He Lived And Walked His Faith

Captain Louis B. Smith was one of those two or three friends we develop over a lifetime who significantly influences us in ways we don’t consciously recognize until they are gone. He died early Saturday morning, September 30, 2006.

Not only did Lou talk his enduring faith in Jesus Christ to all who would listen, he was an example to me of how a Godly man actually lives and walks his talk. No, he wasn’t a perfect man; none of us are! Lou had spots and blemishes just like all of us do. But, his belief in and commitment to his faith was unwavering regardless of the challenges and storms life presented to him.

We first learned of Lou’s terminal illness late last Spring when he and his beloved wife, Betty, called from Jacksonville, FL to let us know that Lou had been diagnosed with acute leukemia.

He told us calmly and matter-of-factly that the doctors had given him three treatment options:

1. To do nothing and live about three months;
2. To administer partial chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant and perhaps live an additional month or two; or,
3. To attack the disease with full-blown chemo which he may not survive.

Lou was emphatic in relating his decision to take the second option saying he’d like to live another Thanksgiving but that he didn’t want to linger and be a burden to Betty and their family. (That’s Lou, trying to be considerate even in his dying!)

Wanting to be an encouragement to both, Sue and I called weekly to check on Lou’s progress. Some days good; others not so good. Some days encouraging; others discouraging. Some days at home; others re-hospitalized. Some days hopeful; others not.

It was during one of those early calls that I boldly asked: “Lou, tell me honestly. Are you afraid to die?” (Our relationship was comfortable enough for me to ask that question!) “Frightened of dying?” he asked back then answering firmly: “Heck no! I know where I’m going. Why should I be afraid of Heaven? I’m ready to die; I just don’t necessarily wanna take the next bus.” Then he laughed that hearty, deep, manly laugh that all who knew him would easily recognize.

Because I knew Lou well, I wasn’t surprised at his reply to my question. He honestly believed what he told me. He wasn’t masking his fear by attempting to be strong and uttering empty macho-driven words. He was certain of his eternal life in Heaven that can only come through Jesus.

Fortunately, I was able to spend some one-on-one time with Lou in his hospital room just a week before he died and was able to thank him for his friendship and what he and Betty had meant to Sue and me over the years.

It was a sweet, memorable time with him as we reminisced and laughed about the fun and life challenges we had shared since we met in 1983 during a Sunday School class at First Baptist Church in Daytona Beach. Along with two other couples in that class we developed a close-knit support group which encouraged, prayed and assisted each other through temporary financial difficulties we all faced. They were the worst of times; yet they were the best of times.

Lou and Betty had shocked us all by announcing one day that they were giving up their house to move into a fifth wheel RV and travel the country full-time. Frankly, we thought they were nuts! Unknowingly, they tricked us with the many phone calls and post cards they’d send from all over the country telling us how much fun they were having and how adventurous their lifestyle had become and how much fun it would be if we would join them some day. Little did we know then that several years later, in 2002, Sue and I would follow in their footsteps and become “full-timers” ourselves.

During that final guy-time together while waiting for Betty and Sue to join us, Lou’s oncologist came into the hospital room to visit with Lou. When I started to leave so they could visit privately, Lou insisted that I stay.

“Captain Lou,” (he called him that because Lou retired from 30 years in the Merchant Marine with the rank of Captain) he said gently and with obvious compassion, “I wish I could give you a shot to make this leukemia go away. But, there is no such shot and I’ve done all I can do for you medically. The leukemia has spread throughout your body and your systems are beginning to shut down and you don’t have much longer.”

Calmly, with absolutely no sign of fear on his face and with voice strong and steady, Lou asked: “How long do I have?” The doctor answered: “That’s difficult to project. My guess is anywhere from several days to two or three weeks, but certainly not a month.”

I was amazed at Lou’s reaction. None of the physical signs one would expect appeared – no gasp, no frown, no tear, no trembling lips, and no shaky voice. It was obvious that Lou had prepared himself emotionally for this announcement that he knew would eventually come sooner or later.

His response to the doctor’s news was to calmly ask what would happen to him physically. The doctor explained that hospice representatives would drop by that afternoon when Betty arrived to discuss ways they could help minimize the pain and keep Lou comfortable “until you pass.” (While I was there the doctor never used the term “die,” apparently trying to ease his patient’s anxiety.)

The conversation was interrupted by an attendant entering the room to check on Lou’s monitors. Politely, The doctor excused himself telling Lou that he would return when Betty arrived to reiterate his prognosis and answer any further questions they might have.

To prevent Lou from seeing the tears that had suddenly begun streaming down my cheeks, I followed the doctor out of the room and headed for a walk down the hall to gather my emotions. Shortly, Betty and Sue arrived and asked me how Lou was doing. Not wanting to blind-side Betty with all the details, I explained briefly what the doctor had said and that he was waiting to talk with both of them.

Reluctantly entering the room again at Betty’s insistence, Sue and I had the privilege, honor and blessing of “just being there” as the doctor once again explained the situation. Betty, too, was rock solid in her own strong faith as they both asked questions.

As he stood up from Lou’s bedside preparing to leave, the doctor asked Lou if he had any more questions. Lou said: “Yessir, I have one more. Where do you go to church?”

Somewhat reluctantly, the doctor explained that he wasn’t into organized religion even though he had grown up “as a Catholic” and had attended a Jesuit school. “I’ve probably used my doctoring as an excuse not to go to church,” he admitted.

Then, Lou asked another question. “If you were to die today and St. Peter asked you why he should let you into Heaven, what would you say?” Lou asked.

The doctor gave a typical answer. “Well, I’d tell him I’ve lived a good life and have been a pretty good person by trying to help sick people get well,” he said.

Then Betty chimed in: “Well, with all your Jesuit training you probably know that just being good isn’t enough. It takes more than that. It takes a personal relationship with Jesus to get his free gift of life eternal.”

Lou interrupted by saying that we can know for certain that we have eternal life and asked the doctor if he wanted to know how he could be sure.

Somewhat embarrassed, the doctor began to nervously back-pedal toward the door, commenting that he had patients to see and duties to perform. So, Betty and Lou changed the subject by thanking him for all he had done to help Lou. That done, the doctor left the room.

Sue and I immediately recognized that both Lou and Betty were using the Evangelism Explosion witnessing program all four of us had learned many years earlier.

Then, it hit us! Whoa!! On his deathbed literally less than 30 minutes since he was told he had less than a month to live, Lou was more concerned about the doctor’s salvation than he was about his own death! Amazing!

That, my friends, is what “living and walking in faith” means!

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