Personal Resurection

 

Matthew 28 takes us to the first Sunday morning after the crucifixion. Two days prior the disciples and friends of Jesus had witnessed his brutal execution and saw his body placed in the tomb. Many of them had restructured their lives in order to follow Jesus. They had found pride in being a part of his movement, but now they were afraid of being identified as part of His group. Friday night would have been long and restless and the sabbath they awoke a dreary experience. When Sunday came, they found nothing in life worth getting up for. Jesus was dead and their souls were filled with a deep, dark, dreadful deadness.

While the disciples slept the women had enough gumption to get up and make their way in the dark to the tomb in order to anoint Jesus’ body. Sometimes when the death rattle of grief gurgles within us we need to visit the place that reminds us of our despair and engage in useful activity. An earthquake caused the ground to tremble that Sunday morning. In the aftershock they saw an angel descend from heaven and roll the stone away from the tomb. 

This caused the Roman guards to faint. But these women of faith were attentive as the angel said “Fear not, I know you come looking for Jesus who was crucified, but He is not here, for he has risen”. Then the angel tasked the women to “Go wake up the disciples. Tell them that this is a great getting up morning because Jesus is not dead but alive. He is on his way to Galilee and he wants to see you there”. As they were leaving, they encountered Jesus. They had come to the tomb with deadened souls now fresh life was palpitating within them.

Hearing the women’s story, the disciples made the trip to Galilee. It may not have been a journey of faith but they went in curiosity. When they arrived, Jesus met them. “And when they saw him, they worshiped him, but some doubted” (Matt.28:17).

Jesus was not surprised by their mixture of faith and doubt. He understood that faith is a process.  He was aware that they were filled with fear and worry and lacked vision and purpose. He knew that deadness had captured their hearts and that they were in need of personal resurrection. That day in Galilee Jesus began infusing life and hope into his disciples. For some the infusion took longer.

I am an observer of churches and the believers who comprise the church. Instead of having inescapable hope we are on a death trajectory.  We need an infusion of life through an encounter with the living Christ.

From the hillside in Galilee Jesus told his disciples how to live with a resurrection faith.

We must first grasp the authority of the resurrected Jesus. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matt.28:18).

Jesus “emptied himself” of much of his heavenly authority when he came to earth. But when he came out of the tomb he took back everything that he had voluntarily emptied himself of. We all face death. No of us shall escape it. The grave has authority. But Jesus conquered the grave proving that all authority on earth was His.

Jesus returned to heaven having completed the act that made the salvation of man possible. And he sat down at the right of the Father. Now all authority in heaven was his. If we want to live with the power of personal resurrection in our souls, we must grasp the fact that the resurrected Jesus has authority over all things. No man or nation, can stand in his way.

Secondly, we need to adopt Jesus’ commission to make disciples of all nations. As resurrected people, we must recognize that our mission and purpose is to take the gospel not just to the folks in our corner of the world but to people in every corner of the world.

Through it all we need to rejoice in the forever presence of Jesus. Jesus said “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matt. 28:20). “Always” means right now. “To the end of the age” means for all eternity.

Whether we live or die we have Jesus! No matter how deep our sorrow, how great our opposition, how depressed the world might be we can experience personal resurrection. Even if we don’t want to get up, we can get up, because Jesus got up.

 

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.

My Mother's Eulogy

Lois Cloyd

1934-2016

 

Intro. When I was a boy my Mama would make fudge. I would watch and as she poured the hot fudge from the kettle into the dish.  I would say “I get to lick the spoon”. Trouble was there was usually a brother or sister around who also wanted to lick the spoon. But that was not a real problem. Mother would just get a second spoon and give each of us a spoon of the remains from the kettle. In licking that spoon we got a foretaste of the fudge that we would get to eat after it set up. 

I have spent my life walking in the midst of the reality of things on earth and the foretaste of the glory divine that is to come. I grew up in church. Mother took me to church as a two week old babe in arms. I grew up singing gospel songs. I went to Sunday School. I heard about salvation. I heard about heaven and I knew you had to be saved to get heaven. I heard the Bible truths about what was right and what was wrong and how that we were supposed to live in the way that was right. I grew up hearing about missions and prayer and stewardship. I was told that I needed to listen to God and be obedient to whatever call God placed upon my life. I knew all of that because that is what my Mama and Daddy taught me.
 

I knew that whatever a person had here on earth was temporary. And whatever was laid up for us in heaven was permanent. My Mama believed that and indeed that is what the Bible teaches.

 

“For we know that if our temporary, earthly dwelling is destroyed, we have a house not made with hands, an eternal dwelling in the heavens” II Cor. 5:1

 

So while I have lived my life trying to accomplish and experience a lot of things here on earth and trying to get my share of earthly possessions, I have done so with the acknowledgement that none of those things would last forever. That might be a discouraging thought were it not for the foretaste I have been given of things above.

That is the way my Mama lived. That is the way my Mama taught me to live.

My Mother was an ambitious soul. She worked hard to fulfill the ambitions of her soul.
  

Mother did not grow up with much. She did not have wealth or stature or a wide experience of places and things. But she wanted those things and she worked hard to acquire them.

She desired an education. With a stroke of providence she got the opportunity. After high school she was working as a waitress at the little restaurant in the corner of a drug store in London. As the fall was approaching a school principle came into the store and told my mother that another student was getting married and was going to forfeit her scholarship to Sue Bennett College and asked mother if she wanted it. Two years later she graduated and took a teaching job in a one room country school with 52 kids in 8 grades.

The job did not pay much but it was more than she had ever made and with a little money in the bank she started buying things. She was still living with my grandparents so she bought them a new sofa. They had never had a phone. She had one put in. When Christmas came she proudly bought a present for every member of the family right down to the youngest niece and nephew.
 

She liked teaching but she wanted a family. Then she met my dad. Mother said the first time she ever met Dad he was driving by on a Farmall H tractor. She said he waved at her. One day he drove by on the tractor, saw her, stopped, turned the tractor off, and right there, sitting on the tractor seat asked her for a date. That is the way my Mama tells the story. If truth be known she flagged him down.

Dad always said mother amended the details of that story. But however much the details of that story may have been amended the fact is that 5 months later they were married. By the time they had been married 5 years and 2 months four children had been born. And mother had what she wanted. Throughout all of her life what she was more proud of than anything else on earth were her four children.

As bad as the Alzheimer’s eventually decimated her mind and body there was something in her soul that fought hard to hold on to a remnant of that pride. About three weeks after dad died I drove to Blacksburg to see her. I found her that day in a state of chatter. I spoke to her and though I knew I would not be successful I tried to interact with her. But she stared blankly ahead oblivious to my presence and chattered away.


So I sat down beside her and for about an hour I just listened. Most of what she said made no sense but every now and then she would string 6 or 8 words together in a sentence. As I listened it occurred to me that there was something like a reel to reel tape playing her mind of events that occurred 50 plus years ago. In her demented state she was interacting with those events. I listened closely and discovered that I was on the reel to reel tape that she was interacting with. She would say “You know I have these two kids”. I would have been one of those two kids and that would have dated the event around 54 or 55 years ago. Once a brief smile came across her face as she said to one of those kids “Look at you, you are so cute” (I am quite certain she was probably referring to me). I realized something about my mother that day that I guess I already knew – The melody of her life was her children. That day she gave me a gift of listening as she recited the melody. Alzheimer’s had robbed her mind of the verses her life had written, but she was maintaining a feeble grasp on the melody.

Yes, mother was an ambitious soul. She wanted to have something. She wanted to be somebody. She wanted to contribute something to the world. She wanted to be known for the contribution she made. Mother never wanted to be just ordinary. She did not want her children to settle for the ordinary. She determined to inspire us to live beyond the ordinary.
 

 Mother wanted to be a teacher. But four children in four years had interrupted that dream. But at the age of 32 she enrolled in classes at the University of KY to complete her teaching degree. This meant she had to drive from Georgetown to Lexington each day to attend class. So Dad bought mother an old brown two-tone Plymouth. It was a big tank of a car. It had a rectangular steering wheel and push button gear shift. Every Sunday he would put a few bucks worth of gas in it and mother would drive it to class. Every day she would pack her lunch and put a dime in her pocket and when classes were over for the day she would take that dime and buy herself a coke as a reward for the days’ work. Two years later she graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Education from the University of KY.

Mother recognized a teachable moment and was not about to waste it. She never wanted us to miss school for anything. But that day she was not going to allow school to get in the way of our education. She took us out of school dressed us up in our best Sunday - go to meeting clothes. I had on a white sport coat and a black tie. All that was missing was a pink carnation. Dad took all four us, 5^th grade, 4^th grade, 3^rd grade, and 1^st grade to mother’s graduation in memorial coliseum. We sat high up in the balcony through a long graduation and watched my mother receive her degree. I never saw my dad more proud or more patient than he was that day. My mother and Dad had both paid a heavy price for that accomplishment. Afterwards we stood in the parking lot and mother still wearing her cap and gown gathered her four children around her and Dad took the Brownie Hawkeye camera and took a picture.

My Mama knew exactly what she was doing that day. She was using that moment to inspire her children to be more than ordinary. She was inspiring us to be somebody and to make a contribution to the world.


Mother always told us to get an education. She said that was something that no one could take away from us. She was wrong about that. Alzheimer’s can take away your education. Education is just as temporary as anything else on this earth. The best we can do is leave a legacy and build a foundation that others can build upon. I think my mother determined was through the children that she bore and reared and the students who were entrusted to her.


Mother lived in a lot of houses. Her home was important to her. Some of the houses she lived in were pretty simple but she was proud of them. The first house I remember living in was the Helvetia School house on Chaney Ridge Road in Laurel County KY. Dad and mother bought the old School house and converted it into a home. They got the first floor finished and ran out of money. Later dad finished two rooms upstairs. But they never did get enough money to remodel the outside. Mother was proud of that house but always felt like she had to apologize about the outside of it. She would say: “The outside does not look to good but “It is fixed up nice inside”.

We moved to Georgetown and left that house and some of our belongings in it and about a year later it burned down to the ground. And mother locked herself in the bedroom and cried. One of her dreams was destroyed that day. But there would be other houses. Some were fixer uppers and some were modern and the last one was new. When she moved from that place she left against her will. She did not want to go and she made sure we knew of her displeasure. I don’t blame her for being upset. I didn’t like it either. But the Alzheimer’s was already doing its dirty work in her mind and she needed help. She went to another house but she was never was at home again.
 

 The Apostle gives us a picture that you and I are far too familiar with. He says “Indeed we groan in this body, desiring to put on our dwelling from heaven, since we are clothed, we will not be found naked. Indeed, we groan while we are in this tent, burdened as we are, because we do not want to be unclothed but clothed, so that mortality may be swallowed up by life. (II Cor. 5:2-4 – HCSB)

 I have watched my mother do a lot of groaning as everything she worked to acquire here on this earth was slowly taken away. Her houses gone. Her education vanished. Her dignity and glory vaporized. Her body reduced to a shell.
 

 If that is all there is then life is a cruel joke.
 

 But my Mama lived in this world but in faith she longed for the world beyond. She dwelt here. But she lived for God. Her hope was in the Lord Jesus Christ. Thus the Spirit of God had given her a foretaste of glory divine in the world to come.

Everything on this earth is temporary and everything in heaven is permanent. Paul said “For we know that if our temporary, earthly dwelling is destroyed, we have a house not made with hands, an eternal dwelling in the heavens” II Cor. 5:1

I am a little sad today. But forgive me if my tears are few. Because seeing what I have seen and knowing what I know I don’t want to cry but I want to shout “Hallelujah, Hallelujah, what a savior”.

 If mother were here she would try to help us put this day in perspective. And I know just how she would do it. She would write us a poem. But since she cannot write a poem I decided to write one for her. I tried to wrap my mind around her life. I tried to understand who she was and who she became and who she is now. I loaned her my mind and my pen. Here is the perspective that I think she might convey to us today.

 

 

            I Can Remember

         By C. Brent Cloyd

 

Once I could recall every birthday

To places I had been I knew the way

From memory I could sing gospel songs

I knew each verse, not a word would be wrong

 

I taught children to say the alphabet

A basic in life they must not forget

I helped them learn to add and to subtract

To multiply, divide, and be exact

 

I could organize a holiday meal

Entertain family and friends with zeal

Clean house, set the table, and decorate

Cook all the fixins and never be late

 

But then I would forget and be confused

From activities I myself excused

Alzheimer’s stole my dignity and glory

My life began a different story

 

My soul filled with pain, denial, and tears

As the disease tarnished my golden years

My heart beat but I could not remember

Nothing was left but a dying ember

 

You visited me but I never knew

My moments of understanding were few

The world became small, I rarely cracked a smile

Lonely, I lingered, through this earthly trial

 

Then God’s angel came in death and in love

We made the trip to the promised place above

I met Jesus, I worshipped and adored

He gave me a house I could not afford

 

I’ve met the neighbors, I know them by name

Seen old friends, now some new ones I can claim

I’ve not been here long but it feels like home

I know where I am, not afraid to roam

 

So don’t cry for me, but laugh and rejoice

I am singing hymns with new mind and voice

Of the heavenly choir I’m a member

And every song I can remember

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It Won't Be Very Long

My Grandfather Morgan Williams was a hymn writer. He had some 46 songs published. The most popular one was entitled “It Won’t be Very Long”. It gained some notoriety in Stamps Baxter singing circles. It can be found in a few of the old hymnals one of them being “Heavenly Highway Hymns”.
But I know it because my mother sang it from memory all the time when I was growing up. She was quite proud of the hymn and of her Dad who wrote it.

 I am remembering it tonight as my mother’...s life appears to be slipping away in a nursing home in Blacksburg, Virginia. Alzheimer’s has depleted her to an earthly shell. But awaiting her is a house not made with hands eternal in the heavens.

I am singing my Grandfather’s old hymn tonight. And I think I am hoping that maybe there is a recording somewhere in a hidden corner of my mother’s mind that is playing this hymn and giving her comfort.


It won't be very long till this short life shall end,
It won't be very long till Jesus shall descend;
And then the dead in Christ from beds of clay shall rise
To meet the Lord and King up yonder in the skies.


It won't be very long till here we cease to roam,
It won't be very long till all the saints get home;
And then with smiling face we'll walk the streets of gold,
And sing the Savior's praise where saints are never old.


It won't be very long till bur-dens we lay down,
It won't be very long till we'll receive a crown;
And then we'll shout and sing with angels round the throne,
And when we meet up there, we'll know as we are known.

It won't be very long till earth shall pass away,
It won't be very long till works of men decay;
But Jesus has pre-pared a happy dwelling place,
For all who look above and trust His matchless grace.


It won't be very long,
It won't be very long
Till Jesus shall appear;
That day is drawing near;
Will you be ready then
To meet the ransomed throng?
Get ready for that day,
It won't be very long.

One Glad Morning

Two years ago today I received a phone call from my brother informing me that our Dad Larry Cloyd had died. I was not surprised. Dad had spent a lot of time in and out of the hospital over the previous years. He had numerous health problems. When I saw him two months earlier his breathing was labored and his mobility was limited. I had plans to see him again in another two weeks. But the Lord took him home before I got there. Dad lived in an assisted living facility and he liked it there. On the morning of Sept. 5, 2013 he got up and rode his scooter down to the dining hall. He enjoyed a good breakfast and joked around with a couple of his friends. He then rode his scooter to the elevator and went up to visit the nurses and get his medications. He joked around with them as he always did. He rode his scooter back to his room and within 5 minutes he had pressed his medical alert button. The nurses came quickly but he was gone. His soul had left his large, old, and tired body and flew off to glory. His favorite song was “I’ll Fly Away”. I can see him now standing around the piano taping his foot and singing with gusto “Some glad morning when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away; to a land on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away oh glory, I’ll fly away. When I die Hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away”. On the glad morning of Sept. 5, 2013 that song became a reality for him.

I cannot imagine a better way to go. Dad enjoyed eating. And he enjoyed being around people. He left this earth with his belly full and his heart full. How you going to beat that? But I feel the void every day of not having him here. He was a good dad who fulfilled his responsibilities in life, took his faith seriously, and had great pride in his children. I love you Dad.

Hey Cous, You and I's Kin

Carl Wells grew up and lived in the vicinity of East Bernstadt and Hazel Green in Laurel County, KY. I doubt if he ever traveled very far from that vicinity in his life. Carl was what most people in the area would call “simple”. Or they might say he was “a little off” or that he was “not right”. By those expressions they were not being unkind. Rather they were trying to describe his mental and social capabilities in a polite way. I am sure there were many who expressed their thoughts about him with less kind words.

I guess Carl lived with family members and I think he did a few odd jobs for people in order to get a little money to sustain him. When I was growing up I would see Carl on the streets of East Bernstadt but mostly I would see him at visitation services at the funeral home. If Carl knew the deceased or was the least bit related to you he would be at the funeral home to pay his respects. When Carl saw me he would greet me with “Hey Cous – you and I’s kin”. He would get this goofy grin on his face that revealed his pride that he had done his research and knew our family connection and was able to educate me about it. Carl was right. We were related. His mother and my great-grandmother were sisters. I think that made us third cousins. My great-grandmother’s name was Sally and his mother’s name was Laura. There maiden name was Dees. If you lived in Laurel County, KY and had Dees in your family lineage that meant you had a lot of kinfolks. Carl knew the family tree and all the branches. He was proud of his knowledge and he was proud of his kin. Problem was most of his kin were not nearly as proud to claim him as he was to claim them. We were a little embarrassed by Carl’s eccentric behavior. When he reminded us of our shared bloodlines we would acknowledge his greeting with a nod and a grunt and move on hoping that he would not spread the news of our kinship very far. We should have been ashamed ourselves. I honestly hope that Carl did not recognize and internalize our indifference. But he was pretty intuitive and I suspect he did.

I have not seen Carl Wells in nearly forty years. I guess he has long since passed. But I have thought about him a lot over the past decades. In reflecting upon him, Carl Wells has taught me a valuable lesson. He taught me to be proud of my kin. I mean, think about it. Here was a man who had observed and asked questions and kept a record in his head of who he was kin to. When he saw you he wanted to acknowledge it to you and advertise it to others. I think if someone is that proud of me then I should be proud of them! So I have decided to be proud of my kin, the good ones and the bad ones.

I hope I meet up with Carl one day on the streets of glory. If I can get to him before he gets to me I am going to say “Hey Cous- you and I’s kin”.

 

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.

Laid Out in a Straight Row

Brock and I just got back from a walk in the cemetery. I noted that the graves were all lined up in a straight row. Maybe that is why the heart monitor shows a straight line when a heart stops beating. It occurs to me that I am destined to lain out, flat and still, in a straight row. That is death. Some people suggest we live that way. And some folks do. But since I will have forever to lay flat and still in a straight row I prefer to live with a few zigs and zags and curves and swirls. I choose to do a few things contrary to the norm and explore things out of the ordinary. I want to take a few risks and sometimes just land wherever the wind takes me. I might die sideways or upside down. But so what? There will be someone there to pick me up and lay me out in a straight row.

Thanks, Mrs. Griffin

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Wilma Griffin. We were kin. She and my Dad were first cousins. I was somewhat proud of being related to my teacher. But I was also a bit afraid of her. Though I held our kinship in my back pocket not once did I ever play that card. I had a lot of respect for Mrs. Griffin. Even as an adult, if I were to see her in a family setting I could not call her by her first name. She was always Mrs. Griffin to me. I learned a lot of things in that first g...rade classroom in the basement of East Bernstadt School. I had perfect attendance and made decent grades. But the lessons were routine enough and came easy enough for me that the specifics of them do not stand out. But twice that year Mrs. Griffin stood before our class and made an announcement that left an indelible impression on me. One day she got our attention and told us that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. Later that year she told us that our school would be integrated the next year meaning that we would have black boys and black girls in our class the next fall. I do not remember raising my hand and asking any questions about either of these announcements. I think I had a pretty good understanding of what they meant. I knew they were both big events that altered my world.

Mrs. Griffin died this last week. She was 92. I had not seen or spoken to her for close to 30 years. But in the course of those years my mind has gone back to that first grade class room many times. Yes, teaching is important. Teachers do make a difference. Thanks, Mrs. Griffin.

A visit to My Father's Grave

It is 235 miles from my house to Georgetown, KY. Not a bad trek, especially if you have a good chauffer, which I do. My wife does most of the driving on trips. As long as I will buy her Starbucks along the way she does not complain. Yesterday after church we made the drive to KY, spent the night with my Aunt Lorna, and today went to the Georgetown Cemetery to place flowers on my father’s grave. This was only the second time I had been there since we buried him last September. The sod was growing nicely where the earth had been disturbed last fall. The date of his death, September 5, 2013 had been etched into the stone. The location is peaceful and quite. The grounds are well kept.

I am quite certain that my father was unaware of my visit to his burial site. He is experiencing a new reality in a joyful eternal place. But love and respect for my father and a lingering grief compelled me to travel the distance and spend a few moments at the spot where he is buried. I placed a simple arrangement of flowers at his stone just to say “I love you Dad”. I suppose that is not necessary. Maybe it is a lot of effort for a small and brief gesture. I guess it is a bit of an old fashion thing to do. Perhaps that is all true. But my dad was an old fashion guy and I am a chip off the old block. So I did it – one old fashion guy to another old fashion guy!

A Cross and Apple Blossoms

I traveled to the bottom of the state of Illinois today to the town of Anna. I met with a group of pastors and we dialogued about evangelism. I decided to take a scenic route home. I drove on west about 5 miles and then headed north on IL Route 127. The next 25 miles is one of the most scenic in our state, especially this time of year when the apple trees are in full bloom. As my truck groaned up the hills I marveled at the freshness and newness of life.  I smiled at the potential of fruitfulness that danced upon the landscape. I glanced to the west and saw the large white cross perched atop a hill known as Bald Knob near Alto Pass, IL. I exited the highway and drove a winding road five miles through the timber and then walked to the foot of the cross. The wind was brisk so I did not stay long. But I tarried long enough to reflect upon how a cross, a cruel instrument of death, became God’s tool to bring life and salvation to the world. Since that time, while the cross may remind of us death, it has become a symbol of life and hope.

I have been weepy all day. In fact, I have been weepy for a week or so. I needed to see the apple blossoms. I needed to see the cross. I am not sure why I have been weepy as of late but I think it is because I have been feeling, or at least trying to feel, some of the pain that exist in the hearts of my brother Bryan, my sister in-law Renee, and my nephew Andrew. April 16, 2014 marks the 7^th anniversary of my niece Austin Cloyd’s death. She was killed along with 31 others at the shooting on the campus of Virginia Tech University in 2007. Though I make a feeble attempt to feel their pain I cannot imagine the depth of their hurt. But through my weepiness I found hope today. The apple blossoms prove that winter has been overtaken by spring and summers warmth will bring a harvest. Life can be good even though it has been bad. And that cross on top of Bald Knob shouts to my soul. Death may have its sting, but Christ has the victory.

November 22, 1963

I was six years old. I was in my first grade class room in the basement of the East Bernstadt School in East Bernstadt, KY. My teacher, Mrs. Wilma Griffith got our attention and told us the news. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed. I do not remember much about how the class responded. Nor am I able to get in touch with the thoughts I myself would have had. I just knew that a bad thing had happened. I knew that my folks had not voted for Mr. Kennedy, though I think at least my mother would have liked to. But we were Baptist and in 1960 voting for a Catholic was a gulf that many, maybe most, Baptist could not span. Knowing what I know about the electoral preference of our county the president certainly would not have won the majority among the folks I lived around. Yet even as a six year old I sensed that people liked the president. At least they were intrigued with him. There was something fascinating about a young president with a winning smile and impressive family. It was a beautiful picture. Though people did not understand his background or his faith they enjoyed the glamour that accompanied him. Now he was gone. In one day he was gone, just gone.

This was before the days of the 24 hour news cycle but it would not have mattered anyway. We did not have a television. We got our news from the radio and the telephone and who ever might drop by to talk with us. Everybody was talking about it. The news sank in.

School was dismissed the day of the president’s funeral. My mother out of her own curiosity and probably because she wanted her children to have the educational experience made arrangements for us to watch the funeral. Our pastor, Rev. E. P. Whitt had a television. Pastor Whitt and his wife Sylvia lived in a house trailer in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church. Mother piled all four of us in the car and took us to pastor Whitt’s home. There sitting on the floor in the living room of a house trailer parked in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church we watched the proceedings of President Kennedy’s funeral. Now isn’t that something. A group of Baptist huddled around a television on church property watching a Catholic president’s funeral. Maybe that great gulf between Baptists and Catholics could be spanned.

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.

A Fancy Expensive Ride

I took a ride today in a $95,000 car. At least that is what a new one like it would cost. It was long and black. It had plush leather seats and power everything. The ride was smooth. The destination was not far away so the ride was short. Nevertheless I had a chauffer. I got to ride in the front. Over the past 30 years I have taken probably 300 rides in similar vehicles. Sometimes I have taken as many as 20 such rides a year. Most people only get to ride in this kind of car once and they have to ride in the back. But I have always got to ride up front and I have always had a chauffer. Are you impressed? Well, I am not. The fancy car I was riding in was a hearse. Our destination was the gravesite of the other passenger. It seems a little twisted that the fanciest and most expensive car most people will ever ride in is a ride they will not know anything about. I have concluded that fancy and expensive do not mean very much. What do you think?