Treasures New and Old

The teachers of the law spoke with dull words that usually failed to increase understanding and propagate faith. They spoke truth but their logical explanations did not invoke interest in the human heart or instigate passion in the human soul. But Jesus could stir a crowd with the power of a story. The words of Jesus did not enable His listeners to grasp the history of their traditions or the nuances of their theology. But they went home inspired. Jesus’s parables had one simple point. The listeners surely did not remember the details of each parable but what they did recall gave them great lessons to mull over and discuss. 

Jesus did not give deductive lectures that the crowds had to choose whether or not to be a part of. But in His parables Jesus presented inductive thoughts that encircled those who gathered to listen. When I read the parables of Jesus, I find myself in the middle of the story. I cannot just walk away from it but I must make a decision. I can either reject the truth being taught or I can ponder that truth and examine it. My examination of the truth portrayed in the parable may still not cause me to embrace it. But it forces me to make another decision. I must decide to journey with Jesus by following the lessons He taught or choose to walk another path.

In Matthew 13 Jesus told a series of parables that compared familiar activities and events to the kingdom of heaven.  Each parable taught a lesson about the value and the priority of the kingdom of heaven. When Jesus finished speaking, He asked the disciples “Have you understood all these things?”. Maybe Jesus grinned when they quickly answered “Yes”. Surely, they had not understood everything taught in those parables. None of us have. Jesus did not quibble with their answer but gave a one sentence reply “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like a master of a house, who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old” (Matthew 13:52 ESV).

The scribes were the teachers of the law.  Humbly it occurs to me that I, a Baptist preacher, am a scribe who has been trained for the kingdom. God in His sovereignty called me and gave me some of “the secrets of the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 13:11 ESV). Jesus said a trained scribe was like master of a house. The master of a house was in charge of the welfare, the instruction, the mission, and the hospitality of the house. If one is a benevolent master of a house, he does not distribute junk to those who live in or who are guest in his household. But he reaches into his treasure and brings out the good stuff. The good stuff is that which we value and protect. It is that which we have discovered in the word of God and store deep within us. The good stuff, our treasures, are the basis of our convictions. We handle them carefully and display and dispense of them with prudence.

The scribe who is like the master of the house reaches deep into his treasure and brings out something new and something old. I ask myself “what can I retrieve from my treasure, both new and old, that will enhance the kingdom? How can I take the old truth and communicate it in fresh new ways”?

I recall days of yesteryear when I stood to preach with quivering knees and fluttering heart. It was not just nervousness but it was a Holy Spirit induced unction to accurately share what I had learned from God. I hope I can still pull from my treasure a passion for the word of God that translates into orations of substance that will move the listener or reader toward a greater commitment to the Lord. I trust that the words that flow from my soul enable people to have a wide peripheral kingdom vision. I pray that the criteria of the meditations of my heart are not based on biased earthly allegiances. The church is languishing because we have divided the kingdom with terms like left and right, white and black, contemporary and traditional. May God help us who are scribes trained for the kingdom of heaven to bring from our treasure ideas both new and old that will lead the church to a broader functionality.

The Value of a Tombstone

Two weeks before my grandmother Ada Cloyd was nine (9) years old she lost her mother to tuberculosis (TB). Grandma did not talk much and if you wanted information you had to pry it out of her. I asked her once what she remembered about her childhood and she said she remembered that when her mother died she and her two older sisters, ages 13 and 11, and her younger brother, age 7 were all sitting on the bed around her father as he told them what had happened. She said that all of them were crying. That may have been my grandmother’s only lasting memory of her parents because two weeks later her father was found dead under a tree where he had been plowing with his mules. He was buried on my grandmother’s 9^th birthday, May 27, 1916. Uncle Vince and Aunt Lucy and their daughter, who lived just down the road on the neighboring farm, moved into their house and provided the care and guidance needed until she and her siblings were grown. I am sure there were lots of stresses and struggles with that arrangement but my grandmother always held Uncle Vince and Aunt Lucy in high regards.

Her parents were buried in the family plot in a country cemetery. I have visited that cemetery a few times and have observed that many of the older graves are simply marked with sandstone rocks without name or words of eulogy or notations of the deceased date of birth and death. Such was the case with my great-grandparents when they were buried there in 1916. Poor people have poor ways. There were more critical things to spend money on than a properly cut and inscribed stone. It was left to family and friends to remember where their loved ones were buried. It was the responsibility of the older generations to pass this information and the accompanying stories along. Though my grandmother had a limited experience with her parents, preserving their legacy and memory was important to her. Those barren sandstone grave markers were not sufficient to honor their lives. When she became an adult, perhaps twenty or more years after her parents death she purchased out of her own funds granite tombstones that have now for decades marked the resting place of Noah and Izabel Gill. I was born 41 years after the deaths of my great-grandparents. But I know their story because someone told me. I can find their graves because someone respected them enough to buy a tombstone. It is right to honor our dead. It is good to preserve our memories. It is healthy to recall who we are even if when we do not know the ancestors in our lineage that made us who we are.  Remembering our loved ones who have gone on demonstrates our love and gratitude and regard for them. Taking the time and effort to do so adds value and dignity to our own human story.

Funeral Visitations

My folks went to a lot of funerals and visitations for funerals when I was growing up. Many times I was privileged to participate in these functions. The first time I remember being at a funeral home was when my maternal grandfather Morgan Williams died. My dad picked me up in his arms and took me to the casket. As we stood there he gently explained to me that though it looked like he was sleeping that he had died. He told me that we would not get to see him any more after that day. But that my grandfather had gone to heaven and he was ok. I was five years old at the time and I guess that is about as much information a five year old boy can process. I remember many times when I was growing up that my dad would be called upon to serve as a pallbearer at a funeral for some family member or a neighbor or someone at church or even for someone that he barely knew. When this happened my dad would rearrange his work day and take care of this task. Without knowing it I think my dad was teaching me the lesson that when death occurs you have to deal with the inconvenience and stop long enough to respect the dead and express love to the families of the dead. When my dad died I rode to the cemetery in the hearse with the funeral director and he recounted to me the many times my dad had helped with a funeral by being a pallbearer. And that was just one funeral home! As my parents aged their funeral going activity increased. I would call them and ask them what they had been doing and they would tell me what town they had gone to for a funeral and whose funeral it was. I told them I thought they had found a new social outlet! My dad said "well son, that's what you do when you get older and your friends begin to die".

I have been to a lot of funerals and funeral visitations myself. I have delivered the eulogy at more than 300 funerals. I have stood in long lines and waited my turn to shake hands with or put my arm around a loved one and express my appreciation for the deceased and offer my condolences. I hoped that my brief moment by their side was helpful. But often I have wondered if it made a difference or not. When my dad and mother died I stood at sentry by their caskets and greeted each person who came through. I don't think I missed a one. And I discovered that each person who took the time and made the effort to come to the funeral home brought joy and comfort to my soul. Their presence and their words were a precious gift that I treasured.

I think I am coming to the point in life when like my dad and mother I may be going to more funerals. Not because I have a professional responsibility but because I have friends who are dying and loved ones of friends who are dying. Does it make any difference to touch base with friends and family at times like this? Maybe I am old fashion but I think it does. Visiting the grieving and helping people bury their dead may or may not be a spiritual activity. But it is one of the most human and neighborly things we can do.

Sifting Through the Shavings

My Uncle Raymond McWhorter lived to the ripe old age of ninety-five. Actually he was my great-uncle being married to my grandfather’s younger sister Ann. Together Raymond and Ann raised five children, all of whom went on to live successful, productive, and honest lives. Uncle Raymond did a lot of things in his life. He was deputy sheriff for a while and made an unsuccessful bid to become sheriff. He drove a school bus and ran a gas station for brief periods of time. Mostly he was a farmer and he always had a truck that enabled him to pick up a few extra dollars hauling for neighbors and others who did not have a truck. Uncle Raymond lived slow and easy never getting overly excited about much. That is probably what made him a good trader and such a good at handling cattle (and maybe what helped him to live so long). When I knew Uncle Raymond he would go to the stockyards two or three times a week. I guess he practiced what we called “pinhooking”. Meaning that he would go to the sale barn, buy a animal or two from those bringing cattle to market, in the hopes of reselling them at a small profit perhaps even that same day. Or maybe he just went to the stock yards because it was a good place to loaf and catch up on the news. I knew Uncle Raymond as a kind and gracious man who was always willing to help a family member or neighbor. He took an interest in people, even if you were a great nephew who was just a boy. Now Uncle Raymond had his vices. He smoked a lot of Lucky Strikes. He was known to have sampled his share of Kentucky Whiskey (though I have to say I never detected any evidence of that). For leisure he loved to fox hunt and would stay out all night with his dogs and buddies enjoying the sport. Sometimes he would have to spend the daylight hours rounding up his dogs. He would sooner sleep in a lawn chair in the yard, day or night, than he would sleep in the house. But if that is the most harmful thing you can say about a person you really don’t have much to say. That is particularly so when these habits are accompanied with a persona of kindness and charm.

Uncle Raymond was not a churchman. But that changed one Sunday afternoon when he was in his mid 60’s. Upon testimony and encouragement given by a family member he gave his heart to the Lord and that very day was baptized into Christ and joined the fellowship of the Mt. Carmel Christian Church. To the surprise of a lot of folks he became a faithful worshipper of the Lord Jesus. As Aunt Ann aged she developed Alzheimer’s. When this occurred Uncle Raymond blossomed into a gentle and compassionate caregiver. For two years he barely left her side tending to her every need. When it finally became necessary to transition her to a nursing home he still made the trip every day to see her.

After Aunt Ann passed away Uncle Raymond re-married. Stories get a little twisted sometimes but here is the way I heard it: One of Uncle Raymond’s old fox hunting buddies had died. Uncle Raymond called his widow one day and said “I am looking for a wife.  Do you want to get married”? She said “I don’t know I’ll have to think about it”. Two hours later he calls her back and said “Well did you think about it”. The details are probably a little different than that but he and Mary did get married and enjoyed several years together before she passed away. Sometime before she passed he had also buried one of his sons.

I stopped to visit Uncle Raymond one day not to long after Mary had died. His eyesight was failing him. But I found him sitting under a shade tree whittling. He did a lot of that because there were enough shavings under that tree to fill a garbage bag. I enjoyed visiting with him. I asked him a few questions and then waited and listened to his careful drawn out responses. It took time to listen to Uncle Raymond. He was not going to give you much quick. He was not going to give you any information he did not want to tell you. That is the way he always was and that part of him had not changed with age. He said something to me that day that I have reflected upon quite a bit. He said “I don’t know why I whittle, I don’t make anything. I just whittle. It is just something to do”.  I guess if you live to be ninety-five and all your friends are dead and gone, you have buried two wives and one son, and your eyesight has failed and you are not able to do much and you are limited in where you can go, finding a shade tree and whittling is an ok thing to do. But I think he did make something. He made shavings. And as he whittled he looked down into those shavings and remembered and relived and reflected on his life. Each shaving he whittled from those sticks of wood was part of his life story. In that pile of shavings were his memories of joys and sorrows, people and places, events and ideas. In that pile of shavings were his thoughts of who he was and who he had become and who he would become in that glorious place he would go when his life on earth was over. Uncle Raymond kept most of his thoughts close to his vest. But if I had the opportunity to sift through that pile of shavings I think I might have his whole story.

Quinton Rutledge

Quinton Rutledge was in my 5^th grade class at Eastern Elementary School in Scott County, KY. Miss Carpenter was our teacher. I recollect that Quinton was slender and had brown wavy hair. He sat parallel to me in the row to my left. I remember him as being a quite person. I don’t recall him complaining about not feeling well. But one day he went home from school and had an appendicitis attack. They took him to the hospital but his appendix had ruptured and he died. He left school one day and the next morning we got the news that he was dead. You don’t get much school work accomplished after giving or receiving that kind of news. Quinton’s mother was the secretary at our school. So she had to come to work at the school where her son was supposed to be and watch the activity of other children and then go home without her son. Quinton’s father was a farmer. He had to work the fields around their farmstead with the constant reminder of the emptiness left by his absence. The school bus I rode went by the white two-story weather boarded house where Quinton lived.  Every day I would look at that house and sense the sadness and pain that surely dwelled within those walls. I listened to my own mother express sorrow for the family. Mother always shuddered when a family lost a child the same age as one of her own. That has been 48 years ago. But that is the kind of thing one does not easily forget.

There is a lot of pain and suffering in the world. I have been right in the middle of a lot of it. The longer I live and the more I see and the longer I reflect the more I am determined not to be involved in fussing about small things. There are too many important things and hurtful things that need my attention and emotion. I cannot solve all or even most of the problems I encounter. But I can soothe them. I can share the truth of God and exercise the love of God and pray for the power of God. And my feeble lips can deliver a word from God in the hope and belief that it will bring hope and comfort to tortured souls. Life is too short and often too tragic to do otherwise.

Forty Year Reunion

In the spring of 1975 I graduated from Scott County High School in Georgetown, KY. That was 40 years ago. They held a big reunion this past week end but I did not go. I have not been to any other of my reunions either so I am certain my absence was not a surprise to anyone. With the exception of one person I have not really kept any contacts with my high school friends. It has been much too long to make any real connectivity now. Besides I work every weekend and I live a lon...g way away. So the time and expense would be much too great for a rendezvous with people I barely know. Besides I am not that good at parties. I had lots of good excuses. So I ignored the invitations and pleas to come to the reunion and decided to let high school remain a distant experience from the past. In recent years however I have re-connected with a few of my classmates via facebook and somehow I got added to a group called Scott County High School Class 1975. The morning after the reunion people started posting pictures and I got curious. I did not recognize some of them. Of the ones I did recognize I was a bit relieved to discover that I had survived the 40 years as well as most of them had. There were 152 of us in that graduating class. I was saddened to discover that 16 of those have died. Surely in this age of modern medicine that is way too many. I mean I am only 58. That is not old is it?

That got me to thinking about the brevity of life. Indeed I have way more years behind me than I can expect to have in front of me. When this life is over there will be a glad reunion in heaven and I plan to attend that one. Indeed God has put eternity in the hearts of mankind. But since life is brief I want to live well and do something of significance while I am here. The British missionary C. T. Studd wrote a famous oft quoted two line poem: “Only one life, ‘twill soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last”.

Reynold's Family Cemetery

On Thanksgiving Day, 1950, my Great-Grandfather John Cloyd died. The ground was muddy and it would have been difficult to make the trip to the Cloyd Cemetery. So my grandfather went in search of a closer place to bury his father. He went first to the Farris family who owned the farm next to him. They understood the predicament but told him that they wanted their cemetery to remain just a family plot. My grandfather said thank you and walked a little further to the next neighbor, the Reynolds family, who agreed to let our family bury in their family cemetery. I was not there but knowing my grandfather as I did I expect his response was something like “much obliged” accompanied with a promise to do “our part” in the upkeep and expenses of the cemetery. So on a cold November day our family made the procession from the family farm and home to the Reynolds Cemetery where we buried my Great-Grandfather. Come spring, in keeping with his promise, my grandfather bore the expense and labor of building a fence around the cemetery. Nearly three years later the family made the same trip for my Great-Grandmother Sally Cloyd. Then on Mother’s Day, 1957 my first cousin Vicky Lynn Cloyd, born just 3 months before me, died when I was but six weeks old. In June of 1964 my Uncle John Bowyer, who was married to my Grandfather’s sister Flo was buried in this place. The following year McKinley Cloyd my Grandfather’s half-brother was buried there. Then in June of 1967, Aunt Flo was laid to rest beside her husband. By this time the Cloyd family had carved out a section of the cemetery. It would be nineteen years before we took one of our loved ones to this place again. But on a cold February day in 1986 I gave the eulogy and led the procession as we buried my Grandfather, Charlie Cloyd. Sixteen years later, in 2002, I did the same for my Grandmother, Ada Cloyd. Six days shy of a year later I did it again for my Uncle Thurman. This week our family gathered at this place for the 10^th time. This time we buried my cousin, John Charles Cloyd. That makes five generations of Cloyd’s that are buried in this plot of borrowed land. The stones around us witnessed the names of two others who will someday join them.

So for us the Reynold’s cemetery is hallowed ground. The name above the gate does not bear our name and it does not belong to us. But we have kept my grandfather’s bargain and we have done our part and thus lay claim to a corner of it.  It is precious soil. For now ten times we have disturbed this clay and laid the bodies of our loved ones in it and then closed up the earth again. The Cloyd family treasures this spot. Here we have grieved as our tears have watered this patch of earth.

Dancing with Life

When my daughter was a daisy girl scout her troop had a father-daughter dance. No moms allowed. Just dads and their five and six-year old daughters. She bought a new dress and put ribbons in her hair. I bought her a corsage. I put on my best suit and on a Saturday night, on the eve of Sunday morning, we went to the dance. One of the deacons from my church was there with his daughter. We gave each other a gloriously devious grin and we held our daughters in our arms and we danced. I could show you pictures to prove it. But all the proofs I need are the lingering images of my daughters smiling face. That is the only time I ever took my daughter to a dance. But we have done a lot of things together. In those times I tried to teach her how to dance the dance of life. I sought to show her how to dance to the tune of God’s call on her life. She is all grown up now. Her professional career has taken her to the plains of western Kansas and to the ghettos of Mississippi. This fall she will venture into the bush country where she will teach school in the Native American village of Pilot Station, Alaska. People ask me, don’t you worry about her going that far away? Well yeah, but I am her daddy and I worry about a lot of things. But I would worry more if she did not dream and work to bring those dreams to fruition. When opportunity presents itself I do not want her to sit it out the dance. I want her to take hold of the adventures life offers. I want her to listen to the music that God places in her soul and dance to it! Life is not about sitting at the corner table and sipping sodas. It is about getting out on the dance floor. So get dressed for the dance girl! Extend your hands and partner with the opportunities in front of you. Let the Lord put his hand on your waist and follow His lead. Dance!

He Showed Me His Life

Last week when traveling to North Carolina I made a stop in Laurel County KY and visited with my Aunt Wilma. Together we took a drive and went to see my father’s first cousin Roy Links. Roy is 82 years old. With the exception of his time in the army during the Korean Conflict he has lived within 3 miles of where he was born. Throughout all these years he has made his living as a farmer raising tobacco and cattle. He stopped raising tobacco 20 years ago. But he still raises full-blooded Charolais cattle. He began developing this herd 50 years ago and at the age of 82 he is still proudly raising and marketing this breed. Roy’s health is failing. He suffers with Parkinson’s disease. He has good days and bad days. He gets tired easily and has to rest often. But with the assistance of his wife Imogene and a hired hand he keeps the farm operation going. When you visit with him the conversation revolves around farming. One gets the feeling that the farm is what keeps him going. Some folks, perhaps most folks, would have quit long ago. But quitting or retiring does not interest Roy. Farming is what he knows. It is what he wants to do. I understand those sentiments. I left the farm long ago but my heart wanders there often.

About an hour into our three hour visit Roy and I took a ride. We got in his pickup and he gave me a tour. When he was a young man he began buying farms when they became available. Over the years he has bought 5 or 6 small tracts of ground and has had rental arrangements on other parcels. He took me to all those places. He talked about when he got them and even how much he gave for some of them. He has built numerous barns and other buildings on these properties. Many of these structures have been built from timber cut from his land. He has taken advantage of soil conservation practices and has improved the fertility of the land. He has been a good farmer. He has taken pride in what he has done. Yet one cannot help but notice a tinge of sorrow that age and health now prohibit him from doing all he would like to do. As we are driving from place to place it occurs to me that in reality Roy is showing me his life. It has been a life of hard work. It has been an honest and productive life. It has been a life of accomplishment and satisfaction. It has been a simple life. But it has been a good life.

I am grateful for the time I spent with Roy. It was a worthwhile journey that revealed an interesting story. As I reflected upon our time together I sensed a longing in my heart. For in a different time with a different set of circumstances with different decisions my life might have told a similar story. One only goes through life once so I think I will forego regret. Instead I will treasure the memory of an afternoon when one man took the time to tell me and show me the story of his life.

A Story Snaps the Picture

One of the most wondrous benefits of a story is that hearing a story might bring from our mind and soul a story of our own. Yesterday I shared a story about the now disconnected phone numbers that had belonged to my parents. Hearing that story my Uncle George, my mother’s younger brother, remembered a story about my mother.

My mother at age 20 had just graduated from junior college and obtained a job as a one room country school teacher. She was still living at home and wanted to use part of her new income to help the family. So she had a phone line put in. It was the first phone the family ever had. George recalls that the phone # was 865-W. To make a call you simply picked up the receiver and a real live operator would make the desired connection for you. It seems that mother also bought new living room furniture for her mom that year and at Christmas time bought a present for every member of the family right down to the tiniest niece and nephew. That was not a small feat since my mother had 10 siblings most of whom would have been married with children by that time. Uncle George remembers helping my mother wrap the gifts at the kitchen table and recalls how proud she was of herself and how happy she was to be able to do that. That would have been perfectly in character for my mother but I had never heard the story before. I am so glad my uncle shared that story because it gave me a slice of my mother’s life I would not have had otherwise. It enabled me to see my mother through a different lens. I saw a picture of her as a young single 20 year old three years before I was born. I can see her smiling face amidst a mound of Christmas presents on the kitchen table. That is a beautiful picture. A camera could not catch that picture but the story did.

More Cemetery Reflections

When walking in the cemetery yesterday I read names like Wikonburger, Koukola, Behymer, Briswalter, Tromly, and Fornof on the tombstones. I am not sure I have ever known anyone with any of those names. I am a little curious about the etymology behind those names and the nationalities and genealogies associated with them. I am sure there are answers to my curiosities but I keep on walking at my sam...e pace. I have to keep my heart rate up and burn off those calories. Besides these stones are not going to talk. I keep moving along my designated path. I take note of an automobile that drives into the cemetery and parks. An elderly man gets out and makes his way across the grass among the stones to a gravesite. The gravesite is fairly recent. No grass is growing on this grave though it appears to have been freshly leveled and raked and perhaps sown with grass seed. I cannot help but wonder what his relationship is to the loved one lying beneath the earth. I would like to know. But this is his moment, his time, he does not need my interference. So I keep walking. I notice however that the man does not stay long. Perhaps there is not much to stay for. Or perhaps there is much to stay for but he cannot bear staying. Perhaps he wants to stay longer but reasons there is no purpose in staying. The man leaves and I keep walking.

It occurs to me that though cemeteries spark a lot of curiosity they also enable us to be oblivious. Here I am among acres of tombstones and each stone has a multiplicity of stories attached to it. Yet none of these stories demand to be told. In silence they allow us to walk by oblivious. Maybe that is not such a bad thing in a cemetery. But we do the same thing every day as we walk among the living. Keeping up our pace we move on oblivious to people and their stories. Maybe sometimes curious thoughts cross our minds but we are either unconcerned or to busy or to afraid to inquire so we keep walking. When that happens we miss opportunities to help and to be helped, to bless and to be blessed. Walking makes for a healthier lifestyle. But if we really want to live we need to stop and listen to the stories scattered along the way.