Today, I sat down in the pews. I wore my Sunday best. The cowboys all sat hat in hand. They’d see him laid to rest.
His daughter gave the eulogy for a man we’re proud to know. Each cowboy pal will miss him. He’s the first of us to go.
This cowboy didn’t show his age and doggone young at heart. So, why did God snatch him away, to leave his lone sweetheart?
He always knew just what to do without a need to ask. He’d saddle up or flip the eggs, was good at any task.
The preacher, in his eloquence and rambling monologue, dulled my mind. I pondered. Now our wheel has lost a cog.
My mind reflected back about a year or so, I’d say. When an ornery pack horse kicked him back to dang near yesterday.
But our cowboy friend stood to his feet, a goose egg on his head. I heard him say, “I’m slowin up. Next time I could be dead!”
Did God give us a warning ’bout our friend’s impending fate? For sure our God must know of every cowboy’s final date.
I’ve heard it said the line is thin from earth to after-life. I’m reminded how the heartache pain is sharper than a knife.
But then I heard the singing. Surely must have been from heaven. ’Twas the cowboy’s own grandchildren with the most divine impression.
Their voices sang like Angels, wondrous chorus from above. The tears rolled down their cheeks while singing of a Grandpa’s love.
I’ve never seen so many crying, almost everyone. And if your eyes were dry, you’re one cold-hearted son of a gun.
So today, I plumb forgot about hard benches for my buns. ’Cuz I caught a glimpse of heaven from the cowboy’s little ones.
Bryce Angell has lived around horses all his entire life and is a registered nurse in Idaho Falls.