One Fall from Being in Serious Trouble

My wife Jeanette has walked with a slight limp as long as I have known her. She has had joint issues that required her to exercise caution when moving about. For years some degree of numbness has been present in her hands and feet. Earlier attempts to identify and correct these matters were not successful. So, she learned to adapt, endure, and move forward without complaint. Her aches and pains have not stopped her from taking care of her home, serving as a pastor’s wife, being a denominational servant, or serving as a mission volunteer. But in recent years these issues have become more of a challenge. In the past two years her pain has been excruciating and her mobility has been limited. In the past year she has required a cane and then a walker to move around the house. The pandemic slowed the journey to discover the causes of these problems. Our efforts were further delayed by deaths in the family. But in the course of time, it was revealed that she had spinal stenosis in her lower back and neuropathy in her feet. Medications and physical therapy helped with the pain and enhanced her mobility to a degree but it was obvious that her problems were numerous and complicated. In January we had a consultation with a neurologist who did a thorough examination. He concurred that she had neuropathy in her legs and suffered from stenosis, but these things should not be causing the current level of weakness in her legs, her unnatural gait, enhanced reflexes, and the tingling and numbness in her feet and hands. He ordered a battery of blood test and though he was not convinced of the need for it, determined that an MRI of the neck should be performed. Within a couple of hours, we saw the results of the MRI on line. It revealed severe spinal stenosis in her neck at the C-4 ,5, and 6 area. That very afternoon the neurologist office secured an appointment with the neurosurgeon. The neurosurgeon showed us the MRI images and explained how the spinal stenosis was putting severe pressure on the spinal cord and that surgery to relieve that pressure was necessary. He did not promise that it would correct any of her existing problems but said the surgery needed to be done in order to prevent much more crippling effects.

Jeanette had surgery on February 15. The surgery went well. Later that day the surgeon’s physician assistant was visiting with Jeanette and in the course of conversation asked her “when was the last time you fell”? She replied that it had been 3-4 months. He said they could tell by the bruising on the spinal cord that she had endured a blunt force impact that likely had been caused by a fall. Then he said, “one more fall and you would have been in serious trouble”. When My wife relayed that story to me my soul cried and rejoiced at the same time. The Lord had been gracious, and she had been spared from severe physical injury. She is now recovering from the surgery, we have seen some positive results, and we await to see what the next steps of the journey might be.

But the words of the physician’s assistant keep ringing in my heart and mind “One more fall and you would have been in serious trouble”. There is a spiritual lesson in those words for us as a missionary people. Every day we encounter people who physically and spiritually are on the pericope of death and Hell. They are one fall from an irreversible eternal destiny. You and I stand before them with the healing gospel of the Great Physician. The saving power of the gospel is the only hope they have. We are the ones who must confront them with the truth about the severity of their predicament and we are the ones who must deliver the crucial plea for them to believe the gospel and come to faith Christ. The gospel may sound like foolishness to them, but “one more fall and they will be in serious trouble”.

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.

I Think Maybe I am Getting Old

I think maybe I am getting old. In recent weeks I have had a hankering to make contact with some old friends. I followed through on those yearnings. I called an old friend I had not spoken with in a few years. He told me the sad news of his oldest son being killed in an automobile accident. In the course of that week I spoke with another old friend and learned some of the stresses of his life. It is late in the year and I had some vacation time I needed to take. So this last week I drove to Missouri to see an old friend. We had an enjoyable visit.  But he has a few health problems that concern me and I know they trouble him. I move on and go see my mother and father in-law. I enjoyed the evening listening to their stories. They don't have any sons but since I married one of their daughters they claim me and I am proud of their claim. On the way home I meditate on my visits and I have a fresh reality that getting old has some challenges. And I think maybe I am getting old.

 

I get home and sleep in my bed one night and then take off in the in the other direction to Kentucky. My purpose is to attend a funeral visitation for the father of a pastor friend of mine. My friend is not as old as I am but I know from experience that losing your father will make you feel old. I continue on my journey and go spend the night with my aunt. We set up and talk past midnight and I am pretty sure that is past her bedtime. But I don't want to miss the opportunity share some old memories. Because, I think maybe I am getting old. Next morning I drive over to the town where I grew up. I go to the cemetery to visit the graves of my father and mother. I inspect the flowers resting on top of their stone and I surmise that they are in good enough shape that they don't need to be replaced just yet. I had made arrangements to see another old friend. His son is about the same age as me and I had spent a lot of time at his house when I was growing up, particularly on Sunday afternoons after church. We have a lot of church stories to tell and a lot of people to memorialize. I discover that this old friend and I have more friends in common that are dead than are alive. I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

I get home and I read an obituary in the Illinois Baptist. A pastor friend with whom I have enjoyed many moments of sweet fellowship has lost his wife of 52 years. I call my friend and he reminisces about her life and her home going. She had been suffering from cancer and her death is bittersweet. I think my friend feels old and I think maybe I am getting old. 

 

So I am absorbing my recent experiences with old friends. It causes me to understand that I don't want to spend much time in puny arguments. Life is short and there is simply too many difficulties and too much sorrow to waste energy squabbling. I would rather give my life to loving one another and rejoicing in the love of others.  That is my opinion. But maybe I am just getting old. 

Coming and Going

Coming and Going

"Life is about coming and going". That is what my cousin Bill said at his mother's funeral yesterday.  I wrote that down (actually I typed it into notes on my iPhone).

My Aunt Bertie was my mother's sister. She was 86. She had raised five children and worked and volunteered at a variety of things. She and Uncle Ken had been married for 69 years. She had done a lot of coming and going. But she had spent the last twelve years in a nursing home. Alzheimer's had ended her coming and going. But that did not keep her husband Ken from coming and going to her. Twelve years of coming nearly every day to the nursing home to see his wife. Twelve years of going back home to an empty house. Nor did it keep her children from coming to and fro to visit. Coming to make sure she was taken care of and then leaving to take care of the other responsibilities in their lives. I am sure there were times that the coming and going was difficult and probably a few times they asked why. But some things you just do because it is the right thing to do. You come and you go because that is what life is about.

So yesterday we gathered for her funeral. To be honest I argued with myself a little about whether I should go or not. I had not seen her in a long time and I did not know my cousins very well. It would be a long trip and would my going really be that helpful? But her children had come to both of my parent's funerals and some of them had even made the trip to Virginia when my niece died. I had been honored by the care and concern demonstrated in their coming and going. So I decided that I wanted to go and I determined that I should. Though I had not yet heard my cousin Bill say it, I guess something whispered in my ear that life is about coming and going.

So I went. Brock who is always up for a trip came with me to keep me company. We shook some hands and hugged some necks and caught up on a few people. We shared a few memories and sang some of my Aunt Bertie's favorite hymns. We celebrated the life she had lived and we rejoiced in the heaven she now enjoyed. Then we left.

I am so glad that I came. There are some things we just need to stop and go do, because life is about coming and going.  And you know sometimes we get so busy with the comings and goings of life that we forget that life is about coming and going.

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”.

 

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.

Memories and Melodies

My mother was a woman who cherished memories. She took notes, treasured family gatherings, and always had her camera clicking. But at much too young of an age Alzheimer’s began to steal her memories. Her alertness to the world around her slowly faded to a blank stare and incoherent gaze. She has not known me for years. Nevertheless, I sometimes drive the distance to see her. On one of those occasions, about 20 months ago I found her 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. I decided just to listen and did so for about an hour. 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”. And if there were only two kids then one of them would have been me 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.

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.

Adventures in Pilot Station

My daughter Brittney made the move to her new home in Alaska this week. After a long flight she arrived in Anchorage last Sunday evening. She spent the next two mornings participating in new teacher in-service and spent the afternoons taking care of details like buying a semester’s worth of groceries, obtaining an Alaska driver’s license, registering to vote, etc. Then on Wednesday she made the 450 air mile journey from Anchorage to Pilot Station Alaska. The last leg of that journey was in a six passenger Cessna. She was impressed that she got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Pilot station is a native Alaskan fishing village, population 800, located along the Yukon River. There is no highway system. It is accessible by boat or by air.

The locals were out in mass to meet them upon their arrival as were a multitude of dogs with their litters of pups. I deprived her of pets growing up but as an adult she has developed a fondness for dogs. She will be living in a three bedroom house that she shares with another teacher. She says the area is pretty. She quickly went to work setting up her new home and is fast making friends with both the local population and the school personnel. The local hangout is the AC store, which is part of a chain of stores that operates in remote Alaska villages. She has made several trips there and bought a coffee mug in which she can get free refills. She has tasted pilot bread. She has learned to use a propane stove and has baked her own bread. She bought a package of Reindeer meat and cooked and sampled some of it. She went to the river at the time when the local fishermen give out free Salmon. I never taught her to fish. But with a little instruction she managed to clean her own fish “I cut its head off and took its guts out Daddy.” It was a big fish. She cut it into 11 pieces, froze 10 of them and cooked the other piece. She reported that it was good. Today she and some other teachers picked some wild berries and they are hoping for another free Salmon.

She is an adventuresome soul. I did not let her have pets when she was growing up and I did not take her fishing. But I did try to teach her to dream and to explore and to not be afraid. Next week she will fly to another village in the school district for new teacher meetings and the next week she will be making preparations at her school. Then the school year will begin. I am confidant that she will do well. She is a brave young lady. I wish I had been as brave as she is when I was her age.

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!

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!

A Thousand and Three Boxes of Girlscout Cookies

While driving down Main Street today I saw two girls standing in the cold and snow flurries dressed up as cookies. One was a Thin Mint and the other was a Samoa. I am a sucker for this scene. Not because I cannot live without the cookies. But because I appreciate the work of the Girl Scouts, like to support their work, and contribute to their entrepreneurial education. The look of satisfaction on the face of a Girl Scout when she makes a sale is worth the $4 price of the cookies. So today I drove around the block, stopped, chatted with the Girl Scouts, and bought 4 boxes. 

I have a soft spot for the Girl Scouts because of my experience with my daughter when she was a Girl Scout. She was the cookie seller and I was her sales manager. Honestly, I think I enjoyed the experience more than she did. I like selling things and I was determined I was going to make a salesperson out of her. I also had a rule that I was not going to sale them for her but that she had to make the contacts and take the orders. So on the first day of cookie sales we would hit the streets together and with my encouragement she would ring the door bell and when people came to the door she would ask “would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies”?  Some would buy and she would be happy. Some would say no and sometimes she would get multiple “no’s” in a row and would get a little discouraged. I tried to help her understand that often in life the answer was no and that a negative answer just gives you the opportunity to move on to the next door. We learned to take orders in places of business and that the orders were often larger there. She took her order sheet to church and found lots of friendly buyers there. We learned that repeat business was best and having secured phone numbers from the previous year’s sales sheet she was able to take a lot of orders by phone. Over the years she took special interest in some of her customers. Like the widower who lived a few blocks from us, had a house full of cats and always had to show her the weaving work he was doing with rugs. He would buy several boxes but the sale was never quick. You had to give him 15-20 minutes of your life. But he needed that and we were enriched by the experience. We thought she had sold a lot of cookies one year when she sold 737 boxes. But the next year she sold 1003 boxes. To put this in perspective, if you take the back two rows of seats out of a mini-van and fill it with 1003 boxes of cookies you have just enough room for the driver and the Girl Scout. Of course then you have to deliver all those cookies and collect the money. But when it was over she had helped her troop earn some money and she earned for herself some “cookie dough” to pay a large part of her way to summer Girl Scout Camp. Perhaps my daughter would say I was a tough sales manager. But for me it was a treasured experience that I got to share with her. And if I see Girl Scouts selling cookies I am going to buy some.

 

"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”.

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.

Experiencing a Tornado

Today I experienced a tornado. The air was warm and it grew still. I heard the warning siren. I watched the weather station reports. I tried to track the storm on my iphone. Indeed the storm was in the area. I put my shoes on and grabbed my wallet and keys. We considered going down the street to a neighbor who had a basement. But it seemed the skies were clearing around us. The dark sky had moved to the north of us. Then the wind picked up and I heard the roar. Hurriedly we got into the bathroom. The lights went out. The moment was scary but did not last long. When we emerged from our cover the skies were clear. But trees were down and the yard was filled with shingles and other debris. Neighbors soon filled the streets to inspect the damage. There were no bodily injuries to report, just frayed nerves. We all seemed to quickly realize that we had dodged the bullet, or rather that the bullet had dodged us. As best I can tell the tornado cut a path that followed the street in front of my house. It did not touch the earth but snapped the trees off about 12 to 15 foot above the ground. Everything that could be loosened was scattered by its breath. Every tree in the church yard and my yard was damaged and will need to be taken down. The fence around my yard is partially destroyed. The windshield on my truck is cracked and there is dent on the front fender. We had a moment of fear. We have been inconvenienced. But we are alive and we are well. The same cannot be said for other communities scattered across Illinois. Six people lost their lives due to tornados in Illinois today. Hundreds have suffered injuries, some have been seriously hurt. Whole neighborhoods have been wiped out. Many people had a house they called home this morning. This afternoon all they had was a pile of bricks. Their belongings and memorabilia are blown away or ruined beneath the heap. So tonight as a lay my head down to sleep I will say a prayer for my fellowmen who have been stricken by great loss this day. I will ask God to comfort and walk with them as they grieve and as they recover. And I will be quick to say a prayer of thanks that the folks in my house are safe and sound.

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.”

A place of Clean Hands

A week before I was four years old my baby brother was born. While my mother was at the hospital I went to stay with my grandmother and grandfather Cloyd. They ran a dairy farm which meant there was plenty of dirt to play in. But having a great belief in cleanliness my grandmother scrubbed me up real good before they took me home. Honestly, you have never been scrubbed until you have been scrubbed by Ada Cloyd with a bar of lava soap. Upon my return home I discovered that my Aunt Zuma, Uncle John and their three children Rhonda, Richard, and Rozi had also come to inspect this new baby that had arrived in our family. My cousin Rozi, who was about two years older than me, for some reason was sitting beside the bassinette where my newborn brother lay. I went over to inspect this bundle of joy that everyone seemed in awe of. I reached out my hand to touch my baby brother only to be greeted with a sharp rebuke from my cousin Rozi. In a loud protective voice she shouted “Get your dirty hands off that baby”! I obeyed. I am certain I did not say a word but I remember processing in my mind that she surely has no idea about the cleansing experience I had just endured not more than an hour earlier. I have never forgotten that moment. Surely it is one of my earliest memories. As for Rozi, I suspect I was in my late teens when we last saw each other. I am glad we were able to reconnect via facebook about two years ago. About two weeks ago Rozi became ill and could not eat and grew weak. When she went to the hospital it was discovered that she had two tumors on her liver that had metastasized from other parts of her body. Her demise was quick. Her kidneys failed and by the time her sister, brother, and father got to her side she was basically unable to communicate. Death came painfully but quickly. Her family is left to weep even as they are grateful for a merciful end. I am weeping and praying with them. I am sorry it had to be this way. But let me give a personal word to Rozi: Thanks for a beautiful memory that has lingered with me for 52 years. I am sure there was a crowd to greet you when you passed through the heavenly gate. But be cautious lest you are tempted to go on hygiene patrol. Be assured that all the residents of heaven have clean hands.

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.

Interacting with Yesteryear

I visited with my mother Thursday. Actually it is probably not correct to say that we visited. She has Alzheimer’s and has not known me for over two years. But I was there. We were in each other’s presence. The last two times I saw her she lay in a semi-sleep and barely said a word. But today she talked constantly. Some of her words were intelligible. Sometimes she could string 6 or 7 words together in the right order. I sat by her side and listened to her for an hour and a half. I tried to decipher a little of what might be going on in her mind. It was as if a reel to reel recording was being played over and over inside of her. She is part of the recording and she is interacting with the characters and verbalizing her part of the recording. The recording is obviously worn and it skips a lot. And from what I can pick up she changes to different reels at times. I make a few feeble attempts to let her know I am there but I cannot release her from the recording that has become a reality within her. So I give up and just listen. From what I can tell the recording she is interacting with took place sometime in her early adulthood. Once I heard her refer to her two kids. If she just had two, one of them would have been me. Once I heard her cite an antiquated phone # 550-J. I am left to wonder whose phone # that might have been. Finally it is time for me to go. I tell her goodbye. I tell her I love her. I kiss her on the forehead. I leave saddened but thankful. I had not heard my mother groan or moan or scream. I had simply witnessed her interact with a reality of a yesteryear. She seemed content in that reality.

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.