“Jimmy, when we meet my sister for dinner tonight, she wants to see if you can fix her clock.”
That seemed like an unusual request since I know absolutely nothing about clocks.
“It is an heirloom she inherited. It was a source of special pride for Mom and Pam accidentally knocked if off the wall and broke the case. She was wondering if you could fix it.”
Now I knew how why I had entered the story. I love woodworking and MacGyver-ing unique solutions. A cracked clock case was right up my alley.
When we got to the restaurant, Pam was already inside so my assessment had to wait until after we finished eating. Eventually, we were done and exited into the parking lot. She lifted the tailgate of her Jeep to reveal a large box. As she opened the box, a shock ran through me. It wasn’t broken, it was shattered. Some pieces were loosely attached while others seemed to have broken free completely.
“Think you can fix it?” she said.
I replied, “I can give it a shot.” and we loaded it into my car.
Back home, I set up a folding table and carefully reviewed the situation. The clock was an antique with no real markings to give an accurate estimate of its age. The damage from the drop was obvious, but it didn’t end there. The veneer had bubbled, cracked, and fallen off in places. Decorative metal accents were corroded. Wood joints that had been previously repaired now allowed light to pass through them. Some pieces were broken and missing. Countless nails had been haphazardly inserted in an effort to give some structure to the backboard that held the case together.
“Oh, well” I thought to myself. “If it is important to Pam, it is worth an effort.”
For the next several weeks, I spent an hour or so each night on my new hobby. Each assembly needed to be fully broken down into its components, requiring countless corroded nails and screws to be removed. Each glue joint was carefully broken apart and sanded smooth. Once the disassembly was finished, I began repairing some boards and fabricating others. Sheets of used sandpaper piled up in the bucket at my feet and the solvent-smell of wood putty filled the air. Various clamps, glue bottles, and hand tools overflowed the table set aside for my task.
It was slow work and gave me a lot of time to think. It was ironic that I was going to such efforts for a clock that belonged to my mother-in-law. She passed away about ten years ago, but we never got along for the twenty years before that. She always seemed to harbor resentment towards me. I endured years of snarky comments and harsh criticisms. This woman who was embraced by her neighbors and people from church never gave me a moment’s rest.
After she was gone, I was able to set my offenses aside and try to figure out why she never seemed to like me very much.
Jewel’s dad died when she was a teenager. It was traumatic for her in many ways besides the obvious loss of a parent. She was the second youngest of eight siblings in Appalachian Tennessee. Her dad was a coal miner who had succumbed to Black Lung. Her mom did the best she could to clothe and shelter herself and the army of hungry children. They were viewed as dirt poor even in a poverty-stricken community.
Jewel promised herself that she wouldn’t live that way forever. She was still young when she married Bob. He had been raised in a middle-class family that was a dream to her. After serving in the Air Force, he settled into a stable career carrying the mail for the USPS and she held a number of low-level management positions at Kmart, a doctor’s office, and the like.
She carefully selected every article of clothing and decoration for her house so that no one would remember the poor girl who couldn’t afford good shoes. She demanded that her girls learn to speak properly and get good grades so they would never have to live like she had. In her heart though, a part of her was always afraid people wouldn’t think she was good enough.
One day, her baby girl showed up with a new boyfriend. This twenty-one-year-old came from a nicer background, was graduating in engineering, and headed for graduate school. When he started work, life seemed to reward him generously, and he took it for granted that success would greet him at every door.
I don’t think Jewel was ever able to forgive me for taking so easily a lifestyle that she had fought hard to achieve. I was never astute enough to understand how big a deal it was for her. My ignorance came across as a lack of compassion, and we were at odds for twenty years.
I wish I could thank her for everything she did for Kim. I wish I could compliment her for achieving a level of success that surpassed almost everyone she grew up with. I wish I could have understood and not spent so much time frustrated with her and avoiding time together.
As I applied the last coat of polyurethane and tightened the final screw, I hoped that she was able to see the clock she had been so proud of. I’m not much of a judge in appraising value and have no idea if her clock was originally valuable or even priceless when it had shattered on the floor. Maybe it was or wasn’t, but it was a treasure to her.
My chances on this earth are gone to ask her to forgive my insensitivity. I don’t know enough about how the hereafter works to know if she can see me now or not. It doesn’t really matter. I know that she has forgiven me.
For now, the labor I pour out is a matter of respect, an effort to honor a woman who fought ferociously and loved her family the best she could. I hope that Pam is able to see the very best part of her mom in it and that one day it will provide a clue to Erin as she tries to understand the young woman her Mamaw had once been.
In the kingdom of God, a clock is never just a clock. It is a reflection of the memories and love of the people who enjoyed it.
The video of George Floyd’s death by Minneapolis policemen is horrific. It documented the law officers we have entrusted with our justice as they kill a black man with the casual regard of an everyday arrest. All other news stories have stopped while our country’s collective conscience is riveted on the value of one man’s life.
Much of the black community can recite from memory a litany of names of their brothers and sisters who share similar stories. They have tried to explain that it goes far beyond policemen and that systemic racism is so common that we no longer notice it.
I’m trying to understand, but it’s hard. For days, I have contemplated the different ways that people of color are targeted unfairly. The harsh reality is that I have no idea what it is like to be a black man, and I am unqualified to speak about it.
On the other hand, I know a lot about White Privilege.
Several years ago, I got a hundred dollars out of my bank’s ATM. A couple of the twenties looked funny and I suspected they may be counterfeit. I was afraid to take the bills into the bank without proof that they came from their ATM. I was worried they would take my forty dollars. I mixed them in with some other bills on my next trip to the grocery. Even if someone noticed, I knew nothing would happen to me. In the worst case, I would have to answer a few questions about where the bills came from.
That is White Privilege. For the same crime, George Floyd was pulled from his car, handcuffed, and made to sit on a city sidewalk. That is before it got real bad.
Last year, my sister and her family came to visit and we loaded everybody up and took them to Buc-ee’s to see America’s cleanest restrooms. Erin and Josh bought a soda and made an impulse buy of a t-shirt at the register. As eco-minded citizens, they declined the unnecessary receipt and bag. When they turned around and noticed that everyone else was still shopping, they walked back into the store.
When it came time to leave, they realized that they had no proof of purchase for their stuff. I told them not to worry about it. They handed everything to me and I held it above my head while I walked past the cashiers on my way out of the building. I knew that no one would accuse me of stealing a drink and a t-shirt. I was right. Every cashier glanced at me then immediately returned to their tasks.
I was trying to make a point to the kids that people do not assume we are guilty, even when circumstances are questionable.
That is White Privilege.Lawrence Crosby didn’t get the same presumption of innocence when he was arrested for breaking into his own car.
I have served at countless homes in our community, much of it basic home repair or lawn maintenance. To assess the job, I typically show up at odd hours wearing a ball cap, t-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. I walk freely through the yards and veer into their neighbors’ yards as necessary. Not one single time ever have I worried about an angry homeowner confronting me.
I know that people will give me the benefit of the doubt, even while I walk across their property with nothing to identify me. At most, they will open the door and curiously ask me what I am doing.
That is White Privilege. Neither Christian Cooper nor Drew Lanham received it when they were threatened while birdwatching in public.
For years, I have had a concealed carry license that authorizes me to legally carry a firearm in most situations. If a policeman pulls over my car and runs my license plate, he is automatically notified that there may be a firearm in my car. I know to be respectful and to keep my hands in plain view. As long as I act reasonably, I know that there is no risk.
Friends of mine have repeatedly told stories of policemen issuing them warnings instead of citations when they see their concealed carry license. The underlying message is that they appreciate the help of ensuring a safe community. Nobody assumes that I am dangerous or represent a threat to them.
That is White Privilege. If Willie McCoy had received the same consideration, he wouldn’t have been shot 25 times while he slept in his car at Taco Bell.
I have been an avid runner for more than twenty years. Before I head out the door, Kim always wants to know the route I plan to take. If I don’t come home as expected, she wants to know how to trace my path and help me.
I usually forget to tell her. I know that if something goes wrong that the next person who sees me will come to my aid.
That is White Privilege. I wish Ahmaud Arbery got the same, but he was shot in the street during his daily jog
Maybe you are familiar with each of the names above. If you aren’t, you should click on each one to read their story. If you are like me, your first response will be to assume that there is a logical explanation and defend the institution. When I slow down and seek to understand, I know that these situations weren’t fair. It is an evil that has pervaded our society since Satan first divided us from God then got Adam and Eve to turn on each other.
While I casually go about my life, other people are not afforded that luxury. Freedom is reserved as a privilege for a few.
Ironically, my point isn’t that White Privilege is bad. Quite the contrary, I think it is a good thing. The problem is that we call it White Privilege instead of The Human Condition. Every person should receive the same favor that I do.
The death, pain, and despair that are consuming our nation are deeply troubling. A death that didn’t need to happen reminds me of John 11, when Lazarus’ family cried out to Jesus because he was sick to the point of death. Jesus came to them and was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled” (John 11:33). He didn’t lecture anybody, choose sides, or share his opinion. Jesus wept. He cried for each broken heart and despondent soul. He cried for the people who were angry and had lost hope while the answer to all their pain was right in front of them.
Then, his perfect love restored life. That same power lives inside every believer.
Some of the names above are exemplary citizens. Some are criminals. Jesus didn’t care. He died for all of us while he prayed forgiveness for the people killing him. Much like the angel in my post “Which side are you on?“, he refused to get swept up in the arguments. He just loved everyone.
I don’t like to write about the evil that exists in our world. I avoid conjuring images of darkness. Sometimes those things are necessary to make us aware of the difficulty that some people face for no other reason than God’s choice to shade their skin one hue or another. I am thankful that God has called me to share other thoughts.
I hope that people of privilege appreciate the gifts they receive every day in all of the million, subtle ways. Recognition alone is not enough. We are called to use what we have been given to make a difference. When we sit idly by, we are part of the problem.
How can I start? I can join the conversation.
Sometimes my bubble is too safe. It shields me from others’ reality and boxes out opportunities for some. It is my responsibility to see that and take action. The light and love of Christ are not limited. There is more than enough for us all, and it grows as we give it away. Deeper connection will prevail where policy does not.
If your world is different than mine, and you don’t receive the same considerations that I do, then I am sorry. I pray that you expect all of it and that you never stop demanding it. I hope that marches and protests continue, giving you a chance to tell your story. We need to hear from you and the stories of each name above to be reminded of how much work remains to be done.
May your faith be strengthened that you do not stand alone and your patience be deep with those who don’t understand. May your platform change hearts and how we interact with each other.
You are right. Black lives matter.
The quote in the featured image was taken from Reverend John C. Dorhauer, who was speaking on behalf of two black men who were handcuffed and arrested by policemen who had been called by a Starbuck’s manager as they waited at a table for a business associate. To see that story, go to:
My last post, My Champion of Freedom, was a proclamation of the heroism my grandfather, James McAfee, displayed and my gratitude for his sacrifice. Although his story ended on a battlefield 75 years ago, his legacy was only beginning, and that is today’s story.
James was a McAfee, an ancient family born centuries ago on a small island of Scotland, but firmly rooted in southern Indiana in his generation. He was the firstborn of seven children, all raised during the Great Depression. Hard times disciplined his mind and body as he led his brothers and sisters.
A whirlwind of events saw him married at twenty years old to a lovely jewel of a young woman named Ruby who was three years younger than him. He was drafted into the Air Force within weeks of their wedding and swept off to pilot’s training in Arizona. While he was there, his first son was born back in Indiana. Separated by a seemingly infinite chasm, his heart cried out to hold his legacy, the son that would share his name. Weeks passed before he would get that chance.
While the military conditioned him to place duty, honor, and courage above his own life, he enjoyed an all too short season with his small family. Before his 2nd child was born, he was shipped off to a distant shore to defend our liberty. In a world that needed heroes, it didn’t take long for him to rise up (read the comments in the last post by Jonathan McAfee for that story). He was praised by generals who would become the free world’s leaders before giving his life to save his crew and his country.
Back home, a shattered teenage mother became a widow. Her overwhelming grief mixed with feelings of abandonment and betrayal that hardened into anger that she buried deep inside. Two sons needed her and left no time to unravel complex emotions. The war quickly ended and with it came a new husband and a third son. Old feelings were left unreconciled while the daily demands of life occupied her mind.
Her new husband embraced the two McAfee boys but left them their surname as a birthright. He then reenlisted in the military, and they began the transient life of a military family. The young boy who had been destined to become the clan leader of seven families left his ancestral home and moved across states and countries. They made frequent visits to visit family in southern Indiana, but the ties that had bound them there were gradually diminished as life moved on.
The young James was nicknamed Jim. He learned early that his mother did not want to talk about his birth father. The maelstrom of emotions never settled in her heart, and the boy felt her pain when he asked questions that unleashed all the hurt she had tried to leave behind. Raised in a Shryock family but still bearing the McAfee name, the child had so many questions, but the love and respect he held for his mother prevented him from pursuing answers.
Jim learned bits and pieces of his father’s story on the reunion trips, but most of the time was spent playing with the ever-expanding group of cousins. As the oldest, he was proud to be the biggest, fastest, and strongest. He longed to move back and be close to his cousins but learned not to talk about it out of loyalty to his mother.
The boy displayed the same courage in protecting his mother that his father had displayed in defending his country. Although he had questions about his father and his place among his people, he held them inside where they wouldn’t hurt the mother he loved. His uncertainty was a burden, but he was determined to carry it as long as his mom needed him to. As years passed and he grew to into a strong, young man, he honored her. He learned how to show his love without words.
The son of a hero who was born to lead his clan became a broken branch of the McAfee’s family tree. No matter how many returns he made to his ancestral home, he could not be fully embraced. His destiny now lay elsewhere.
His life on various military bases offered him education beyond anything he could have received in the small, rural town he was born into. He met a beautiful redhead while the family was stationed in southern Louisiana, and together they raised three children. Across the decades, he displayed flawless dedication to his family. He is a man taught to quietly act out love.
God has used each of Dad’s difficulties to condition him. He has been a successful businessman, a deacon in his church, a loving husband, and a great father. He has focused on the inheritance he will leave to his children, but I suspect he has never fully grasped the greatness bequeathed to him by his father. Duty, honor, and courage are a legacy he has worn without ever knowing their source.
He honored his firstborn son with the name James McAfee, although everybody just calls him Jimmy. He taught him the same courage and strength that had been required of the generations that carried the name before him. He trained him to focus on doing the right thing, acting boldly in the midst of uncertainty, even when his heart cries out for answers.
For years, I never understood why we didn’t talk about his father, who is my grandfather, and our connection to the McAfee dynasty. I could not appreciate the long silence that was broken when his mother passed away last year. After seventy-six years, Dad is now free to celebrate the father he never knew and to contemplate his place in the extended family he was unable to lead.
To all his grandchildren – Erin, James, Gabrielle, Kaitlyn, Michal, Alyssa, Cameron, and even tiny Emery, I hope you know how much this patriarch loves you. In time, may you recognize in each old photo everything he has done to give you the best life possible. I pray that you can connect to the little boy who will always be inside of him, knowing he was born into greatness but uncertain how he fits in. As you understand his story, you will love him even more.
I love you, Dad. Thank you for being the hero your generation needed you to be. Thank you for teaching me that there are many ways to show love, and they all start with putting others first.
Kim and I drove to Tennessee over Memorial Day weekend to walk through Mom and Dad’s house. As I mentioned in my last post, Dad is planning to move into a smaller place and needs to let go of some of the memories that my Mom spent a lifetime acquiring and organizing in all the ways that distinguish a home from a house.
My brother, Preston, and I moved through the different rooms remembering the stories behind each of the various items that had been pulled out and were laying in piles everywhere. There were beautiful pieces of furniture that are woven through my recollections of a family enjoying life together. There were other small trinkets like the polished, white stone with “Kainos” written on one side and Revelations 2:17 on the other. The tiny teacups my mom played with as a small girl. Tools my dad used to forge work ethic into two, young boys that had now become men and raised their own families.
As we picked up other items, they summoned memories of people and stories that are echoes of generations that are now gone. The small glass my mom’s mother used to drink sherry each night before bed. The various quilts that my grandmother and great grandmother carefully crafted decades ago. Ancient photographs of my grandparents that I only knew as old people contained vibrant, young faces with a lifetime ahead of them.
There were so many things that I had either forgotten or never known about that had rested in closets or chests for ages. I love the reminders of people who lived long, fruitful lives before being called home to their Maker. But my favorite treasure of the day was from a life that was cut short, someone who never got the chance to build rooms full of his own memories.
Carefully folded in a piece of fabric was an American flag that had honored my grandfather. Along with it lay his dog tag and a Bible that had belonged to him. It was my prize of the day. You see, my grandfather was a hero.
His name was James McAfee and he was born into a generation that was thrust into greatness. The Nazi scourge was a virus that threatened our freedom and way of life. It had to be destroyed but was a powerful enemy. My grandfather was one of countless youths who had barely become men but had to stand in defiance of evil. Whether they volunteered or were conscripted is irrelevant.
Each one became a hero as he recited his oath of enlistment. With those words, they laid down their lives for something bigger than themselves.
“I [state your full name], Do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
To become a soldier is to forfeit your family, your health, and everything you have for the sake of other people. Before you can step onto the field of battle, you must set aside your hopes, dreams, and even your future.
When the war is over, the lucky ones are given back the lives they offered for a greater good. They return to their small towns and the loved ones who prayed for them every night they were gone. They build careers, families, and communities that reflect the courage they demonstrated.
Others aren’t so lucky. Everything they laid down is demanded as a sacrifice for our freedom. At twenty-two years old, my grandfather’s plane was shot down over Germany on April 10, 1945. His bright light was snuffed out so that a country could shine even brighter.
James McAfee never got to see his youngest child and barely held the toddler that would become my father. Our freedom never allowed him to carry my dad on his shoulders to see over a crowd or teach him why manners are important. He would never sit in his favorite chair next to his wife of fifty years and reflect over everything they shared together.
Our country and our freedom were bigger than that single life.
There is no gift I can offer to each person who has repeated the same oath, promising to place a greater good above their own lives. All I can say is “Thank you. You are a hero.”
To every person whose life was lost, thank you doesn’t seem enough. You have my gratitude, my respect, and all the honor that I can offer.
To my grandfather, who sacrificed everything, I pray that my life will be worthy of the one that you gave for me. You are the champion of my freedom.
A flag, a dog tag, and a Bible are my cherished reminders of how precious life is, and how much others have sacrificed for our enduring freedom.
Every morning at 5:50am, Mr Coffee beeps three times to alert me that it has finished its scheduled task. Although the coffee maker is downstairs and across the house, it is loud enough to wake me up. I don’t usually get out of bed though. I like to lay drowsily for another ten minutes until my bedroom lamp automatically comes on. Then it is time to get up and start my day.
I walk downstairs, let Tarzan out of his room, and pour myself a cup of coffee before settling into my recliner. I pick up my Bible from the side table and flip it open to whatever reading plan currently serves as my bookmark. I’ve had countless different Bibles over the years, but this is one is my favorite.
I think of it as my mother’s Bible, although I don’t know that she ever read from it. It was a gift she set on her guest room’s bedside table. I found it there and got permission to take it home with me. I have now reached for it a thousand different times. It is a comforting reminder of the conversations we had about our individual walks with God, and the faith she had in my ultimate success when I could only see obstacles.
It has been years since Mom began slipping away from us, and seven months since her passing. It still makes me sad to think about her last days and to face the harsh fact that I can’t share the simple pleasures of life with her anymore. The routines of my daily life now preoccupy most of my thoughts, but certain items release strong waves of memories that sweep me back to the times we shared.
I don’t know why a Bible she never read speaks to me like that. Other unexpected items elicit the same effect. An old-fashioned potato masher and cast-iron skillet take me back to raucous family dinners around a crowded table. A tiny rocking chair ushers flashbacks of childhood innocence. A framed sketch of the small house where she grew up reminds me of simple, relaxed days.
In the coming months, Dad is planning to move and won’t have a place for everything in his new home. He has asked us to let him know what we would like to keep from the “leftovers”. Some of the things have practical value, like the huge, curved 4K television in his living room. Many only have sentimental value. After Dad finishes combing through what he wants to keep, there are still two generations of three separate families who need to pick out the pieces they would like to carry forward.
I am planning a trip to Tennessee to sort through any keepsakes I hope to keep and to ensure that we inventory everything for the benefit of folks who can’t travel. I am simultaneously thankful for the chance and reluctant to begin the exercise.
It is hard to carry an empty box into the last house my parents shared and determine which remnants have an ongoing place in my life. Letting go of things that are associated with my dad is easier than similar items of my mom’s. After all, I still talk to him several times a week and travel to see him when I choose. We are still making memories together.
The walkthrough is difficult because I never know which object will have an emotional memory resting on it, waiting to burst alive with a touch and yank me across time and space to relive emotions from my past. My connections to these pieces are the experiences they represent.
It is painful to move past the items that I don’t want, dismissing as unimportant the decorations, furniture, and utility items that my mom spent a lifetime collecting and organizing. Although I know that she is done with them now, she is still very much alive in my heart. It feels like a betrayal of sorts.
Some items contain memories that do not respond to my touch. They belong to someone else, maybe one of her other children, son/daughters-in-law, or grandchildren. Only the rightful owner can awaken them, making whatever they rest on a treasure for that particular person to cherish.
Mom and Dad spent years filling their home with life and love, so most of the memories sweep us back to happy times. Some don’t though. Each of our minds harbors dark, scary recesses that we would rather avoid. They are recollections of times we learned that the world can be a cruel place, causing the scared child inside to scream and seize control of our thoughts for a moment. The intensity of the feelings is a reminder of all the hurts we still carry.
People say that wars are started when families divide the belongings of one of their fallen. I can understand the hurt feelings that accompany the loss of an item that is someone’s remaining connection to a moment in time. It is impossible to evenly distribute a group of items whose value is different to each person. I will do my best to extend grace.
I hope that my loved ones understand that if I seem selfish, it is because I am unwilling to let go of a past I cannot reclaim. When I am suddenly sad, it is from releasing my mom along with the little things she held dear. If I am unsympathetic to other people, it is because I was unaware of the invisible threads that connect them to their past.
I have been blessed with a rich inheritance, whether the world can measure its value or not. The very best things that my mom possessed are very much alive inside the lives she touched. We can all share a love that was freely given. When I return back to Texas from my travels, I hope my heart will be full to overflowing, regardless of what is in the box in the trunk of my car.
