Wes King


From Wes

The passing of Wes’ Mother led to the words below which Wes read at her funeral.


We have all been lost at least once in our life. In a parking lot, in a big store, or in a park. If you are me whenever you come to a round-a-bout.

I remember being separated from my Mama when I must have been around 5 or 6 years old at the Big Apple Grocery Store in Winder, where she happened to work for over 20 years. I found my way to the front office  and asked if they would tell my mama to come find her son. I said my Mama’s name is Velda King. He did. I’ll never forget him saying over the loud speaker, “VELDA KING, VELDA KING, there is a lost boy at the front desk who needs his Mama”.

She came to me, like she always did, with a smile on her face.

I think she knew where I was the whole time.

I don’t think she ever took her eyes off me. The store wasn’t that big, but everything seems bigger when you are a little boy and can’t find your mama.

She brought me into this world.

She cared for me.

She rocked me to sleep.

She sang me to sleep.

Wiped my tears.

Washed my clothes.

Kissed my booboos.

She fed me clothed me.

She loved and served me.

She taught me how to love, live, and sing.

Her home always smelled like the comfort she was cooking. Her clothes were always spattered with just a little of the flour from the biscuits she’d been making. Still the best I have ever put in my mouth. A pretty, simple red dress, decorated with white lilly flour is what she will always be wearing in my memory of her. Those will always be the clothes of royalty to me. The attire of a queen. I thought I was eating her roast, her sausage, her fried chicken at the time. But now, I see I was partaking of her love, entering into her life as I feasted on love in the shape of a biscuit. She didn’t throw things in a microwave, heat it up and serve it on paper plates.  She lovingly prepared her gifts of life custom made to suit my starving taste buds.

I have to tell myself to be humble, because I’m not. She was humility. She didn’t know any other way to be. She never spoke about herself. She never had any intelligent insights to insert into a conversation to show how smart she was. But she was the wisest woman I have ever known. She didn’t say much, so what she did say is planted deep in my heart and Stands like the pillars of the earth. I’ll never forget telling her how I was singing songs to my little boys while they danced, and she said, “that is the most important audience you will ever play for dear”. And about my rambunctious boys "if they were too good they wouldn't be boys" Most of what she said was in how she lived her life. She was love. Patient, kind, long suffering, hopeful, she didn’t seek her own. Her own death wasn’t even about her to her. She was thinking of her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her sisters.

As her health starting declining, I still didn’t believe that anything could take my mother from me.  Living 6 hours away, and having health struggles of my own limited my ability to get home. But whenever I did, I would look for her with anticipation as I walked through that kitchen door.  She was often up waiting for me, or making biscuits. The last few month’s she was slower getting out of her chair. Her arm weighed her down, but she never complained. Her wound in her chest never healed. But she never complained.

She blessed my three sons. Each one with a special blessing. She charged them to walk the life of faith in the Lord Jesus. She told them to trust in the Lord with all their hearts. They gathered round her and smothered her with kisses, and bathed her with tears. She told them how much she loved each one of them. We rose up and called her blessed.

I told her to sing me a song when I die so I can find her in heaven. There are going to be a lot of people up there. I’ll know your voice. What song will you sing me, I asked her.

“I don’t know, let me think about it dear”.

What about one of my songs, I asked.

“Yes, I’ll do that”, she said.

Which one, I asked.

What about one I wrote for you.

She paused.

“No, how about “The Love of Christ”.

I said ok. That is a deal.

Heaven will be a big place for such a little soul as mine, for a boy who needs his Mama. She won’t need a loud speaker though. Her voice will be magnified by the beauty of her humility, and goodness, and the pure love of her Maker.

She will come to me, like she always has, with a smile on her lovely face.

She will know where I have been the whole time.

She will have never taken her eyes off me.

She will walk me down the road to eternity, never to be lost again, never to say goodbye again.

She may be wearing something heavenly red, decorated with spilt flour, from the biscuits she’s been making for the apostles, her mama, and daddy, her brother and all the saints who love a good biscuit, the bread of life.

I’ll have to wait my turn, but it will be worth it.

Living makes dying worth it!

Loosing mama is worth the ineffable gift of having had her.

Trying to describe her is like trying to color the Sistine chapel on a paper napkin with only two colors.

As she told my brother, “This world is a beautiful place”. It is beautiful, and made more so by those who are transformed by the Gospel the way my dear mother was.

I am blessed to have had such a mother.

May she find solace in the arms of her Savior.


My Mama