Opinion : The inspiration for my old cap -- and why I waited so long to get a new one

The clock on my laptop reads 11:35, but that’s Iowa time.

It’s 12:35 Eastern Standard Time here in central Kentucky, where we have been working a couple hours south of Lexington, in a beautiful and very remote region of the Appalachian foothills.

I came here for many reasons: To learn more about the whole mission trip process. To learn more about how our church tries to help people. To learn some new skills. To help others. To meet new people.

But my most important reason for coming is this: To tell my mission team partners about my two Kentucky caps.

I was in Kentucky, although the western part, in 1999. The last thing I did before returning to Iowa was to stop to buy a blue and white cap with the easy-to-recognize University of Kentucky logo.

I still have that cap, although it’s well-worn, partially chewed by a puppy and dotted with stains and paint.

I promised myself I’d keep it until I got back to Kentucky to buy another one.

I’ve never had a cap this long.

But before I tell you about those caps, I need to tell you about a song.

It’s a bluegrass gospel song, a song about heaven. I am not a big fan of either bluegrass or songs about heaven. I prefer in my music a little less banjo and a little more thoughts about how to live here and now.

“More to go to heaven for,” however, is an exception. It’s a 35-year-old (at least) song that mentions several things that the singer looks forward to in Heaven.

There’s a golden street to walk upon

A bell I’m gonna ring

A brand new angel in the choir

I wanna hear him sing

There’ll be a lot of friends awaiting

When I walk through the gate

I’ve got more to go to heaven for

Than I had yesterday

I can tell you exactly where I was when I first heard this song, and at exactly what time of day I heard it. Most importantly, I remember who sang it.

I was in bed, at 10:35 p.m., in a dorm in a small Christian college outside a very small town named Export, in southeastern Pennsylvania. At that time in my life, I thought that maybe I’d be doing full-time what I am doing this week – helping others through some church or organization.

One of my classmates there was Randy Crowell, from Kentucky.

Randy was the first – and I do believe the only – person with a handicap to attend that school. A quadriplegic, he arrived in his wheelchair at a campus full of buildings with lots of steps and no elevators.

He had lived a healthy, normal life until a diving accident at around age 16 left him unable to walk, or to do more with his hands then move a wheelchair and feed and shower himself.

Randy dedicated himself to serving God and helping others as best as he could. After graduating from that school, he went on to be a youth counselor.

But at the school, I saw him every day, and learned more from him than almost anyone else I have ever met.

I sat beside him at our introductory meeting, when all of the new students stood to introduce themselves.

“I refuse to stand up,” Randy said.

He always made us laugh.

Like many old college dorms, the water temperature of the showers was frequently erratic. If someone flushed the toilet, there was a good chance the person in the shower would get a shot of scalding water.

Randy loved these moments.

He would always be singing in the shower, and even while listening to that smooth baritone voice, some poor schmuck would forget. At times, I was the poor schmuck.

Randy would hear the sound of the flush, push himself out of the way of the scalding stream, and then scream like he’d been attacked by a swarm of bees.

Then when the other guy would come rushing around the corner to see how badly he burned the guy in the wheelchair, he’d only see Randy there, grinning, safely away from the hot water.

Randy was unbelievably tolerant with the clumsy way that people handled his disability, both physically and socially. He explained to me the difference between disabled and handicapped. He did not complain when school officials did stupid things like remove the wooden blocks from the table where Randy sat in a misguided attempt to impress visitors. The blocks enabled Randy’s wheelchair to go under the table; you can imagine trying to eat without your chair situated that way. Now try to imagine eating like that with limited use of your hands.

Neither did Randy complain when at graduation, he was not allowed to wheel his way with the other graduates. Instead, his chair was placed in the front row.

“He’s not dead! He’s only in a wheelchair!” exclaimed one of Randy’s friends. Randy, however, said nothing.

Randy didn’t complain when a careless classmate tried to take him down a slope sideways and literally dumped him on his head.

“Oh, me,” was all I heard him say, as I wished I had run toward his mishap faster.

And he patiently explained to those unfamiliar with the routine how to help get him up and down the several stairs that were in the main building that housed the cafeteria and sanctuary. And yes, there were a few more mishaps and scary, bumpy rides down the steps in the wheelchair.

It was that wheelchair that accompanied the song the night I first heard it – and I was privileged to hear that song on many nights.

Randy had asked our dean for a job, like all of the other students were assigned. He got the duty of dry-mopping the floor with a wide dust mop. Every night, I would hear the mop and the chair clicking along, as Randy would sing.

That was where and when I learned to love “More to go to Heaven for.”

I have heard many groups sing that song; not one version has inspired me more than Randy’s.

His friends remember him holding fingers with his girlfriend. And his singing. And the quiet way he went about his life, accepting his disability, and accepting the fact that too many of us didn’t know how to properly deal with it.

We lost touch with Randy in 1988, when I returned to Iowa and he to Kentucky. Eleven years later, as we began to use email to connect with old friends, we heard from Randy. He was doing well, working with youth. He had married Marla, a breast cancer survivor.

A few weeks later, Randy found out he had cancer. He died just a few weeks after that.

I didn’t think twice. I rearranged my schedule and my wife and I drove to Kentucky for his funeral.

“I can’t believe how much this hurts,” said Marla, as she stood outside our car, talking to some of Randy’s former classmates.

I couldn’t tell you what the preacher said at the funeral, or even where Randy is buried. But I remember gathering with those who knew him when I did, sharing our memories of what we learned from him.

On the way out of Kentucky, I stopped to buy that cap. I didn’t really have a style or color in mind – just anything that said Kentucky, something I could wear in honor of Randy.

I promised myself I’d keep that hat until I had a chance to return to Kentucky to buy another one.

This week, as soon as possible after crossing the Ohio River from the north, I asked the driver to stop, although my excuse was to buy allergy medicine.

Tonight, as our group gathers around for devotions and a review of the day’s events, it will be my turn to share what I think and what I have learned this week.

I will put my laptop in the middle of our circle, next to my new Kentucky cap. I will tell them about my old one, and about Randy – after I play for them the version of “More to Go to Heaven For” that I bought and downloaded for this trip.

And I will try – although I still have not found the words to do so as well as Randy deserves – to tell them why I wear that cap, and what I hope they will remember when they see me back in Hawkeye, Cyclone and Panther Country, wearing that blue Wildcat on my head.