Christian Author and Speaker
It doesn’t look like much. And to most, it probably isn’t much. Just a soap dish, from K-Mart, one might assume. Probably purchased in the 50’s. Pink plastic with removable drainer. The gold trim of its crown nearly worn from years of scouring with Comet Cleanser. At first glance, one might easily overlook the esteemed position it held through the years.
I drive past it nearly every day, on my way somewhere. Today, though, I pull over and park my car in the lot, now overlaid with weeds. I look at the church – an unkempt building that has been empty for many years now – and I listen. No music flows through its closed windows. No children laugh or play on the rotted teeter-totter in its side yard. No pastor preaches from its pulpit. Instead, I hear the sounds of the country – the birds, the leaves kissing the breeze, a tractor in the distance,
and I’m remembering the past,
Three of our grandchildren were living with us.
It was a joyful time, in the midst of a sad time.
Bedtimes were part of the joyful time – a time of quiet talk – a time of prayer – an assurance of love. For Kaylee, the youngest, it included a time of singing. It was a song I had composed, just for her:
Sweet dreams, my Kaylee Joy;
sweet dreams to you.
Dream about rainbows,
dream about sunshine,
dream about teddy bears, too.
And as she fell asleep, my singing changed to humming, and the humming diminished as I tucked her blankie around her and tiptoed out of the room.
It was during one of those times of humming that the memory came.
Just two musical tones of my humming brought the memory – tones of a first, then down to a fifth. (You musicians know what I mean!)
With those two tones, I saw her – my mother.
She was young. Her hair dark, short, parted on the side, and wavy. I was a baby – how old I don’t know, but young enough that I was still in her arms. I looked at her through baby eyes. I saw my chubby forearm and hand. My hand was touching her soft cheek. And she was singing:
When I pray, I will pray for you,I knew the entire song – one I hadn’t heard sung in years, but now I heard only the first of it because, you see, the memory was so short. Perhaps only seconds. But long enough to place me back in my mother’s arms – to remember her holding me, singing to me, loving me.
The memory suddenly poured from my eyes and flowed down my cheeks.
I was glad Kaylee had fallen asleep. I left her bedroom and cherished the ever-so-brief thoughts, thanking God for that special reflection.
And I’ve since thought more about the words to that old hymn. Mama prayed for me. My faith first lived in her (2 Timothy 1:5). And her prayers for me are still worship before the Lord God (Revelation 5:8, 8:4).
When their mothers had gone to be with the Lord, both my friend, Becky, and my cousin, Sherri, shared their feelings of emptiness with me. Besides their normal feelings of grief and loss, they both said, “I feel like my most faithful prayer warrior is gone.”
When my time came, and my mother was gone, I understood. I felt much the same as Becky and Sherri, until I realized that my mother’s prayers were still powerful and alive before God. A golden bowl holds the incense, which are the prayers of the saints, and the smoke of that incense continues to rise before God. I was encouraged and in turn, encouraged Becky and Sherri with that insight from God’s Word.
Let it also encourage you, my friend. Gain strength in that knowledge, my friend. Your mother’s (and/or grandmother’s) prayers are still before the Lord God. The fragrance of those prayers continues to rise up to God, as sweet worship to Him!
And to me, it’s as though she’s still singing,
“For the first time in my adult lifetime, I’m proud of my country . . .” (Michelle Obama, February 18, 2008)
Really?
My belated response to Michelle Obama.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been proud of my country – America.
In my elementary classrooms, I recited the Pledge of Allegiance every day. I was a proud American way back then.
As I grew, both of my parents had opportunity to work; my dad had a steady job; my mother worked at home and sometimes outside the home. A healthy American pride was developing within me – watching my parents fulfill the American dream; owning their own home, enjoying the freedom of raising their children as they saw fit. Even in my early years, I was developing into a proud American.
As I grew up, I learned morals and values upon which our country was founded. For instance, I heard how my grandpa had once arrived home from the country store and realized the storekeeper had given him 25 cents too much in the change back from his purchase. He then “hooked” the horses back up, and drove the rig back down the dry and dusty roads to the little store to return the change. Honesty and integrity were values in my family, and I assumed them to be a part of America, and for that I was proud.
My Daddy told about serving overseas in WWII, separated from his family and my mother for four years. I learned that my grandpa and grandma had five sons serving during those four years. Only four returned. Another Uncle later served in Korea. My brother served during the Viet Nam era. Why? I learned that they all served our country so we could have the freedoms we had. I was a proud American.
Our flag hung outside our front door. It waved in the breeze during the day, but my mother took it down during the storms and at night. Why? I don’t remember anyone having to tell me why. I knew why. It was a symbol of America and of our freedom. It deserved respect. I was a proud American.
Back then, and still today, I love and worship God without fear. I know this is not possible in many countries, and because of that, I am even more proud of America.
In my country, neighbors bring food in times of death or trouble; farmers help each other with their crops; the community comes together for new projects and for those in need. America is people! I’m proud of these people – my fellow Americans; thus I’m proud of America.
At my children’s ball games, I’ve stood quietly and proudly, my hand over my heart as I’ve sung the National Anthem. I’ve taught my children to do the same. Why? Because I’m proud of America.
With three children, I was still able to go to college and attain my Bachelor’s degree – later to earn my Master’s. Never did I take it for granted. I don’t think it’s commonplace in most other countries, do you? My country gave me that opportunity, and it makes me even more proud of America.
I was born in 1951, at a time when our country was healing after WWII. It was a good time in America. And you, Mrs. Obama, were also born during a good time in America. You were born in 1964, shortly after some significant positive changes in our country’s history. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had just presented one of the most inspiring speeches in history, which changed our country. Our president had endorsed Dr. King and his leadership in the Civil Rights Movement. What a marvelous America you were born into! In reading your biography, I find that you were also raised with both Dad and Mom in the house. Yours was also a close-knit family. You received opportunities to attend a school for the gifted. Awesome! Then you received degrees from Princeton and Harvard Law School. Wow! This was in America, right? And you weren’t proud of the country for the opportunity it granted you? It’s just a bit difficult for me to understand, because, you see, for as long as I can remember, I’ve always been proud of America.
Margie lived in a small, white farmhouse, two miles from the little country church in Butler Township. On Sundays, she, along with her brothers and sisters, sauntered the dry gravel roads to church. The parade of children was led by their stern and proper matriarch, Grandma Locke, who lived with the family, as was the custom with many in the first half of the 20th century.
Wayne, on the other hand, was one of an even larger batch of children. He lived twenty miles away in Ovid Township, in a yet smaller white farmhouse. And on Sunday mornings, in contrast to Margie, Wayne, alone, walked the dry gravel roads (or wet in the rains, or icy in the winter) to meet up with a traveling pastor, who faithfully drove from Ovid township on Sunday mornings and evenings to preach at Dayburg Baptist Church in Butler township.
In and around that quaint little building and its grassy churchyard, Margie and her brothers and sisters met young Wayne. The Locke family took to Wayne, which led to him spending long Sunday afternoons with them at their country home. Later in the day, after the Sunday evening service, Wayne would ride with the pastor back to Ovid Township and walk the short mile home.
Wayne’s friendship developed with the Locke family, and later, with Margie. One summer afternoon, the young couple crossed the creek, and ambled through the woods between the church and the cemetery on the hill. In this woods, Wayne carved their initials, connected by an arrow, into the trunk of a young tree:
W N + M L ↔
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Days passed. Months passed. The young tree reached for the sun above. Occasionally the skies were gray, but the sun always shone again. The tree kept reaching.
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By the time Wayne graduated from Coldwater High School, the United States had entered World War II. He signed up and served overseas for three years. Oh how he missed the little country church and his sweet Margie! Meanwhile, Margie worked in a factory, keeping busy to help the war effort and her family.
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The tree was still growing, and as it grew, the imbedded letters widened – the arrow tightened the connection between the pair of initials.
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The years dragged. The young couple corresponded, and their letters spoke of love and of marriage.
In 1946, Wayne came home, and he and Margie were married at the little country church – just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods.
Soon, they bought a farm near that woods behind the church where they had one day wandered. The creek bordered the farm on the south. The beautiful yellow farmhouse sat on the hill, midway to the northern property line. It was a house Margie had admired since she walked the dusty roads as a child, many years before, and now her dream had come true.
They served the Lord together in the little country church and raised their family in the yellow farmhouse – both just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods.
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The sun often shone in the woods between the church and the cemetery on the hill, but occasionally skies became overcast and gloomy. Oppressive rains darkened the carved letters in the tree. The storms raged. But the sun always came out again and dried the bark of the tree. Then the carved letters laughed and sang in the light of the Son. The tree flourished and praised its Maker. The tree aged but stood strong and solid. The years passed . . .
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. . . nearly sixty-six years! Then the eyes of Wayne’s old body closed for the last time – never to open again. His soul went up, high above the tree, through the sunlight of the early March morning and into the presence of his Maker; and a month later, on an April day, Margie lay, yearning to follow her beloved Wayne. She raised her aged, purpled forearms toward the heavens, reaching toward the Son – and then she followed him.
Their old bodies are buried together in the cemetery on the hill – just a few hundred yards from that carved tree in the woods!
A tombstone bears their names and the dates of their births and deaths. Between their names, two words are carved in the gray granite: Together Forever.
When a stranger meanders throughout the cemetery and pauses to read those words, he probably smiles and thinks, “How sweet! The old couple is forever buried together here in this little country cemetery.” But when those of us who knew Wayne and Margie read those words, we laugh and sing in light of the Son, knowing that the young couple is Together Forever in heaven!
If you stand high on the cemetery hill and look over the dark green tops of the trees in the woods below, you’ll see an empty space where the carved tree once stood – empty because the tree died, too. But if you look deeper, down through the green, onto the floor of the woods, you’ll find saplings and seedlings, sown from the seeds of the old tree. They’re growing and reaching up toward the sky and the sun. They welcome the spring rains but are frightened of the fierce storms of late summer and winter. They grow taller and stronger in each season, and they praise their Maker as they see the Son after each storm.
And when you stand on that hill, if you are very still, and if a soft breeze is coming from the church yard below, ruffling the tops of the trees throughout the woods, you’re apt to hear a duo of voices whispering, Together Forever. And when you do, you’ll find yourself laughing and singing in the light of the Son.
Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life . . . Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land. . . her husband . . . praises her.
Oh, yes! It’s difficult to believe today – that a woman would take such good care of her husband! But she did! And yes, he had full confidence in her; and yes, she brought him good all the days of her life; and yes, he was respected and an elder; and yes, he praised her! When I was young, I never heard my mother argue with my dad. She didn’t slam the door in his face or yell at him. She never spoke about separation or divorce. Faithfulness.
As a result, he cherished her. He respected her. He opened doors for her and was openly affectionate with her. He gave her gifts. I observed. It taught me much. And all by example.
He praised her for 65 years – even into the last stages of his dementia!
She loved, honored, and served him for 65 years – even unto his last breath!
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She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.
She knew everything that was going on in the house and was always busy, whether working at the school, at the factory, or at home.
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She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
As an adolescent, I argued with her – repeatedly! I had little confidence in her wisdom or instruction. But amazingly, years later, I looked at her and saw a woman who spoke with wisdom and faithful instruction! My, how she had changed during those years I grew up!
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Her children arise and call her blessed.
Oh, yes. I began singing her praises, especially after I became a mother!
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. . . but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
So now, when I praise my Mama, I also pray the very last verse of Proverbs 31:
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Give her the reward she has earned, [O Lord], and let her works bring her praise at [heaven’s] gate.
Amen. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!
I don’t know if Mrs. Andrews was sick, or if Mr. Andrews was out of work, but something was going on at the Andrews’ house, and Mom had a heart for this family with six children, and yes, they would eat supper that night because of Mom, who “. . . provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls (or in this case, the Andrews family!)
Dear Daddy,
It’s been a year now since that sad Sunday morning when I sat beside you, singing, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus; there’s just something about that name,” while you took your last breath. Larry, Becky, Mama, and I, looked on, Mama holding your hand – our hearts breaking to let you go.
It was the greatest loss I’d ever known.
It was a day I had never wanted to live.
I knelt by your casket and sobbed. As the days passed, I thought I had cried so much that I couldn’t cry any more, but that didn’t happen.
The crying continued.
For a long time.
At about six months, I reached a turning point in my grief. I missed you just the same, but it didn’t hurt as much – I didn’t cry as much – and I found more joy in the memories.
But as this March 4 approached, one year later, that past Sunday morning became vivid in my mind again – like it was yesterday. My thoughts and prayers have been on my new grandbabies – two precious boys born since you left us – babies you would just love to see – babies you will love to meet someday: little Luke who Kristen’s youngest, and little Jackson, Matt’s youngest. I can picture you admiring each of them, pride in your face. I can see the tears in your eyes when you learn that baby Luke needs surgery. I can hear your broken voice in prayer, crying out to the Father you have trusted since you were young.
So toay, I reach in my jewelry box and lift out your wedding ring, sliding it onto my necklace chain. And I wear it close to my heart through these days of delivery and surgery and tumult and joy. And it comforts me to know my Daddy is near and that your prayers are still in a jar, going up as incense before our God. And I thank God for your faithfulness. But I mourn your loss.
So you’ve been on my mind a lot now, Daddy, one year later, and I’m wondering if or when the pain of losing you will ever go away. At first, a year ago, I thought, It won’t be long until I’ll see him again. The Lord will come soon. But now it’s been a year – a long year, and it seems like a long time before I’ll see you again, and I’m yearning for you.
I’m remembering a Daddy who made Christmas fun and who gave me beautiful Valentines.
I’m remembering a Daddy who brought us running when you emptied the noisy change out of your pants pockets on Friday evenings after work.
I’m remembering a Daddy who sat at the table late in the evening and ate Mom’s homemade bread soaked in cold milk.
I’m remembering a Daddy who worked all week long – then spent cold winter Saturdays cutting, hauling, and stacking firewood to heat the big house through the week ahead.
I’m remembering a Daddy who bought a new camera to take pictures of his daughter, the homecoming queen.
I’m remembering my tender-hearted Daddy who mourned the loss of his mother, and father, and brothers, and sisters, and brothers in law, and sisters in law, and on and on – a very compassionate man whose heart ached for those who were hurting, a man who wanted to do good for others – a man very much like Jesus. So I know you understand how I’m feeling now, Daddy.
So, now, I will continue to miss you and mourn you, but now I will also delight in the memories. I will strive to carry on those special customs and traditions you began in me and in my family – the love of nature and the simple life – the love of family and neighbors and friends – and the love of Jesus and those He came to save.
I will watch Jacob mowing the lawn – your lawn – with the John Deere – your John Deere. I will watch Benny playing in the woods by your lane. I will watch Kaylee riding her bike around your driveway.
And I will watch the eastern sky – and as I watch, I will listen for the shout! – when our Lord will bring you and Mama with Him and catch me up to join you – and we’ll all be together again!
Goodbye until then, Daddy, and kiss Mama for me.
With love from your little blonde girl.