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!

"Turning Thanks"

On this Thanksgiving eve I am reflecting upon the anticipation and excitement I had for this holiday when growing up. We would get up early and make the two hour trip from our home in Georgetown, KY to my grandparent’s farm near London, KY. I always loved the activities of my grandfather’s farm. Upon our arrival we could find my grandmother busy at work in the kitchen. My grandmother was a wonderful cook. My favorite food she made on thanksgiving was cornbread dressing complete with onions and celery and spices and of course the giblets. For those of you who are unsophisticated, giblets are the edible inner organs of a foul typically including the heart, gizzard, liver and the neck. It’s the stuff you find wrapped up or bagged up and stuffed into the inner cavity of your thanksgiving bird. My grandmother always made the dressing into patties and then baked them and we would eat the leftover dressing patties all day as if they were candy. There was always fruit salad and for some reason my father received the task of cutting up the fruit. Usually we could find my grandfather at the tobacco barn where he would be stripping the cured tobacco leaves from the stalks in preparation for market. I would be there with him, helping, and enjoying the smell and the warmth of the fire in the potbellied stove. Since dinner was usually a little late on Thanksgiving we could get in a good half day of labor and work up a good appetite. Thanksgiving was one of the rare times my grandmother would get out her good table cloth and make use of her good silverware and china. It was one of the few times we had the privilege of sitting at the big table in the dinning room. My grandfather would take his place at the head of the table and we would each take the places assigned to us. My grandfather would then look at my father and say “Larry, turn thanks”. My father would pray and we would enjoy the feast.

This is the first thanksgiving in my 56 years that I will not be able to see or to make a phone call to my father. He will be at a different banquet table that I do not yet have access to. But when I sit down with my loved ones to enjoy our thanksgiving meal I am certain I will remember him when I “turn thanks”.

A Big Daddy

When I was growing up going on a vacation meant we went to visit family. We did not call it vacation we just went visiting. Vacations are something you pay for and visiting meant you got free lodging and free food. Not that we were free loaders because the same family would come and visit us and be treated to the same amenities. A few times we traveled to Indianapolis, Indiana to visit my uncle John and aunt Zuma and my cousins Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi. We were so excited when they moved to Shreveport, Louisiana because that meant we could travel to a part of the nation we had never seen before. So one summer we made our reservation. We loaded up the car and began the drive from Kentucky down to Memphis Tennessee crossing over the mighty Mississippi. We drove across Arkansas and marveled at the flooded rice fields. We drove south to Texarkana and crossed over into Texas just so we could say we had done it. From there we crossed into Louisiana and took note that for some odd reason what we called counties they called parishes. Finally we arrived at our destination where we enjoyed ourselves immensely sleeping on the floor, eating free food, touring Shreveport and just “visiting.” On Sunday we attended a Baptist church which gave uncle John and aunt Zuma opportunity to show off their visitors. It was Father’s day and as custom would have it the pastor recognized the youngest father present, the oldest father present and the father with the most descendants present. Then he announced that he was going to recognize the biggest father and asked all the dads over 200 pounds to stand up. Upon standing he asked them to come to the front where he proceeded to have each take a turn on the scales. My father was always a big man and he weighed in that morning at 237 pounds which made him the biggest daddy present that morning. My brothers and sisters and I thought that was the coolest thing ever and we dubbed our father “big daddy.” We could hardly wait to get home and tell this story. We told it to everyone in the family and to everyone in town and to everyone in church who would listen to us. At least I did. For years to come many of the people at our church affectionately called my father “big daddy.”

On September 5, just two months ago, my “big daddy” died. He was indeed a big man. He was big in stature growing larger than the 237 he registered on the scales in Shreveport many years ago. He required an oversized casket. But he was a “big daddy” in many other ways as well. He was big in integrity. You could trust him. He was big in generosity. Upon examining his checkbook register it was discovered that the last check he wrote was for a church building in Haiti. He was big in love. He was big in faith. He was big in hope. He was big in encouragement. He was big in helping others. It has been a long time since that trip to Shreveport. I think on vacations you are supposed to come home with a souvenir. But I came home with a “big daddy.”

Disconnected Phone Numbers

(502) 863-3615 was the phone number my parents were assigned when they moved to Georgetown, KY.  They lived in Georgetown for 42 years – from August 1964 through late October 2006. Their residence changed six times over that span of time but the phone number remained the same 502-863-3615. I had that number memorized. Still do. If someone asked for my phone number I could rattle it off 502-863-3615. I have dialed that number thousands of times. That’s the number I dialed growing up if I was going to be home later than usual. It is the number I dialed after each commute I made to college just to give mom peace of mind. It is the number I dialed when I announced that I was getting married. It is the number I dialed when I told my parents they were going to be grandparents (and again, and again). It is the number I dialed to announce the birth of those grandchildren and to tell my eager parents the names of those new grandchildren. It is the number my parents called me from often to ask “when are you coming home”? And it is the number the calls came from to tell me about some crisis for which I needed to come home. That number was disconnected in October of 2006 when my parents moved to Blacksburg, Virginia to be near my brother and his family. I loaded their possessions on a Ryder truck and as I drove away in the big yellow truck I remember thinking that I would never call that number again. Indeed an era had ended. Soon (502) 863-3615 would be assigned to someone else. I have been tempted a few times to dial that number just to see who would answer. Each time I have squelched the temptation.

Not long after moving to Blacksburg my parents became cell phone only customers. I never bothered to memorize their new number. I did not need to. I simply stored the number in my phone under the title Dadmom. Mom’s illness gradually eroded her ability to use a phone so it was always Dad who carried the phone and answered. Over the past seven years I have either called or received calls from that number probably on average of 3 times a week. Yet I had to check the contacts in my phone in order to actually know the number (540) 558-8150. I am not sure what would happen today if I were to dial that number. Perhaps I would get my Dad’s voice mail. More than likely I would get notification that the number had been disconnected or was no longer in service. Soon that number will be assigned to someone else. My Dad died 13 days ago. I sure am missing the phone calls. An era has ended. I guess it is time to delete that number from my contacts list. Maybe I will do that tomorrow. Maybe.

Ice Water Baptism

My Dad received Christ as his savior in his 21^st year on this earth. A short time before he and my mother were married he waded into a farm pond with a country preacher and farmer that everyone affectionately called Preacher Kirby. It was January. There was a thin skim of ice on the pond. That day in front of a crowd of witnesses and at least one camera he was baptized “buried in the likeness of Christ’s death and raised to walk in the newness of Christ’s life”. This week we buried my Dad’s body beneath yellow Kentucky clay. But absent from that body he was already living in the presence of Christ.

Preaching Shoes and Son Shoes

Today I preached my father’s funeral. I did it because he requested that I do so. But I did it at my own insistence. If the task had to be done then the task belonged to me. But in order to do this task I had to put on my preaching shoes. So I put on my preaching shoes and laced them up real tight. And for the past four days the responsibility of preaching my father’s funeral has consumed me. Today I delivered the thoughts that had been burning on my heart. I hope my words helped others. I found catharsis in the experience.

But now I have to take my preaching shoes off. I had them laced pretty tight. This afternoon I put on my son shoes. I drove around town and took a look at the various places we lived and the places we used to go. I drove back to the cemetery. I read my Dad’s name on the tombstone. I picked up a handful of the barren clay under which my father’s body is buried. I crumbled the clay in my hand until it soiled my fingers and palm. I am going to miss you Dad. I am going to miss you bad. Son shoes are a lot harder to wear than preaching shoes.

The Loss of a Great Friend

Yesterday I wrote in good humor about saying goodbye to my old friend Flip Phone. Today I am mourning the loss of a really great friend. My new phone rang this morning at 8:45 CT. My brother was calling and the news he bore broke my heart. He called to tell me that our dad, Larry Cloyd, had died this morning of an apparent heart attack. The news was not surprising. My dad was 79 and suffered with numerous illnesses. I usually spoke with him 2-3 times a week. We spoke for the last time this past Saturday morning. I was sitting in the Dairy Queen restaurant and “Flip Phone” rang. Like always dad said “tell me some news”. I did not have much news to tell him. We did not talk long. He seemed tired. Now he is gone. So today with fragile mind and voice I have been calling and texting and emailing my brothers and sisters. We are planning a celebration of my dad’s life. Why not? We have something to celebrate. We had a good dad who loved his family and provided for them. We grew up watching a man who worked hard and lived honestly. We got to observe a man of faith who lived his life with generosity and pursuing what was right. So on this coming Sunday afternoon Sept. 8 from 2:00 -5:00 PM we will gather at the Tucker-Yocum-Wilson Funeral Home in Georgetown, KY to receive friends and family and to laugh and talk and remember the life of my dad Larry Cloyd. The next day, Monday Sept. 9 at 10:00 AM we will gather at the Buck Run Baptist Church near Frankfort, KY for a funeral service. I will be speaking at that service. I will do that with honor and at my father’s request. There will be tears and there will be sadness but there will also be rejoicing not only in a life well lived but in the eternity that my father now enjoys. So if you knew my dad, come help us as we share memories and celebrate.

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.