"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints." ~Psalm 116:15

That passage of Scripture has been going through my head a lot the past few days.  It first came to mind yesterday when I received an email that said that doctors had exhausted all resources, and my friend would soon die.  It again came to mind later that morning as I stood with members of her physical and spiritual families in her hospital room, and joined with them in singing hymns to her.  She knew what was happening, and although she could not speak, she smiled.  And again, that verse from Psalm 116 crossed my mind once more when I received word a few hours later that she had passed from this life.  Precious, indeed.

I never called her anything except Sister Glover, but she emailed me frequently, and would always end her emails with "Love, Mrs. G."  I first met her in the Spring of 1984 when I traveled to Florida College on my high school spring break to visit my friend who was a student there.  My friend had failed to tell her I was coming, and Sister Glover gave me a stern once over, but graciously allowed me to stay with my friend in her dorm room for the week - Sister Glover was the dorm mother there, and was greatly loved by "her girls".

Years later, when we moved to the Tyler area, I again encountered Sister Glover.  She was now living in Tyler, and was a member of the Rice Road church, where we placed our membership.  She quickly endeared herself to our family.  I never saw Sister Glover without a smile on her face.  She always seemed genuinely glad to see me, and would always hold my hand as we visited - always.

Sister Glover was a "there you are" type of person - always interested in YOU, and what was going on in your life.  She loved my children, and had a "tea party" for the preteen girls one time that my girls greatly enjoyed.  She would also write and mail them letters once every few weeks, which she titled "letters from Grandmother."  They were words of wisdom, exhorting and encouraging my daughters to follow after God in their youth.  It touched me that she would take the time to do that, and it also impressed me that she sent those letters to my girls individually - - so often they would get lumped together as one entity called "the twins," but Sister Glover never did that.  She was also quite fond of Caleb, and would often make me laugh in recent years as she would tell me she saw this or that which Caleb had posted on Facebook - she would usually say something like, "I saw Caleb's post - but, honey, I just didn't understand it!"  Smiling all the while.

Her life was not easy.  She shared with me some difficult trials she faced as a young girl - things which would have caused many young women to give up.  But not Sister Glover.  During her middle-aged years, she suffered the tragic loss of her husband and one of her sons in a car accident, in which she was severely injured - an injury that affected her for the rest of her life.  But, again, she worked through her loss, and found ways to lovingly serve and give to others, with a heart full of joy.

Personally, Sister Glover encouraged me as a wife and mother to stay devoted to those tasks.  She encouraged me to take an active role in teaching the younger women, and she would tell me, "Honey, you can relate better to them than I can, because you are closer to their age."  Every year on my birthday, she would tell me that her mother had also been born on that day, and that made my birthday even more special, she would say.

I was special to Sister Glover.  She told me so often.  I can still see and hear her, as she would hold my hand and in her smiling, sweet, quiet demeanor say, "You're special to me, and I love you!"  But, I'm not the only one.  You see, Sister Glover had the unique ability to make everyone she encountered feel loved and special.  She even created a Facebook group called "Special" - I looked at it earlier today, and she had added 70 people to that group.  People were special to her, especially God's people.

The last conversation I had with her was about this blog.  Last week she came to me and said, "Honey, I didn't know you had a blog until just the other day!  Why didn't you tell me?"  And then she went on to ask me why I didn't write more often, and said she would be waiting for my next entry.  She didn't know (nor did I) that I would feel compelled to write about her in that entry, and she certainly didn't know she wouldn't be here to read it.  But, that's ok, because she's in a much better place right now.

I'm convinced that yesterday afternoon, the angels carried the precious soul of Chris Glover to Abraham's bosom as they did the beggar in Luke 16.  Sister Glover embodied the life of a woman wholly dedicated to serving God.  As I think of her, I think of such passages as Proverbs 31:30 - "Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord shall be praised."  I also think of Titus 2:3-5, which states, "the older women likewise, that they be reverent in behavior, not slanderers, not given to much wine, teachers of good things—  that they admonish the young women to love their husbands, to love their children,  to be discreet, chaste, homemakers, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be blasphemed."  Sister Glover was that, and did that.  And I also think of Acts 9:36-43, where the disciples were grieving the death of Dorcas who "was always doing good, and helping the poor."  We, too, grieve for ourselves, who will miss our dear, sweet, sister in Christ.  Our "Dorcas," who never quit loving, serving, and doing good.

But thankfully, because of God's grace, we won't have to miss her forever.  "But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus"  (1 Thess. 4:13-14).  I'll see her again.  And it makes me smile to think she'll greet me again one day with that sweet smile, as she takes my hand, and says, "Oh, honey, it's so good to see you here!"

“Don't judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.” ~Sharon Creech, Walk Two Moons

As our children were growing up, we read books out loud to them every night at bedtime.  We covered a wide range of works, from the Little House series, to the Chronicles of Narnia, and other classics like Winnie the Pooh, and Charlotte's Web.  I always enjoyed these readings, especially the underlying life messages in these books that are often lost on children.

One of the books we read which had the greatest impact on me was "Walk Two Moons" by Sharon Creech.  I've recently begun to re-read this Newberry Medal winner.  Several quotes occur in the novel which have profound meaning - things like, "Everyone has their own agenda;"  "In the course of a lifetime, what does it matter?"  "You can't keep the birds of sadness from flying over your head, but you can keep them from nesting in your hair;"  and "We never know the worth of water until the well is dry."  But perhaps the most important quote in the book is its title:

"Never judge a man until you have walked two moons in his moccasins."

While reading the book through the first time with our girls, I did just that with one of the main characters - I judged.  Even while reading that phrase repeatedly in the book, I was quite certain I would NEVER do what Sal's mother had done.  Then I got to the end of the book, and realized that I had judged wrongly.  Why?  Because I didn't have ALL of the facts.  I didn't know the details.  I had not walked in her moccasins.  And all of that led me to view Sal's mother in a way that was wrong, and a great injustice to her.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I recently saw this video in a friend's Facebook post which further reinforces the problem which I believe we all struggle with to some degree:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfeXxkbgCVE

We see others, and we judge.  We might look at the way they handle a trial in their lives - something we've never gone through ourselves - and we think of all kinds of reasons why WE think they aren't handling it well.  We can list the things they should do to deal with it better - and we don't understand why they do (or don't do) certain things they way they do.  We might even offer advice, thinking we are "helping" them.  Even though we've never "walked in their moccasins."

We are also sometimes quick to judge the attitudes and motives of others, even when we don't know what is going on in their lives.  Like the video shows, everyone is dealing with something.  Maybe that clerk in the store was rude to me because they have just lost someone close to them.  Or maybe the quiet person who we view as "unfriendly" is dealing with a disease we know nothing about - they may not be "snobbish" at all.  In fact, they might just need someone to reach out to them in a loving way.

I think we've all probably been on both ends of this spectrum - Perhaps you are dealing with something difficult, and no one really understands because they haven't been where you are.  Or maybe you are looking at someone else and assigning motives that simply aren't accurate, because you don't know the details of their heartache.  In both cases, we need to be patient and understanding.

Henri Nouwen wrote, "When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.  The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."

I hope you have you have a friend like that.  I am blessed with several.  But more importantly, I hope we can all strive a little harder to BE a friend like that.  And I hope today that we will make it our goal to be a little kinder, a little sweeter, and a little more gentle with others whose pain we might not understand or even know.  

"Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood, we find a delightful creature of a boy." ~Author unknown

February 5, 1993 was a cloudy, cold day, which began quite early for me.  I had to be to Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas at 7 a.m. to get prepped for my C-section.  Jeff and I made our way there, leaving my mother with our two-year-old twins.  I still vividly remember all of the feelings I had that morning on the way to the hospital - excitement (would this baby be a boy or a girl?), trepidation (how am I going to take care of a newborn with two-year old twins?), and overwhelming thankfulness (God is so good!).  At 9:53 a.m., Dr. Weinstein held up a pudgy, black-haired, 8 lb 1 oz. baby, and exclaimed, "It's a boy!!"  And our lives haven't been the same since!

From his earliest days, Caleb was an extrovert born into a family of introverts.  He never met a stranger.  Ever.  This was quite a change for me from his sisters who were timid and scared of everyone.  He would talk to people in the library, in the grocery store, and would even try to engage the men serving the Lord's supper in conversation as they passed us the trays.  When his sisters were in first grade, he would go with me to pick them up from school in the afternoons - he quickly formed friendships with the aides who helped the car riders each day.  He called Mrs. Powers "My Lady," and Mrs. Richards, "My Friend."  And the remarkable thing about Caleb is that he maintained those friendships - he still keeps in touch with both of these ladies today.  

In a diary I kept of Caleb's childhood, I often noted how polite and thoughtful he was as a youngster.  For example, one day he told his preschool teacher, "You look beautiful today," followed by, "Where did you get that dress?"  I also recorded how at the age of 4, he would often pull out chairs at the supper table for his sisters.  

Caleb also had a vivid imagination as a youngster.  He had all kinds of imaginary friends - the most memorable was his imaginary grandfather who had red hair and a red beard, and lived in the mountains with Caleb's 25 brothers.  Once we asked him if his "grandfather" had a wife, and he said he used to, but she was eaten by a camel.  

In everything, Caleb has always enjoyed life to the fullest.

That "delightful creature of a boy" - my boy - gets one step closer to manhood today as he turns 21.  I am overwhelmed by the privilege and blessing that is mine to be the one that he calls "Mom."  In some ways I miss that wiggly, loud, cute little boy who used to try to put his little arm around me in church, who would cup my face with his hands and give me slobbery kisses, and who called me "Mommy."  That little boy who stood in the back of my grocery cart and loudly sang the "10 plagues song," and who, when he couldn't sleep at night would call me into his room, and when asked what was wrong would simply reply with a very animated, "Somepin!"  Yes, I miss that boy.

But what I have in place of that boy is a bigger, more mature version of the same.  That little Caleb that loved people, and was thoughtful and sensitive to the needs of others is now my Eagle Scout, Communication major, son of God, who still never meets a stranger, loves people, and makes friends wherever he goes.  That imaginative youngster who enjoyed life to the fullest is now my guitar playing, wood-burning, photography-loving, sky-diving hopeful young man, who gets great joy from going to Bucee's, building fires, and taking pictures on Kyle Field during Texas A&M football games. 

Is he perfect?  No, he's not - and he'll be the first to tell you that.  But more than anything, Caleb has a heart for service to God, and a heart that has always been tender to correction and instruction.  "I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth" (3 John 4).  My greatest joy as Caleb's mother is seeing him growing into a man of God.  The most humbling thought I have ever entertained as a mother is that these 3 precious souls who entered this world as a result of the choices their father and I made, will live eternally.  How thankful I am that all 3 have chosen to serve the Lord.

Happy Birthday, Buddy Boy!  Thank you for bringing such joy and fun to our family - we would be a pretty boring bunch without you!  I can't wait to see what you do with the rest of your life as you continue to serve others with God as your center and focus.  "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be."

“Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.” ~Maya Angelou

When I wrote about letter writing a few weeks ago, I received several comments about phone calls.  Voices.  Just as handwriting is unique to each writer, and it gives us an indelible, eternal piece of someone, the human voice is the same.  A baby comes into the world knowing his mother’s voice, and being calmed by it.  Voices are distinct and recognizable - - an inseparable part of each person.  And something we long to cling to after they're gone.

I recently read The First Phone Call From Heaven by Mitch Albom.  The story is set in the town of Coldwater, Michigan, where several people begin receiving telephone calls from familiar voices of deceased loved ones.  Albom shifts throughout the book between the invention of the telephone in 1876, and the current day happenings of the town of Coldwater. 

Albom writes, “The news of life is carried via telephone.  A baby's birth, a couple engaged, a tragic accident on a late-night highway -- most milestones of the human journey, good or bad, are foreshadowed by the sound of ringing.”  He also recounts the first phone call from Bell to Watson, in which Bell simply said, "Come here, I want to see you.”  Albom goes on to state, “In the uncountable human phone conversations since then, the concept has never been far from our lips.  Come here.  I want to see you.  Impatient lovers.  Long-distance friends.  Grandparents talking to grandchildren.  The telephone voice is by a seduction, a bread crumb to an appetite.  Come here.  I want to see you.”

For several years before my father passed away, he would often call me – at least once a week – in the morning hours after Jeff had left for work and the kids were at school.  I can still hear his familiar voice as I answered the phone, saying, “What’s going on over there?”  Quickly followed by, “How are the little shavers?”  Those calls were always brief, and never about anything important – they were simply a father checking in with his daughter for a few quiet moments between them.  During the first few months after his death, if my phone rang about 10 in the morning, I would have that momentary feeling of, “That’s probably Daddy…” before my reality would envelope me that he was never calling me again.  It was the ringing of that same phone that brought the voice of my brother telling me that Daddy was gone.  And interestingly, my brother’s voice sounds hauntingly similar to my dad’s – sometimes when my brother calls, it gives me momentary pause.

This morning, I received a phone call from a long-distance friend who lives over a thousand miles away.  She and I rarely see one another, and we don’t even get to talk on the phone that often.  But when I hear her familiar voice on the other end of the phone, time and distance seem to evaporate.  We talked for over two hours this morning about a wide variety of topics ranging from the serious to the mundane.  They were two hours well-spent, because at the end of that conversation I felt refreshed, encouraged, and loved.  All because of the back-and-forth of our voices.  As special as a letter can be, there’s no substitute for the sound of a beloved voice.

Albom’s book is a work of fiction.  We all know that there are no phone calls from heaven.  But those of us who have lost loved ones tend to cling to recordings of those voices for the same reasons, I believe, that we treasure their handwritten letters.  It’s a piece of them. 

I won’t spoil the ending of Albom’s book, but it is very interesting how the characters in the book progress.  The phone calls do eventually come to an end, but as Albom concludes, “Although the town was largely saddened by the loss of heavenly voices, no one seemed to notice how, in their own way, the calls had steered people to just what they needed.”

We call out; we are answered.  It has been that way from the beginning...no soul remembered is ever really gone.”

One character in Albom’s book receives a phone call from her deceased mother, and the following conversation ensues:

“Do you still feel things in heaven, Mom?”

“Love.”

“Anything else?”

“A waste of time, Tess.”

“What is?”

“Anything else.”

So true.  Anything besides Love is a waste of time.  So as I encouraged you in my last entry, write a letter.  But then, make a phone call.  Say “I love you.”  Listen to the sound of the other voice.  Leave nothing unsaid.  Make a memory that will last long after your voice is silenced by death.

“The sweetest of all sounds is that of the voice of the (ones) we love.”  ~Jean de la Bruyere

“A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.” ~Emily Dickinson

My father passed away 10 years ago, and out of all the things of his I now have in my possession, the ones I treasure most are the few that contain his handwritten words.  I have one short letter he wrote to me in 1993, and I ran across it the other day.  He wrote it to include with some magazines I had asked to borrow as I prepared to teach a class.  He ended it with the words, "I am proud of you....  Love, Pop."

My daddy often told me throughout my life that he was proud of me, so it's not like this was the only confirmation I ever had of that fact.  But it is special to me, because while he is no longer here to say those words, this handwritten note reminds me.  It's a part of him, and a part of us - father and daughter.  Additionally, I am blessed to have some letters my daddy wrote to his parents while he was in college, and even a note he wrote to his grandparents when he was only 7 years old, telling them how much fun he had with them the previous day on a trip to Mineola, and how good the peas and corn were - he signed it with simple print as "Bobby Meadows." I love those glimpses I have into his life before me, as written by his own hand. 

It's not just letters.  I also have a book I gave to my daddy a few years before he died, in which he wrote an inscription that stated he wanted me to someday have that book.  I have his study Bible, which he used to teach Bible classes.  It includes copious handwritten notes.  When I'm preparing to teach a class, or whenever I'm doing some study on my own, I always go to Daddy's notes - it's the next best thing to asking him what he thought about a particular passage.  

After finding Daddy's notes, I also found several letters from my Granny.  Most of Granny's letters were about the weather, or about happenings with different relatives - nothing very deep.  But I treasure them, because they give me a piece of her, even though she's gone now.  And those letters remind me of the special grandmother/granddaughter relationship we shared, as they are all signed, "Love, Granny."  She wrote out a couple of recipes to me by hand - I also treasure these more than anything that she might have copied or printed for me.  Why?  Because they are in her own, unique handwriting.  

In 1927, my granny's older sister, Ruth, died in childbirth at the young age of 19.  Granny was only 10 years old at the time, but they had two brothers who were older than Ruth - Bryan and Edgar.  I have a handwritten letter that someone named Viola wrote to the brothers expressing her sorrow and sympathy.  It is three pages long, and contains such phrases as, "I know gladness seems impossible, but the One who took Ruth from you can also heal your broken hearts."  "Just try vision Ruth in her heavenly happiness.  I seem to see her, and I only pray that the rest of us, when our time comes, will meet it as readily and as bravely as Ruth..."  She ends the letter with, "Hoping that the depths of sorrow will soon be banished, I send my love to all."  While we might be good about picking up a Hallmark sympathy card and signing it to send to a bereaved friend, few of us would be able to pen such a rich, comforting letter. 

While I greatly treasure those writings from my family who are no longer here, I also have other letters from those who still share in my life.  I have a box full of letters that Jeff and I wrote to each other during our dating years, and other boxes full of letters from dear friends.  I never throw a handwritten letter away.  And as I perused those boxes earlier this week, I was able to relive many wonderful memories, all of them shared in familiar handwriting by some of the people I love most in this world.  A little piece of them.  A reminder of "us" - of the unique relationships I have with each of them.  I love that.

There's something special about going to the mailbox, and finding a hand-addressed envelope, and opening that to reveal a hand-written letter.  Everyone's script is as unique as their voice.  Some pages might be marked by a coffee stain, or the characteristic smudge of a lefty script.  Some will have misspelled words, or unique phrases used only by the writer.  Phyllis Theroux wrote, "To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart," and in the handwritten letter of a friend, you can see, hold, and feel a piece of their heart - not just once, but as often as you pick it back up and read it again. Unfortunately, with the technological advances in our society today, people just don't write letters as much.  We have email, text messages, phone calls, and Skype - who needs (or has time) to write a letter?  And stamps are so expensive!

After finding and re-reading the letters I have mentioned here, I am sad for our generation as well as future ones who won't have those bits and pieces of their loved ones.  As for me, I am armed with a new box of stationery, and will do my part to bring back handwritten letters - my goal is to write at least one each week this year.  I hope you'll join me - I guarantee you it will make someone smile!

"We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day." ~Edith Lovejoy Pierce

We've just come through my favorite time of year - Thanksgiving through New Year's.  It's a time filled with family, friends, nostalgia, tradition, lots of food, and the chance to reconnect with far-away friends we seldom hear from through Christmas cards that arrive in our mailboxes.

In November, many people are more mindful of God's blessings.  As a result, we get to enjoy "30 days of thankfulness" posts on Facebook.  We make a focused effort to be more thankful for the little things. We think about it more  - - interestingly, our word THANK comes from the same etymological root as THINK.  Makes sense, doesn't it?  If we take time to THINK, we will be THANKFUL, and the opposite of that is true as well.  Those who are thankless just don't think!

As November moves into December, we begin preparing for Christmas.  We buy or make gifts for those we love most, and we find ways to show our appreciation to those who are important in our lives.  We participate in long-held family traditions, which strengthen bonds and keep us close.  We remember traditions that perhaps were a part of our childhood, and as a result, we think about those who have passed on more vividly during the holiday time.  We make new memories, share more hugs, and just generally feel more cheerful.  People are nicer, and more helpful.  We hear of more random acts of kindness, and people tend to do and give in more charitable ways during December.  I was the recipient of a random act of kindness at the grocery store one day a few weeks ago.  With my cart full of a week's supply of groceries, the lady in front of me prepaid the store clerk $10 toward my groceries.   She left the store before I even knew about it.  That made an impression on me, and made me feel good the rest of the day.

The holiday time has officially passed - today is January 2.  What now?  Norman Wesley Brooks wrote:  "Christmas is forever, not just for one day; for loving, sharing, giving, are not to put away like bells and lights and tinsel, in some box upon a shelf.  The good you do for others is good you do yourself."  What if we could keep the attitude of thankfulness that pervades November throughout the entire year?  And what if we could maintain the fervor of December giving - our love, time, and service to others - through the next 12 months?

This morning I opened up my brand new planner with 2014 stamped on the front.  It's pages are crisp and unwritten on; and the year, likewise, stands before me yet unused and unsullied by last year's crinkles and smudges.  This year, I will work on keeping the holiday spirit throughout my year, which really is a Biblical concept...

I will give THANKS each day for God, and for what He has done, and continues to do for me...
"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.  For His steadfast love endures forever." ~Psalm 136:1

I will give THANKS for the blessing of each new day...
"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it."  ~Psalm 118:24

I will THANK God for every good thing that comes my way in 2014...
"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights..." ~James 1:17

And likewise, I will THANK Him for every circumstance of life, even if it doesn't necessarily seem "good" to me...
"Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you."  ~1 Thess. 5:18

I will also be prayerfully THANKFUL each day for the people in my life...
"I do not cease to give thanks for you, remembering you in my prayers..."  ~Ephesians 1:16

I will do everything I can to serve and love and give to others...
"In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’” ~Acts 20:35

"For you were called to freedom, brothers. Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another. For the whole law is fulfilled in one word: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” ~Galatians 5:13-14

"When he had washed their feet and put on his outer garments and resumed his place, he said to them, “Do you understand what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet."  ~John 13:12-13

"So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others." ~Phillipians 2:1-11

All of which can pretty much be summed up by this...
"Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints and seek to show hospitality."  ~Romans 12:9-13

If you know me, I hope you will hold me to it . . . and maybe even join me.  Let's keep this "holiday" spirit going the whole year through!

“Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.” ~Gloria Naylor

2003 was quite a year.  The space shuttle Columbia crashed in February of that year upon re-entry, with pieces of debris scattered all over East Texas.  In March, the US launched war on Iraq.  SARS ravaged 32 countries around the world, and in August a major blackout affected New York City for 29 hours.  Elizabeth Smart was found alive - 9 months after she was kidnapped, American Idol was the most popular TV show, and John Ritter died suddenly at the age of 54. 

While all of those are events that the world remembers, one major event occurred in my life in October of that year which impacted me personally more than any of those things …

For me, October 6, 2003 was a day much like any other.  It was a Monday, and I spent the day cleaning house, and doing laundry.  We were having a gospel meeting that week, so my focus was on making sure I was organized enough to facilitate evening meals, the kids’ homework schedules, getting us ready and to services on time, and getting the kids to bed at a reasonable hour.  The girls were in 7^th grade, had just turned 13, and were heavily involved in school activities and band.  Caleb was 10, in 5^th grade, and loving life in Mrs. Letsinger’s class.  It was just a typical Monday of a gospel meeting week, or at least that’s what I thought…

We attended the meeting that evening, and returned home to find several messages on our answering machine from my brother, asking me to call him as soon as possible.  I immediately returned his call, and I will never forget that conversation.  He told me that our father had been in an accident.  I asked what happened, and he told me that Daddy had apparently fallen out of his deer stand.  Thinking that he was probably injured, I next asked if he was at home, or in one of the local hospitals.  The answer I received was totally unexpected . . .   My brother’s word-for-word answer to that question is forever burned into my memory.  Todd simply said, “He’s apparently been dead for quite some time.”

The plans of my week took a sudden change with those words.  I spent the week at my mother’s house, and instead of school, meal prep, homework help, and gospel meeting attendance, my time was filled with funeral planning, choosing a casket, picking out burial clothes, speaking with a coroner, and receiving endless hugs of comfort.  I can still vividly remember the events of each day of that week, and the feelings associated with them.  It was to date the worst week of my life.

A lot has happened in the ensuing 10 years.  Our kids are grown, the girls have graduated from college, and Sarah is married.  We’ve added on to our house, drive a different vehicle, and have taken several family vacations.  Others in my life have joined my Daddy in that home of the soul, including his mother, his cousin, and several of his friends.  My mother has remarried, and the tiny camellia bush given to us in my Dad’s memory has grown quite large in our backyard.  All of these things signify how life goes on. 

I have found over the past 10 years that time is a wonderful healer.  Yes, I still miss my daddy, but I remember him more often with smiles now than with tears.  I miss talking to him and seeking his wisdom and advice.  I miss his laugh, his hugs, and the special and unique love that a father has for his only daughter.  Those things are irreplaceable, and the void will always be felt.  I have missed him most profoundly at those life changing times, like when Caleb was baptized, when my Granny (his mother) passed away, or when any of my children have accomplished something significant in their young lives.  I especially miss the way he loved my children.  I thought about him a lot this past summer, when his granddaughters received degrees from Texas A&M University – he would’ve been so proud.  He was also silently tucked, but prominent in my thoughts at Sarah’s wedding.  Her ring bearer carried Daddy’s Bible – no notice was taken of that by most of the people who were there, but those of us who knew and loved my Daddy noticed – and remembered him, wishing he could’ve been there. 

Shortly after Daddy’s death, a dear friend pointed out to me that my deep grief was really a blessing – she told me that the reason I hurt so much was because I had loved so much, which spoke to the strength of our relationship.  She was right.   I am forever thankful for the blessing I had to have such a wonderful daddy for 37 years.  He shaped my life.  He taught me to love God.  Because of that, I have the hope of seeing him again in a place where there will be no more parting or sorrow.  What more could a daughter ask for in a daddy? 

And so this week, I think about him more than most weeks.  And I also think about death, which is good for all of us to do.  My daddy had no knowledge when he awoke perfectly healthy on the morning of October 6, 2003 that he would be dead before noon.  Think about that.  Could you be dead before noon today?  Could I?  We tend to shrug at the thought of that, don’t we?  Sure, we could, but we probably won’t, so what do we do?  We live each day like we have the promise of tomorrow, when  in reality we don’t even have the promise of the next minute. 

“Now listen, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.’  You do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.  Instead, you ought to say, ‘If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.’  As it is, you boast in your arrogant schemes. All such boasting is evil.  If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.”  (James 4:13-17)  Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all lived every single day with the attitude that we might be dead before noon?  What better honor could I give to my Daddy – and to my Heavenly Father – than to do just that. 

“I have his cup, my Daddy’s cup, cracked and worn across the rim.  His favorite book – the Book of books, whose pages now are dim.  You could not buy them from me with all the world’s most precious gems; But I would gladly give them all for one more day with him.” ~D. Morgan