Blessed are the Meek

When I read the Beatitudes in Matthew as an American, as a child, and maybe even as a young adult, that verse “Blessed are the meek” always seemed to be a glorification being a sissy.  That’s right.  I have said it:  sissy.  Perhaps others had shared these thoughts too, giving rise to the sad and sappy looking Jesus from the paintings of the middle ages.

Several years ago, I heard from a preacher (sorry, I don’t remember his name to blame or give credit to) that the word used for “meek” was related to the word used for a bridle that would be put on a horse.  This raises another memory.

My favorite childhood Saturday morning TV serial was a show called “Fury”.  It was about this wild stallion (conveniently named Fury, of course) that everyone feared.  But a little orphan boy who had been shipped off to a nearby ranch was able not only make friends with fury, but was able to put a bridle with a bit on the black stallion. The little boy weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, while Fury was more like 1,200 or 1,500 pounds. The stallion willingly submitted to bridle.  In fact he almost seemed to welcome it.  All that power, willingly subdued by a bridle.

My dad was like that.  Clifford Byrd was bridled:  kind to all, careful in his choice of works, easy to love, gracious to all.

He willingly was bridled by many:  God (and His Holy Spirit), his dear friend Jesus, my mom (now there was one wild pony!), his boys, his extended family.  Well, in fact he was kind to everyone he ever met.  And I mean everyone.

His strength was on reserve.  It showed in multiple ways.  My favorite two were told to me by my mom, after dad slipped ahead to Heaven.

Shortly after they were married, he did something my mom didn’t like.  According to her, “she flew into him like a mad wet hen.”  She said he don’t not interrupt her at all.  When her stack was fully blown, he said simply, “Well, I hope that made you feel better.  But it did not make feel better at all.”  Mom said she felt an inch tall.  His strength (and compassion) for her obviated the need for a fiery response.  The bridle and the bit harnessed his response.

When their first baby, named Billy, was stillborn at 9 months.  My dad went out near the landlord’s peach tree by himself and buried his baby boy.  The strength he displayed in “fulfilling his duties” render me almost speechless.

In 1912, on July 30^th, my dad and his twin brother, clyde, were born.  Clyde died of appendicitus at 5 years.  Dad would have been 97 this year.  He died 20 years ago this past January.  Has it been that long? 

For more than 20 years I have been trying learn to wear that bridle he wore so easily (was it easy, or did he just make it seem so?).  Clearly it is too big for me.  But still, I keep trying to grow into it.  Yet this one thing I know . . . .

Blessed are the meek.

So, Dad, it seems you ran on ahead.  Way before I was ready for you to leave the world in our hands.  Well, it won’t be long.  I will see you soon.  I love the bridle.

Love to you (and mom),

Jerry

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