The Legacy of a Pure Heart by: Merrell Palmer
- Merrell Palmer
- Oct 7, 2001
- 5 min read
“Twin?” He asked, “Could you take me to the store?”
He stood outside my bedroom door and waited, hopeful.
“Twin?”
In my teenage annoyance at being disturbed on a Saturday before noon, I pulled a pillow over my head and wished he’d go away. He sighed, and then I heard the clink of glass as he sat a carton of empty soda bottles on the floor before walking slowly back down the hallway toward his room.
I have heard those words a thousand times and even now they still echo in my memory.
His name was Sydney Merrell, but to all of us kids he was simply “Uncle Bud.” He was a large man, almost 350 pounds, with a heart as big as his body. The only son born into a family of seven daughters, he was injured at birth in March of 1933 and never mentally developed beyond preadolescence. He remained a child, with the mentality of a 12-year-old, in a big man’s body. He was my mother’s brother and he lived with us as far back as I can remember.
As a child surrounded by a large extended family with its own fair share of oddballs, it never occurred to me until I was older that Uncle Bud was not normal. He had been accepted as he was, and so it was.
Uncle Bud was invested in all family activities and proved to be an important cog in the hub of our daily lives. Each morning he collected a carton of empty Pepsi bottles from the previous day’s consumption and exchanged them at the little neighborhood store for a fresh case at a discounted price. In our household of eight, everyone had a cold soda waiting in the refrigerator before lunchtime. In addition, he brewed a pot of tea everyday, and had the technique and consistency down to an art.
He helped with chores and accompanied my mother on trips into town. He loved car rides and would sit in the front seat anticipating pending trips. If the driver tarried in the house, Uncle Bud began beeping the horn.
He had a soft spot for babies and animals, and worried if our pets were not fed by mid-morning. The cats loved the expanse of his ample girth, and curled up often on his chest, purring to the beat of his heart.
Despite his size, Uncle Bud was fairly active and daily walked the streets by our home with a couple of Beagle hounds in tow. He had a passion for singing and knew the entire refrains of many old hymns. These he sang on his walks and in the small church my mother pastored.
He loved to bat baseballs, and begged, harassed and cajoled kids lounging around the house into chasing his hits. He never tired of the repetition and usually quiet only after his catcher abandoned the game.
More than anything, even his zeal for eating, Uncle Bud loved spiritual things. Not only was he a familiar fixture at church, he was the centerpiece of our nightly devotions. We all gathered in the living room and he read aloud (usually at least 15 minutes- an eternity for a child!) from the Bible. He amassed an immense volume of learned verses and could quote verbatim from the scriptures.
He also knew the birthdays of all family members and friends.
On the morning of the day he died, Uncle Bud was deeply troubled because my sister’s goldfish had perished in the night. He came to us several times and whispered, “Twins, I sure am sorry about your fish.” I am still struck by the irony; the day would yield such a harsher grief.
On June 12, 1989 my sister and I left for town at noon. Uncle Bud was at the dining table devouring a large bowl of Cole slaw and drinking from a mayonnaise jar filled with tea. As I recall, we barely glanced back as we left the house. Good-byes are always so taken for granted.
After finishing his lunch, Uncle Bud walked into his bedroom and fell to his knees from the onset of a massive heart attack. He lay on the floor, clutching my mother’s hands, and together they prayed an eternal greeting to the Savior who had already entered the room. There was no need for introduction, for God had been friends with my uncle for a long time. He was gentle with the big guy; by the time paramedics arrived, Uncle Bud was gone.
In his simplicity, Uncle Bud impacted my life in profound measures. I believe that he was truly one of the pure innocents who endure a tainted, corrupt and evil world. In the midst of “normal” people, he embodied the meaning of undefiled goodness. He only lived 56 years, but my life is better because I experienced part of his world. He taught me lessons in living that I’ll never forget:
*Find pleasure and joy in simple things. You will find happiness and a higher level of contentment. You will also better hear the voice of God.
*Relish a freshly brewed glass of iced tea. Stir it with your finger- it tastes better!
*Make time to play. Pitch and hit a ball. Swing under the trees in the middle of the day. Sit on the porch and watch the rain. Grab hold of life with both hands and feel its texture under your bare feet. We become cynical and hardened when we take life too seriously. We become old when we lose the wonder and excitement of a child.
*Go for solitary walks. It not only clears your mind, but also that late afternoon snack.
*Never lose your compassion- that’s what makes you human.
*Never judge someone from appearance. Perception and reality are often very different. We limit ourselves by our own expectations and judgments.
*Love God with reckless abandon. Sing praise songs on the street (Or better yet, in a local convenience store. Loudly.)
*Increase your volume of memorized scripture. You’ll always have an answer to every situation.
*Never slack in your daily devotions. They keep you close to God.
*Cherish the people in your life. Time moves too quickly, and all we have that ultimately matters is each other. You aren’t even guaranteed a good-bye. The unexpected death is like closing a book halfway through before the conclusion. It feels like the story has been ripped from your hands. The things we take for granted now, or even find inconveniencing, will someday be beloved memories.
“Twin, could you take me to the store?”
You bet I would, and I’d stay up all weekend for the opportunity.