Her face retained the dignity of royalty even in death.
She was still beautiful.
I began singing “How Great Thou Art,” one of her gospel favorites, but I couldn’t get through it. I just cried.
I think she understood, and I thought I heard her saying from somewhere up in heaven, I’ll be looking for you, Jimmy.