An Epistle to the Patron Saint of Sweetness

Written by Rev. T.J. Lucas, Chaplain of the Home He Built

Thank you West family for giving me space to speak in memory of our beloved Silas. Scripture gives us so many letters from the apostles, but not the ones written back. So this is mine — a letter back to apostle Silas, on All Saints Day

Grace and peace to you, Rev. Silas West, faithful servant of God and builder of holy ground from the humblest dirt. I come to you as the chaplain of the home you built as a Pastor. Out of dust and devotion, you shaped a place where God’s people could live with dignity — where laughter and prayer mingled like incense.

Many of the people you once hired still serve there, some became residents. They tell stories of not a boss but of a neighbor who would give rides when road conditions were poor, deliver turkeys and hams at the holidays — and ensure their kids had toys at Christmas time.

You may not have been the best businessman for profit’s sake, but you were the best prophet for the sake of God's business.

You ran that home not as an enterprise, but as a ministry. Genesis Chapter 2 verse 7 says:

“The Lord God formed man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life.” 

You lived that verse, Silas. You took dust and gave it form. 

When I came to serve there, I knew quickly that this was holy ground — Already, I have missed you monitoring the hall ways in your wheelchair offering help or words of encouragement. Sometimes money still troubled your heart, and I’d have to assure you everything was taken care of. You worried, yes, but you always trusted. You had known hardship, but you rarely let that veil of struggle show. One of our favorite hymns to sing together was It Is Well with My Soul. I found it often settled you on days your spirit was troubled. As did prayer and You prayed with such power that I believe every prayer you prayed poured life back into the dust of your being. I think that is why you lived so long: God could not help but breathe anew within you, again and again, answering your prayers to continue to serve.

When I’d preach, sometimes your spirit would catch fire and I could feel it coming. You’d inch your wheelchair closer and closer until you were toe-to-toe with me, declaring “Amen! Amen!” before launching into your own conversation with God. Some folks would get startled — the frozen chosen, not as accustomed to a spirited worship as you— and I’d have to assure them it was alright. Because what I saw in you was what worship is meant to be: loud, proud, alive.

You were anything but cold or contained. The only moments I ever felt any chill from you were yesterday, when I laid hands on you one last time, and once awhile ago, when I tried to offer you plain water. You reacted like I had tried to poison you.

I’ll miss that mischievous grin when we joked around or shared a sweet treat, or the day I asked how you were doing and you said, “Great — because I’m having apple pie today honey.” When I checked with everyone — staff and kitchen alike — no one knew anything about pie. It wasn’t promised, and it wasn’t on the menu. But that didn’t matter. Before the day was over, I ran to the store and made sure you had your apple pie — and of course, we had to top it with ice cream.

Even when you were mistakenly put on a modified diet, I snuck you a cookie because Silas West could not be denied his sweets — nor should he, the sweetest man I have ever known.

 And I declare this All Saints Day with whatever authority I have or don't have that Rev. Silas West is the Patron Saint of Sweetness. 

Dementia may have changed where you were in the moment, but it never touched your core being. Some days you were the preacher, the farmer, or the boss; other times the husband and father with mouths to feed. One day you told me you were working on the farm and had cut your lip but weren’t worried — “It’ll heal,” you said, “because I believe in God.” Then you looked at me and asked if I was a believer too and if I was happy with my pastor. Always the evangelist.

At times, you were looking for your beloved Buick — you loved that car enough to go searching for it often. But one day was different. You said you needed it to get a man to Philadelphia. I offered to go in your place, and that seemed to ease your heart. You smiled and told me I could borrow your Buick — but to be back in time to feed the chickens and pigs.

You also missed your brother Bud deeply. I recall a dream you told me about this year, that Bud was standing at the bottom of the most beautiful staircase you’d ever seen, telling you they were preparing a place for you, but it wasn’t time yet. That dream comforted you, and it comforts me now. 

When my own heart was heavy — I would retreat to your room and even though I'm supposed to be your chaplain at times you were my pastor too. I always left renewed.

You were joy embodied. “I love you, honey,” you’d say to all of us yet it was special for each of us. All of us–man or woman–your honey. That is what God’s love is really like — personal, abundant, unending, and sickeningly sweet in the best way.

And yes, I’ll confess it now before your family: one joyous day I texted Annette to tell her I had just been proposed to by her papa. You were only a little disappointed to learn I was taken — and so were you — because when we spoke of Betty, there was no mistaking your devotion. Just this morning, I found a recording of you praying over breakfast, forgetting about the food after a while and talking to God about how much you loved your daughter and all your kids — you tried to count them, then finally said, “I don’t know how many, but I love them all. And Betty — the best wife in the whole world.”

After you passed, I went back to your room and noticed for the first time the number 11. In sacred tradition, eleven marks divine presence and transition — how fitting for you. The sign that once covered it and read Rev. Silas West now reveals a truth: Room 11 -  a threshold between heaven and earth. And now, your name rests above another doorway — the one God prepared for you as Bud told you months ago, it is ready now beloved, Saint Silas.

I used to wonder what you were waiting for to go be with the Lord but now I see: you were waiting for All Saints’ Day. The day heaven and earth draw close and the faithful are remembered by name. Of course this was your day to finally be laid to rest. Well done, Silas. Well done.

We gather today in uncertain times, the harvest plentiful and the workers few but your life models for us how to move forward. It is our turn to answer that call and it is your turn to rest.

Grace and peace beloved friend, it is well with my soul,

Chaplain to the sweetest Pastor to have ever lived,

Reverend  T.J.