A Tribute to Billy Graham and Thelma Perkins

Two of the greatest saints of God who ever lived died today and entered the glories of heaven.

One of those saints, Billy Graham, was well known. In his 99 years he had touched every corner of the earth. In one sense he was a simple Baptist preacher. In another sense he was a giant of a man. Billy Graham stated "My one purpose in life is to help people find a personal relationship with God, which, I believe, comes through knowing Christ". That being so he fulfilled that purpose well. He preached in 180 countries and in the process preached to an estimated 250 million people. I have known of Billy Graham all of my life. As a kid growing up we used to gather around the television and listen to him preach. Many years later I had the privilege of serving as a counselor in one of his crusades. I stood within 40 feet of him but never had the opportunity to meet him personally. I think there were smiles in heaven today when Billy Graham arrived. And I think there was a smile on his face when he stood before the throne and met the Lord Jesus.

The other great saint that passed from earth today and began her days of heavenly rejoicing was Thelma Perkins. She was not known by very many people outside of the locality of where she lived. But I knew her well. I first met Thelma Perkins when I was seven years old. Our family was new in town and we joined the Gano Avenue Baptist Church where Thelma and her family were members. She became a lifelong friend to all of us. But we found her worthy of so much respect that none of us, not even my mom and dad, would address her, by any other term except “Mrs. Perkins”. Mrs. Perkins spent her 94 years on this earth loving and serving the Lord through her church and loving and encouraging the people that God placed in her path. Mrs. Perkins was a homemaker caring for her husband and raising three children. She was a kind neighbor. She was a gracious host. You would always get a good meal at her house but more importantly you felt love and warmth and kindness in her home. She never said unkind words about others and her presence made you cautious about engaging in unworthy speech as well. She was one of those people that the love and grace and mercy and kindness of Jesus just oozed out of. Her kind of character and demeanor is rare in the world. Mrs. Perkins was an ardent student of the Bible and was a Sunday School teacher for over sixty-five years. She had a great interest in missions and though she never traveled that much she prayed for people all over the world. I know she prayed for me. Her life and example has been an encouragement to me and many others.

Billy Graham got to heaven early this morning. Mrs. Perkins got there about 10:20 AM eastern time.  I am not sure what the protocol of heaven is like. But somehow I think that with these two great saints arriving on the same day that protocol was broken. There must have been applause. Maybe the heavenly choir got a little extra excitement and danced while they sang. Surely somebody shouted. I was not there so I don’t know. But I think that when the Rev. Billy Graham and Mrs. Perkins stood before the throne today the face of the Lord Jesus was beaming when He said “Well done, my good and faithful servant”.

Success,, Failure, Praise, and Criticism

So much of life we have control over and so much of life we have no control over. Sometimes those most likely to succeed don’t or maybe they could not. Sometimes the least gifted hit upon a good idea or make the right connections and experience success beyond anyone’s dreams. Sometimes we make mistakes that place a damper on all we do for the rest of our lives. Yet some folks can overcome the greatest of mistakes. Sometimes there are accidents and illnesses that limit lives or end lives much too soon. And sometimes the sickest among us manage to live long past the expected three score and ten. Some people are equipped with the best of tools. But sometimes the people who have the best tools are unable to use them. Sometimes they refuse to use them. Sometimes people pick up broken tools and remnants and manage to build something great. Some people can hear hateful words and it rolls of them like water off a ducks back. Other people can hear the same words and they sting the soul and act as a curse forever. Some people can take charge of their lives and some people cannot. I do not understand all of that but such is life. And since that is the way it is we probably need to be a little more reserved in both our praise and in our criticism.

My grandfather Williams was a country preacher. I remember him but I was four years old when he died so obviously I did not him well. Most of what I know about him comes from the stories my mother told me. My mother often quoted an old saying that she had heard from him. “There is so much bad in the best of us and so much good in the worst of us that it hardly behooves any of us to talk about the rest of us”. Sounds like a wise word to me.

Not Schmoozing but Snoozing

My flight this past Tuesday evening from Anchorage to Minneapolis left at 9:50 PM Anchorage time to arrive in Minneapolis around 5:50 AM central time. It is a red eye flight and I am hoping to catch a nap. I am grateful that I have an aisle seat. I board the plane, find my seat, and take note that the person I will be sitting by is a distinguished looking man. As the plane begins to taxi to the runway I engage in conversation with him. “Are you from here or going home"? I ask.... “I am from here in Anchorage” he replies. “What do you do”? I ask. And he replies: “I am the Lieutenant Governor of Alaska. But my term ends in December”. I ponder in my mind the chances of my meeting this man in this way. I continued the conversation by asking him his thoughts on the upcoming election. We talk about politics for a couple of minutes. But it is time for take off and he seems more interested in getting his nap than in continuing the conversation. So after we are in the air, I unfold my blanket, put my seat back, and try to catch a few zees. So I really cannot say that I schmoozed with the Lieutenant Governor of Alaska. But I did snooze with him.

Ole Jacks

On Tuesday I had seven hours from the time I arrived in Anchorage from Pilot Station, AK where daughter lives until my flight back home to Illinois. So I left the airport, took a cab to downtown and explored a bit of the city. I visited a museum and then walked down the street to the mall. I visited every floor but I am not a mall kind of guy. I left the mall from the 5^th Avenue exit. I immediately saw a sign that read “Fur Alaska”. I found my way across the street and entered the shop. There I met “Ole Jacks”. That is how introduced himself when I asked his name. He said I used to be “young Jacks” but now I am 80 so I am “Ole Jacks”. The store appears a bit cluttered. One whole wall is covered with newspaper clippings and pictures from times past. Jack himself is sitting in a tiny passage way between two counters partially hidden by a stack of magazines. We begin to visit and he tells me his story. He is native Alaskan. He has lived here all his live except for the time he worked for President Truman during the Korean War. When he came home he went in the fur business trapping and buying furs, selling some and making others into clothing. He got his pilots license so he could travel into far away and remote places in the Alaska interior to buy furs. Alaska is God’s country he tells me at least a dozen times. “Ole Jacks” is good at what he does. I am guessing that fur coats are his specialty. He has made fur coats for Presidents Ford and Reagan and for a Japanese president and for former Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev. He proudly shows me a picture of Brezhnev wearing his coat in the presence of President Ford. “If I can measure a man I can make it fit” he says. He asks about where I am from and what I am doing in Alaska. I tell him I have come to visit my daughter who is a teacher in Alaska and he is interested in how she is doing. We visit for probably 20 minutes. I am pretty sure I cannot afford one of his fur coats. He must know that as well because he does not try to sell me one. Before I leave he says “I think you are a salt of the earth man from Illinois”. I am thinking this man is a salt of Alaska’s earth. I have traveled a lot of places and what I enjoy most about travel are the people I meet, often by chance encounter, along the way. Cab fare from the airport to downtown cost me $40 but meeting Ole Jacks is far more valuable than that. If you go to Anchorage you ought to stop in at Fur Alaska 329 W. 5^th Avenue. Maybe Ole Jacks will be there.

Tiny Pulpits

A few months back I was rummaging through a closet at church and I discovered a tiny pulpit. It was amateurishly hand made from simple pine boards and plywood. My first thought was this is for a very short preacher. Or perhaps someone made it so children could play church. I was curious so measured it. It was 23 inches from the ground to the top lip. I discovered later that due to lack of Sunday School classroom space, someone, many years ago, had been forced to teach their class in the back corner of the sanctuary. So he made the short pulpit, placed it in the seat of probably the 4^th pew from the back of the church and used it as a lectern from which he taught his class who sat in the three back pews of the church.

My junk closet discovery is physically the tiniest pulpit I have ever seen. But I am afraid I have seen other pulpits that in reality are smaller than this one. In ministerial terms to say someone occupies a large pulpit means they preach from a place of prominence and great influence. It might mean they preach to a large church. In this sense the size of the pulpit defines the size of the pulpiteer. In a more fair world the pulpiteer would define the size of the pulpit but it does not always work that way.

In terms of what I have just described I have never occupied what I would call a large pulpit, though I have occupied some that were larger than the one I currently occupy. But I have tried to use the pulpit properly, though I am sure I have sometimes failed to do so. I have tried not to think about the size of the pulpit. Instead I have tried to focus on and judge myself as the pulpiteer. I may have a small pulpit but I do not want to be a small pulpiteer.

Ever since I found the tiny pulpit in the church junk closet I have been mulling over this thought. The question I keep asking myself is “what makes, or what determines, a tiny pulpit”? Or to ask it another way “what makes or determines a large pulpit”? I have thought of about 15 answers to that question and each answer has merit. I am not through exploring this question but here is my thought for today. The size of the pulpit is determined by the heart and soul and character of the pulpiteer who occupies the pulpit. If the pulpiteer does not believe in and have passion for the truth that he or she proclaims they are small pulpiteers and have made their pulpit small. And if they have no love in their hearts for the people they preach to then they are indeed little preachers occupying a tiny pulpit.

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.

Lessons from My Father's Wallet

A month before completing first grade I watched my father leave for work. He was dressed differently this morning. Usually he donned his starched khakis and went to his job grinding feed at the Southern States Farmers Cooperative. This morning he wore a business suit and was beginning a new career as an insurance agent for the American Life and Accident Company. This new job would require that we re-locate. When my first grade school year was over we distanced ourselves 100 miles from family and friends and all that was familiar and began an adventure in a new place.

 

My father began his career in the insurance business as “debit” insurance agent. This meant that he went to the homes and businesses of his policyholders and collected the premiums on a monthly and even weekly basis. His clients were ordinary people whose resources were precious to them. His travels would take him back a dirt lane to the home of a sharecropper or down the manicured lane of a horse farm to visit the home of a day laborer. His route would take him to simple homes and apartments and to shacks in the poorer sections of town. He might call on some folks at a garage or a restaurant where they worked. His hours were often long and late. Many times my mother would warm his supper up after my siblings and I had already gone to bed. Sometimes I would get out of bed and was allowed to sit down at the table with him for a few minutes.

 

My father always carried two wallets; his own, and a larger one in which he secured company funds. A debit insurance agent will handle a few checks and a lot of cash in small denomination bills. Not long after he began this occupation my father contracted Billy Lamb to custom make a wallet for this purpose.  Billy had a large family of six children. To support them he worked as a maintenance man. He also owned and operated a shoe repair shop on South Broadway. In the after hours until 9:00 every night you could find him in the shoe shop. My Dad told Billy what he needed and Billy cut out the leather and sewed it together to my Dad’s specifications. It was a simple long double fold wallet with a compartment for checks and a compartment for bills and a little pocket to put business cards in. My Dad carried that wallet in his business until the wallet became so worn it could no longer be used.

 

A few years ago my Dad and mother were downsizing and preparing to move to Virginia. My wife was helping them sort and pack.  Dad pulled the old wallet out of a drawer and told her the story behind it and then proceeded to throw it away. With vehemence my wife stopped him, retrieved the wallet, and it is in our possession today as a precious piece of memorabilia. I treasure this worn out wallet because it tells my father’s story. It is a voice that speaks of his character and highlights his values.

 

The wallet is made of genuine cowhide. Even the stitching is leather. It occurs to me that my father is a genuine man. He never put on any airs. He never tries to be someone that he isn’t. He is comfortable in his own skin. He knows who he is. He is just Larry Cloyd. He was blessed with a lot of raw intelligence, a massive amount of common sense, and was street smart to the world around him. He used those skills in a simple and genuine way to ply his trade and to care for those entrusted to him.

 

This wallet also reminds me that my father is a man of integrity. If you are a debit insurance agent handling other people’s money it is important that you can be trusted. First, your policyholders have to trust you. They need to believe that you are honest and not twisting the truth concerning the coverage of their insurance policy. The amount of security contracted in the policy might be limited and the premiums might be small but it is significant to them. When you collect their premiums they trust you as their agent to make sure they are properly recorded. Moreover the insurance company trust you to account for the money in an honest fashion. My father began as an insurance agent in 1964. He would come home sometimes with $1,000 maybe $1,100 in that wallet. That may seem miniscule today but in the 1960’s that was a chunk of change. At night my father would lay the wallet on the dresser in his and mother’s bedroom. Otherwise it was in his hip pocket. Either way it was guarded with integrity.

 

My father’s wallet symbolizes the seriousness with which he approached his responsibilities. I am quite certain that in his wildest dreams my father never envisioned himself being an insurance agent, much less spending thirty-seven years in the business. Perhaps he would have found his current job or a similar one more enjoyable. I am sure it took courage to make such a radical change in employment. His new profession was not one of choice but one of necessity. He had a wife and four young children whose needs were growing and whom he had great hopes for. To provide for these needs and enable these hopes required that he accept the challenge and pursue a new opportunity. He had his doubters and surely there were doubts that arose in his own soul. But commitment to his responsibilities drove him to succeed.  

 

My father’s old worn out wallet is a testimony of stewardship. As an insurance agent my father worked on commissions. Thus in a very real sense our livelihood flowed through this wallet. My father and mother made a decent living. Our needs were met. We never went without. We had all that was necessary and a few extras besides. They made sure we experienced the things that would broaden our lives. They assisted each of us in acquiring an education. When it came time to retire they had enough and were able to enjoy a comfortable retirement. They never were rich, but then that never was their goal. I am sure my father could reflect upon several times in his life that he could have made better financial decisions. I am also quite certain that there is one financial decision that he has never regretted. My father was a churchman. As a young man, when he was still donning his starched khakis and going to his job grinding and hauling feed, he made a decision to tithe his income to his church. No matter how tough times were or how tight matters were my mother and father always gave 10% of their income to the Lord’s work through their church. That practice is not just of benefit to the church but it is of benefit to the giver. In doing this the giver comes to understand that the real owner of everything is God and that we are simply caretakers of what God has given us. My father knew the importance of money. He knew what money could do for you. He knew how the lack of it could harm you. But my father was not a servant to his money. Rather he had learned how to make money his servant.

 

I do not think I ever really understood my father until I got to see him up close in his business. After graduating from high school I got my insurance license and worked with him for a period of time. I took note of the jovial interaction he had with people. People liked my Dad. I watched as he exhibited genuine respect for people and treated them with dignity regardless of their status in life. I listened as he carefully asked questions and how with precise annunciation he explained the benefits and details of their insurance contract. I observed a man of integrity. I am so glad my wife retrieved that old worn out wallet because every time I see it I am reminded of a life well lived.

 

 

 

 

"Catch a Hold of It" - A Tribute to Everett Walters

The journey of my life has not led me to places or people of prominence. I have not found inclusion in the circles of those who possess great power and influence. I have not had the opportunity to sit among many of the rich and famous. Life has however taken me to some interesting places, allowed me to do a wide variety of things, and to come in contact with some wonderful ordinary people. These ordinary people would make no claim to greatness. Yet many of them have been genuine heroes to me and helped to shape me into the person I am.

One such person was a man named Everett Walters. I met Everett when I was seven years old. My family had just moved from southeastern KY to the “bluegrass” area of the state. We quickly became active participants in the Gano Avenue Baptist Church, the same place where Everett and his family attended. The people at Gano were common, ordinary, salt of the earth kind of folks like us. Some were debit insurance agents like my dad. Some worked in the various local industries or for a government agency. A few were teachers or owned a small business. Everett was a farmer.

 

Everett only went to school through the 8^th grade. But he was an intelligent man. He was a fast learner able to grasp situations and ideas quickly. He was well read.  He had been converted to Christ in mid-life and immediately began to study the Bible and biblical doctrine and was quite knowledgeable in those matters.

Everett was a hard worker with the strength and ability to work fast and skillfully. Yet, unlike many people with a strong work ethic he knew how to rest from work and could leave his labors behind him when it was time for play. He had a tremendous love for his family. He was loyal to his church. He was honest in business. His simple intention in life was to do what was right.

Probably ten years before I knew Everett his sister was tragically killed. She left behind eleven children the youngest being a baby. Amidst the grief and the anger of the moment Everett and his siblings had to determine how to best care for those children. Everett and his wife Marjorie already had three children but at the death of his sister they took in three more and raised them alongside their own. Those children grew up together which meant they all started getting married around the same time. Somehow Everett and Marjorie bore the expense and toil of four weddings from one June to the next!

When I got older I worked for Everett. First on the farm and later in a roofing business he started after he “retired” from farming. I worked for Everett two full summers as a roofer. Those were different times but in each of those two summers I made and saved enough money in a summers work to pay all the expenses for the next two full semesters of college. Often during those summers Everett would want something moved and he would look at me and say “catch a hold of it”. Many times I would look at what he wanted moved and think that it was to bulky and to heavy for just the two of us to move but we would “catch a hold of it” and somehow move it. I have never been all that stout but in working with Everett I discovered that sometimes a grunt and will power can make up for ones lack of strength.

It is funny how some phrases will stick with you. After all these years I can still hear Everett saying “catch a hold of it”. It occurs to me that that is how he lived his life. He faced some large tasks. He had to handle to some difficult situations. He had some heavy responsibilities. Sometimes what was in front of him looked like it was too big to move. But with strength and mental determination and God’s help he would “catch a hold of it” and move it.