Authors: Ricky Skaggs
I'd get my mandolin out and play for a while to try to lift his spirits, maybe a hot instrumental from his glory years, like “Roanoke” or “Raw Hide.” Hearing the mandolin would usually get him feeling better. After a few songs, he'd grab the mandolin from me and play a few chords of a familiar tune, just to let me know he still remembered and still could.
It was his way of telling me he was hanging in there and wasn't whipped yet. On the outside he might have been a frail old man, but on the inside he was still the same ol' Bill, and there was still a fire in his soul. He'd survived car wrecks, a broken back, open-heart surgery, even cancer. I really hoped he'd get better and get to go home to his farm, but I knew in my heart that it wasn't gonna happen.
The last time I saw him alive, Bill was alone in his wheelchair. He didn't have many visitors anymore. He had on his Blue Grass Boys hat, that old white Stetson, but he couldn't talk and could barely move. He looked so depressed and so lifeless, you could tell he didn't want to be in the nursing home anymore. When I walked into the room, he looked at me kinda strange and then he looked away.
It just about killed me to see him like that, but I tried to stay cheerful. I got his mandolin from the night table, and I played “Raw Hide,” his signature instrumental tune. He'd written it in the backseat of a limousine before he was forty, when he was strong enough to carry all the Blue Grass Boys on his shoulders. I thought for sure “Raw Hide” would pep him up. I held the mandolin out to him and said, “All right, Bill, I want you to play one for me now.” But he didn't even reach for it.
I asked the nurse how he'd been feeling. “Not good,” she said. “You know, a while before he stopped talking, he kept saying how he was wanting to be going home.” I said, “He ain't wanting to go to Goodlettsville, is he?” She shook her head, and she pointed up to heaven. I said, “Well, if he don't want to play music anymore, he's ready for the Lord to take him home.”
So I hugged and kissed him and told him I loved him, and I said a prayer. Then I blessed him, same as he'd blessed me at my house, and I said I'd play his music as long as I lived. I promised I'd take bluegrass everywhere I played, and I'd tell the story of how he started it. He didn't say a word, but I know he heard me.
When I left his room that day, I knew I wouldn't see him again on this side of heaven. But I thanked the Lord for all He'd done through Mr. Monroe's life and music. Then I had a good long cry driving home.
That was on a Friday morning, and I had to go on the road that weekend. Bill died on Monday. His memorial service was at the Ryman Auditorium, and it was one of those occasions that only could happen at the Mother Church. There were lots of artists and Opry stars there to pay tribute: Ralph Stanley, Marty Stuart, Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, Vince Gill, Patty Loveless, and many others who loved him. Emmylou sang “Wayfaring Stranger,” which Bill had requested, and we joined in for an a cappella rendition of “Angel Band.”
While the preacher spoke his eulogy, we were gathered backstage. I looked at a digital clock on the table, and it glowed “11:11.” Eleventh chapter, eleventh verse. The numbers were illuminated, and it was speaking to my heart like it was a sign. I told Marty it was a Scripture that I had to look up when I got home. The memorial service was almost over, and we'd sung all these mournful songs, and somehow it didn't seem right to end on such a sad note. So when we went back on stage, Marty made an announcement over the microphone. “We're gonna send Mr. Monroe home with a fiery tune to celebrate his life. Let's do âRaw Hide,'” and I said, “Yeah, let's do it!”
First, though, I warned anybody in the crowd who might be offended. “If you have a problem with this, well, just get over it. It won't last long.” Then we went for broke and played “Raw Hide” fast and furious and flat-out hog wild, and the audience packing the Ryman felt an electric shock. We all did. It was a holy-ghost experience.
They escorted Mr. Monroe's casket out of the Mother Church of Country Music with a bagpipe ensemble. It was like a king or a chieftain being honored. The highlands pipers played “Amazing Grace,” and I thought of the grace God had shown him all through the yearsâfrom the Ryman Auditorium, where on the Grand Ole Opry the world heard bluegrass for the very first time, to Rosine, where Bill played his very first notes on the mandolin.
When I got home, I took out my Bible and looked at some Scriptures. Then my eyes fell on Isaiah 11:11: “And it shall come to pass in that day that the Lord shall reach out his hand again the second time.” The second time. That's what caught my attention. It was the Lord's way of saying that Mr. Monroe's music was the seed and that there was going to be more fruit to come from it in the future than there was in the past.
I felt like it was the Lord saying,
I'm going to bless this music again that I birthed through Bill Monroe, but it won't be for Bill Monroe's or any man's glory. It will be for My glory
. I felt like I'd been called to help spread the music, and to do my part in that evangelization. Today I look back and see how bluegrass music has exploded in popularity since 1996, the year Mr. Monroe passed away. There are now more people playing it and hearing it and loving it than ever before!
Not too long after Mr. Monroe's passing, I was with Ralph one night, and he asked me, “Did you get Bill's mandolin?” It was a good question, 'cause Bill knew how much that mandolin meant to me. It was like King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, to me. Well, there was no doubt it was headed to the Country Music Hall of Fame, not to a person, whether it was me or anybody else. “No,” I told him. “But I got his blessing, and that's better than the mandolin.” And Ralph said, “Yeah, I guess you're right, Rick.” He understood what I was talking about, but I have to tell you, I'd a-sure loved to have that legendary Loar! That was the same mandolin I played in Martha, Kentucky, when I was six years old!
I
n his last years, my dad was laid back and happy as could be. He was a homebody, and he was very content with family life back on the creek. He puttered around and worked on the house and played his music and hunted a little ginseng. With the exception of his back giving him pain, he was healthy as a horse into his late sixties, when he was diagnosed with a disease called myelofibrosis. It's a type of leukemia, a blood cancer that affects your bone marrow stem cells. It's a progressive disorder, and very debilitating. Even after he got sick, though, he did his best to keep to his routine. He'd take shots to boost his white-cell count, and he'd feel good for a while. But the disease gradually wore him down.
Sharon and I would often take the kids and go up to Brushy and spend time with him. He still had his passion for music, only now he'd get to where he was too tired to play. He'd sit there and play his guitar till he dropped his pick. Then he'd sit and listen to us for a while. It lifted his spirits, for sure, but it just wasn't the same as the old days, when he was the ringleader and the last man standing.
One time I went by myself for a visit. I got alone with him, 'cause there was a question I really needed to ask. I wanted to make sure there weren't any bad feelings or grudges between us. Maybe there was something I'd said or done that had hurt him. A wound that was festering, that he hadn't been able to let go of.
He and Mom had gone through a lot of pain watching every one of their children struggle with divorce and broken families. He was supportive, but I know it hurt him deep down. You suffer seeing your kids suffer, and you want to help, but you really can't do much as a parent. He and Mom were such an example of love and trust and friendship, but that wasn't enough, 'cause my siblings and I all fell short. It took more than what Mom and Dad had mirrored.
And then there was that time at Frontier Ranch when Dad reached for his guitar from the trunk of the car and I had to put my hand on his arm and tell him that Ralph Stanley just wanted me and Keith to play. I could see the hurt in his heart then, and I felt it, too. It was the first separation that had to come between us. It was hard on us both when I started to pull away into a life of fame. He'd been with me the first time I picked up a mandolin.
These painful memories had been weighing on my mind. I wanted a chance to apologize and ask him to forgive me for anything that I had done to hurt him.
When it was just the two of us in the room, I took a deep breath and asked him, “Dad, is there anything bad or strained between us that we need to get cleared up?” He gave me a funny look and said, “Why, no, son! Everything's good!” I told him, “I just wanted to make sure there was nothing that could come between us on this side of heaven.” He smiled, paused for a second or two, and said, “There ain't nothin' between us. It must have been hard for you to ask me that, son!”
Well, it was kinda hard to press him on such a thing, I guess, but probably not as hard as it must have been for him to forgive and let go after all the pain that we kids had put him and Mom through. Somewhere in his life, he'd dealt with all that hurt, but all was forgiven. Now there was only love. That lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders. It was another gift from my dad, and I was so grateful to have received it.
I've told you how important music was to Dad. Even in his last hours, when he couldn't speak a word, it was foremost on his mind. I remember when the family was gathered around his sickbed. He was having a hard time breathing. It was so quiet that all you could hear was him struggling for breath. He grabbed my mother's hand and squeezed it real tight and started pounding out a rhythm, like he wanted us to sing something.
So we started singing an old hymn, and his eyes filled with joy. He just perked right up at the cheerful sound of our voices. Even in his last few moments, he wanted music around him. To this very day, I haven't met anyone who loved music more than my dad. I was so glad he was able to bless us that-a-way before he went on home.
Then something happened, and I'm not sure exactly what. It's a mystery. We'd finished the hymn, and it got real quiet. We noticed Dad was staring at the wall across the room. Just a bare wall, no window or pictures or nothing. Well,
he
saw something, and he got a surprised look on his face, a look of awe and wonder. He was looking right past us, and he stretched out his arms like something or someone was coming for him.
Now, I was there in the room, and I still don't know how to explain it to you. All I can tell you is it was real, as real as can be! I don't know if it was an angel or the Lord Jesus Himself, but Dad saw someone from the other side, and he was reaching out like he was ready to follow. He passed on shortly after, and he had a look of total peace and assurance on his sweet old face. His eyes had seen heaven, and he wouldn't have stayed here with us even if he could have.
We had the funeral for Dad in Louisa, and there were folks there from all over eastern Kentucky, Ohio, Tennessee, and North Carolina. He had touched so many lives, whether it was helping out with a repair or hosting a picking party at the house or giving away vegetables from his garden. He was as good a friend and neighbor as he was a father. People were coming up to me at the service, and they were crying and saying how sorry they were. Some said they went to grade school with dad. Many told me, “Your dad was my best friend.”
They were just trying to express their sympathy. I appreciated the condolences, but I wanted them to know his passing wasn't all about gloom and sadness. His death wasn't the end, and I was so happy and so hopeful. Scripture tells us to be joyous at a funeral, especially when we know where our loved ones are going. “Dad's not hurting,” I told them. “He's up in heaven, and that's something to rejoice about.”
This assurance is what Christ died for us to have. Freedom! Freedom from guilt, shame, bitterness, envy, strife, and all of the weight that the Devil wants to heap upon us. But we don't have to carry it. Jesus said in Matthew 11:29â30, “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in my heart, and you will find rest for your souls, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
Dad's passing was light and easy because he was free. He had no one to forgive. He had no bitterness, no guilt. He'd laid all of that down at the Cross.
I just want to encourage you to make every effort that you can to go to your dad, mom, brother, sister, neighbor, or whoever it might be whom you haven't forgiven or who hasn't been able to forgive youâand forgive them or accept their forgiveness and try to make things right with them. Maybe it's not possible for you, but with the Holy Spirit there is no distance. Wherever you are, you can ask God to forgive them, and you can also ask God to forgive you for what you've done to somebody.
I promise you, when you do that, you'll set them free, and you'll also set your own self free. Dad was prayed up and ready to go, but I've had to sing at funerals where I really didn't know if the person had made their peace with God or not, and that's a tough thing.
Mom didn't doubt Dad was in heaven, but it didn't help much in her sorrow. She lived in a time and a place where you're expected to grieve for weeks and months and even years. Some folks call that respecting the dead, but if they are with Jesus, they ain't dead, they're rejoicing. And that's what we should do.
Ecclesiastes tells us there's a time to mourn and a time to laugh. Grieving is important for healing, but not if it gets to the point where it rules your lifeâwhere you can't find joy in waking up mornings, where there's so much grief that you don't go anywhere and enjoy things, where you're almost afraid to laugh 'cause people might think,
Well, gosh, her husband's only been gone for six months, and look at her!
Some of that was pressing down on my mom. I tried to explain to her about the verse from Hebrews 12:1 that talks about how we're surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, our loved ones and all the saints who've gone home to glory, and that they're all watching down from heaven, cheering us on, praying us on, and encouraging us on. I think it helped her some, but Dad's passing was a loss she never fully recovered from.