When I was a "wee" lad, I played football at Barrie Central for two amazing and well respected gentlemen, Mr Bruce Clarke (aka Clarky) and Mr Dave Garland (aka the silver fox). For a reason that I no longer remember, I focused on the Offensive side of the game, which meant that the largest percentage of my minutes in the Central experience was under the very watchful eye of coach Garland. We had what would best be termed a Love-Hate relationship ... he Loved to Hate me ... or so it felt to my 18 year old brain. It eventually dawned on me that it wasn't 100% personal. It had more to do with the fact that I was a lineman and not a heaven-sent running back, like coach Garland had been in his glory days at Western.
The good news ending to this story is it was never Love-Hate as my adolescent feelings thought, but rather, coach's intensity in his interactions with the majority of his players. After graduation and a successful university career, I was hired to teach in Simcoe County and eventually found myself back at Central where coach and I became good friends as colleagues. Coach Garland became Dave, a transition that took a little before it became instinctual, and we even spent a couple of seasons coaching together.
The imagery of the fork soon came to light ...
Perhaps paraphrasing a bit since it was over 20 years ago, Dave spoke, "When I was a young boy, we were a busy family but one tradition that was paramount in our household was the Sunday family dinner. It was always a labour of love, usually consisting of some of our favourite foods, and we almost always had second helpings. Without fail, as the dinner dishes were being cleared, my mother would always remind us to keep our fork. We had come to know that she meant she had poured her heart into a delectable, decadent treat for dessert, and she didn't want us to miss out. Over those years, it became imprinted on my soul that a kept fork was synonymous with something special."
At this point in his talk, Dave held the fork up for all to see, and proclaimed, "Being a part of Barrie Central has been a glorious Sunday family meal, full of the favourites I love, but for this next step, I'm going to keep my fork because it will most certainly be a treat."
On one of my deep dives into the Internet, I came across this story, and it immediately reminded me of Dave's talk.
There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things ‘in order,’ she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.
She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.
‘There’s one more thing,’ she said excitedly.
‘What’s that?’ came the Pastor’s reply.
‘This is very important,’ the young woman continued. ‘I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.’
‘That surprises you, doesn’t it?’ the young woman asked.
‘Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled by the request,’ said the Pastor.
The young woman explained. ‘My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming, like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!’
‘So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder, ‘What’s with the fork?!’ Then I want you to tell them: ‘Keep your fork. The best is yet to come.’
The Pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman goodbye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the young woman’s casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, ‘What’s with the fork?’ And over and over again he smiled.
During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right.”
So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share. Being friends with someone is not an opportunity, but a sweet responsibility
And just remember…keep your fork!
The BEST is yet to come!”
By Lindsay Cole
These past couple of years have been challenging, to say the least, but as we race toward the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel, I'll remind you to keep your fork.
Oh, and Happy Mother's Day to my own mom, Andrea Porter, to my bestie, Joyce Porter, and to my sister-in-laws Cheryl and Jen Porter. You are all deserving of a standing ovation!
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