I barely looked when my mobile phone rang. The meeting had already run for almost six hours and nobody knew when it might end. Regular business hours were over, but we were on a deadline that demanded total focus, and there was no time for interruptions. In my weakness, I shot a sideways glance at the vibrating, ringing box next to me.
Momentarily, I sat frozen while I tried to decide who to ignore and who to focus on.
Commitment to my responsibilities is a matter of personal pride. I have proven my willingness to pour out whatever time, energy, or resources are required to achieve success, both at my job and with my family.
Sometimes those worlds collide.
Rather than choose one over the other, I took the path of compromise. At least for the moment, neither received my full attention, but both unwillingly shared with the other. I tuned out the meeting around me and sent a brief text asking if I could call later. Erin’s reply was immediate.
“Was just calling to tell you Josh got the job!”
I replied, “Wow. That is amazing. Congrats.”
Even as I hit the send button, I knew how disappointing my abbreviated response was to an excited daughter. Although my head was reeling with thoughts, I shut them down and returned my attention to the meeting that had not stopped.
The hardest part of life isn’t being successful, it is balancing your loyalties. Success shows our capability, but priorities reflect our character.
Eventually, the meeting ended and I called Erin on my drive home and got all the juicy details. After a couple of disappointing rejections, my son-in-law, Josh, had received his first promotion at work. Nobody should be surprised. He is a smart, hard-working guy who only needs someone to take a chance on him so that he can prove his capability to the world.
His new job would start in four days. More money, longer hours, and more responsibility. He will be a better provider for his young family and his pride is on full display as it should be. He may not be aware yet, but his training program will unwittingly introduce him to the same choices that have faced me the past three decades, choosing where to direct his focus to balance competing priorities in a world that never has enough time.
Josh will do great.
At the same time, Erin’s responsibilities at work are expanding. This past week, she was issued a laptop to enable her to work on customer communications from home. Her hours will also be growing with her new responsibilities and like her husband, she is taking a major step toward providing a better life for them.
I can see reflections of Kim as Erin excitedly chatters about where they will move when their lease expires. The extra money will allow them to expand their boundaries. Their larger paychecks may arrive in dollars, but in her mind the conversion to dreams is immediate. She shares the same ambition as many young women who long to establish a home that is full of life and love.
Their moment is a celebration of a strong foundation. She and her husband have made wise choices that will give way to bigger decisions in the future. Whether she is aware of it or not, the competing priorities of life are crawling toward her too.
Erin will do great.
Meanwhile, James is slugging it out at school. The past year has not gone the way he wanted in many ways. He has faced personal challenges and loss. The pandemic has upended his college experience, requiring him to reinvent his life both academically and socially.
This past weekend, we drove to Waco to meet him for lunch. He talked about his plans to use summers and on-line classes to graduate a year ahead of schedule. He is balancing work, classes, and dealing with a constantly evolving world. The uncertainty that faces him is unique to any previous generation, but he is carving his path forward admirably.
While he told us about the various events in his life, Kim played with his new Chiweenie puppy, Cash (named after The Man in Black). Cash playfully bit her fingers and tugged at the toys she offered him. He never totally took his eyes off James though. If James wandered too many feet away, Cash would drop his toy and fall in line behind James, bouncing and romping through the grass that was as tall as him, staying with the one person he has learned to depend on.
In the midst of all the challenges, James has chosen to use what he has been given to care for and love something besides himself. Buying a puppy during college may or may not be the most responsible idea financially and academically, but it fulfills a growing need in his heart to provide for others. I suspect he is doesn’t yet understand that he will soon enough be the man sitting in a meeting deciding whether or not to answer the phone. I trust his heart though.
James will do great.
When I was James’s age, I stopped referring to my mother as “Mom” and began to call her “Cosmo”. It’s a silly name and to everyone’s disbelief, it had absolutely no relevance to anything. I had chosen it at random from a thought that flitted across my mind one moment. It was never intended in disrespect, rather as a colorful nickname for someone I cared about.
We worked together at the city’s water company for a couple of summers. I delivered the mail throughout the company each day, and as I neared her desk, I would call to her loudly down the hall.
“Hey, Cosmo! You wanna grab lunch today?”
She spent months ineffectively explaining the nickname to her confused coworkers.
For years, she could count on finding a present under the Christmas tree that said “To: Cosmo, From: Jimmy”
In the days when caller ID was a mark of affluence beyond our reach, she answered the phone every Sunday afternoon in her very genteel, soft voice. In contrast to her polite greeting, I would respond loudly.
“Cosmooooooo.”
By the time the kids were born, she had been Cosmo for so many years, that they never knew anything different. To them she was Nana, to others she was Jan, to a few she was Mom. But to me alone, she was Cosmo.
Nobody ever understood why I called her that. Nobody except for her anyway.
The day she became Cosmo was the day that I began to release her from her role as my mother. She no longer had the maternal obligations to care for me as her child. Beginning that day, she was free to re-establish our relationship in any way that she desired. We grew beyond parent/child into friends in the years that followed.
I could ask Cosmo for advice that I never could have sought from Mom. I wanted Mom to think that I was independent, strong and in control so I was careful what I revealed to her. I worried that she would dampen my enthusiasm to pursue dreams that were beyond my reach. I never wanted Mom to worry that I would get hurt.
I could be transparent with Cosmo though. She understood that I wanted to see if I could fly, even if it was just for a moment and the inevitable crash was coming. Cosmo could warn me without being as suffocating as a Mom.
Cosmo shared dreams and ambitions with me that would have seemed silly for a Mom. Cosmo could tell me about the challenges she faced dealing with family and friends that Mom would have felt uncomfortable sharing with her kid.
But in times that I felt defeated and needed someone to hold me, I always knew Mom would still be there.
When she passed away, I lost two people. During her eulogy, I may have called her Mom but did so with a wink in her direction that reminded us both that she would always be my Cosmo.
My age of Cosmo has arrived. Although Josh, Erin, and James will probably never call me that, I hope they can start to see me in a new way and that we can release each other from roles that made yesterday a success.
I hope that Josh can free me from father-in-law stereotypes. I hope that Erin can release me from an outdated role as the leader of a family that has now evolved. I hope that James will never feel confined by the expectations of being a younger version of me. Each of those throwbacks fit like a pair of outgrown shoes.
I hope we can build a different life together that is based on who we are today. Each of us are entering new challenges every day and are better prepared together. At least I know that I am stronger with them around. They are gaining wisdom and life experience and are the kind of people I try to surround myself with. Tomorrow has great things in store and I want to do it with them. Not as a Dad, but as a Cosmo.
I hope that their dreams are big enough to include space for me to be generous with them in a way that encourages those dreams instead of “managing” them. I’m going to do my best to stop seeing them as the children they once were and embrace them as the leaders they have become. I hope they can appreciate how much I want them to save a space for me in their increasingly hectic lives.
I am so excited for each of their victories. As they expand their worlds, it doesn’t have to mean that my world shrinks. In the kingdom, there is more than enough room for us all. Our relationship will evolve as circumstances change and we value each other as God sees us, and not just as we are used to seeing each other. Then it will be even better than it was before.
The tweak in my back wasn’t going away by itself. It was right in the center, all the way down at my waistline. It was more nuisance than discomfort, but ignoring it wasn’t making it better. I mentally scheduled a brief trip to visit Dr. Foster in the morning.
The past two months have been enormously rewarding but physically punishing. While the impact the prayer garden is having on the city is amazing, its construction was difficult. Manually handling truckloads of cement, mulch, rocks, and brick seemed unending. Digging trenches was just as brutal.
At the same time, I had been chipping down a stump in the backyard, trying to get it level with the ground. I loved pounding away at it with my ancient, dull mattox. I was also splitting the logs that were stacked against the back fence, getting them ready for Erin to burn once the cool autumn air sets in. The ornamental trees had curvy grain making their logs hard to split, and that had taken a toll on my back also.
It was exhausting and had left me a little chipped around the edges, but the simple truth is that I loved every minute of it. There were days when I felt like I could do anything, that I had no limits. I was excited each time I drove my old pickup to get another load of materials. I snuck out of the house before Kim would know I was gone to beat on the stump or split a few pieces of wood that weren’t needed for months. To each his own, and I had found my happy place.
Smiling with satisfaction as I reflected on the abuse I had absorbed recently, it struck me that I shouldn’t have been able to finish any of this. For the past year and a half, The Great Fatigue had overshadowed my life. For 18 long months, unexplained tiredness had spread through my body making simple tasks too burdensome to consider attempting.
Losing my previously unending fountain of energy was an enormous blow. The running and workouts that had always helped me to find peace immediately stopped. Eventually, I couldn’t imagine walking around the block, moving furniture, or navigating other small tasks. Sometimes it was too much to survive a full day at the office.
I saw doctors and prayed for healing. I yelled at God to give me my life back. I was alternately in denial, full of anger and simply depressed. None of it gave me what I wanted.
My dance through life slowed to a crawl.
I didn’t go down without a fight. I stubbornly kept trying to do things my body told me weren’t going to happen. The more I fought, the worse I felt. The worse I felt, the more I fought back. Working hard was more than just my passion, it was my style and a major part of my identity. I considered it a gift from God and held on as tightly as possible while it evaporated through my fingers.
Gradually, I accepted that this might be who I am now. My hours at full speed were replaced by long stretches sitting in my recliner. Instead of focusing on the activities in front of me, I became more attentive to what was going on around me.
My mom’s health was rapidly deteriorating. Unable to hide behind neverending activities, I took time to consider why she was special to me. Her passion for living in the moment inspired me to carry on her tradition. She may not be with us anymore, but her legacy is still teaching me how to be a better person.
Erin got engaged and then married. Without any of my own obsessions competing with her agenda, I was able to focus on the details of her big day. Hopefully, she had the wedding of her dreams, but even if it wasn’t perfect, she knows that I poured myself into her event. Every day since then, I have tried to give her emotional support, knowing that I can’t do everything for her anymore.
Kelly, Preston, and I were always too busy to spend time together alone, just as brothers and sisters. With big changes befalling our families, we needed each other. The calendar I had kept full was suddenly empty and we took time for our first Sibling Weekend. The tattoos may be our most visible reminder, but the connections we re-established are the most valuable.
When COVID began to rage, it shocked the nation by stealing its busyness. Already isolated in my own exhaustion, I was able to focus on opening our home as a place of worship for friends. Others moaned about what they had lost, but we rejoiced, celebrating Jesus and our friendships. I rediscovered the intimacy of the church when the large gatherings shut down.
Instead of racing out to build the next thing or chase the latest dream, I’ve had a lot more time to consider what is important to me and who I want to become. Making Waves has grown by fifty-five posts in this season’s quiet, spirit-filled moments. I have focused on being honest and transparent about my walk with Jesus, reaching people across the country. The closeness I’ve enjoyed with my God is a reward far more valuable than anything I’ve had to give up.
In his wisdom, God knew that my unbridled enthusiasm would have been an obstacle in a season that needed quiet reflection. Ironically, I was strongest because he made me weak.
I would like to believe that I am more mature now and able to discern when it is time to pour myself out physically or lean into others emotionally. I am not though. During my two months of physical strength, my obsessive focus returned allowing me to make tremendous progress on the project in front of me but losing the contemplative nature that marked the previous months.
In some ways, I am weaker when he makes me strong.
The Apostle Paul made the same observation. Just like I have prayed without ceasing for him to restore me, Paul prayed for God to “remove the thorn in his flesh”. Paul was focused on himself, but God had bigger plans for him. For however long it was needed, the thorn reminded him of his reliance on God, made him humble, and allowed God to guide his path.
I am gaining a better Paul’s two paradoxical statements. When his prayers for strength were denied, God’s message to him matched The Great Fatigue.
” My power works best in weakness.” (2 Cor 12:9)
In a different season, he was in high spirits and rejoiced
“I can do everything through Christ who gives me strength.” (Philippians 4:13)
None of us knows what is coming around the corner. Our next divine moment may require all of the strength we can summon or maybe it will be best to sit powerlessly and rely on faith alone. Strength and weakness are a matter of perspective.
Although it is impossible to predict what will be required of us, we can put our faith in the Father to provide what we need. Sometimes that will require a mighty gift. Other times will require clearing space in our lives.
His grace is all we need.
I am overwhelmingly thankful for what God has accomplished through me. I am learning to accept my situation, whether in plenty or little and instead focus on my purpose in the moment. Both in strength & weakness, may my life be to his glory.
Rain in North Texas is unlike anywhere else I have lived. It is a rare day that sees a soft, steady rainfall that lasts for hours. Precipitation seems to explode out of the same wild passion that inspires Texans to behave as we do.
A deluge had opened up as I tried to set the water basin in the hole we had dug the day before. The basin was three feet on each side and only twelve inches deep, but was proving difficult to install properly. As I stretched my level across two adjacent sides, it showed that I was a half bubble off plumb.
Anybody that saw me would have agreed.
It was a site to behold. In the middle of a torrential downpour, I was standing over a hole that was filling with water, pouring in a bag of sand in an effort to achieve a smooth, flat, level base. I paused long enough to look to my left and then to my right and laughed out loud at my total solitude. Anyone peering at me through a foggy window pane would have assumed I was a lunatic.
In my mind’s eye though, I was the same little boy who used to stomp in puddles and run as fast as possible before sliding down the slick, grassy hill in the back yard. The caked mud on the double-thick knees of my Toughskin jeans would elicit questions from mom when she found them buried in the laundry, but that was a problem for another day. This moment was filled with the smell of wet leaves, the sounds of pitter-patter surrounding me, and the feel of rain running down my face. There was nothing quite like playing in the rain.
For another hour, I unnecessarily extended the job I was working on. All of my careful efforts would be undone overnight when the wet soil collapsed around the carefully leveled basin, but I didn’t care. Today was more important than accomplishing a task, it was about relishing a simple joy in life.
Eventually, I carried my tools to the truck while my socks squished inside my work boots. During the drive home, the radio sat silent while I listened to the hypnotic “thwip-thwip” of the windshield wipers on high speed.
Why had I ever stopped playing in the rain? How had I forgotten the raw delight?
Over the past two months, the construction of the Prayer Garden has painfully strained muscles, come at a financial cost, and consumed countless hours. However, as I poured myself into the job, God refreshed my spirit, filling me with the innocent joy of my childhood. I have had one of the greatest summers of my life.
The harder I worked on this gift for Him, the more he reminded me that work and play can be the same thing, that spending what I have to glorify Him is part of my created purpose, and that countless hours are only a part of the unending days that we will spend together.
As it nears completion, I am in awe of how it has all come together. My hands may have been at work, but His plan has been in action. It is undeniable as you approach the space that has now been consecrated to Him.
A “welcome” sign invites you to step off the busy sidewalk onto the stone steps that navigate through the garden. In the center is a tall cross, with the distressed look of the old, rugged cross from the hymn. At night, it radiates a golden light that can be seen from blocks away.
Water bubbles out of a stone at the foot of the cross, shining with the fiery light of the Spirit himself. It splashes and gurgles as it bounces off the colorful river rocks, gradually erasing the background noise of Main Street traffic.
Flowers, bushes, and other small plants fill the space with beauty. Green, purple, orange, and white colors grow in a beautiful fabric that only He could weave. Planters separate the benches and provide privacy, even in the midst of the downtown area. In the corner, a small olive tree is reminiscent of ancient stories that still guide us today.
Birds sing and squirrels run across the pine bark nuggets that blanket the ground, encircled by a ring of bricks that mark this ground as hallowed.
Beauty draws you in, but serenity holds you captive. It is the perfect place to sit on the handcrafted, cement benches and enjoy time with our Lord. Whether you bring a spirit of Thanksgiving, a burden of mourning, or a search for answers, He will join you there.
This year, a pandemic provided me with the time to work on building a special present. I took a break from my responsibilities to worship God in my own way, using what He gave me to glorify Him. I hope that other people will find the same peace in this place that I have found. I think they will. That seems to be the way of the Kingdom.
I would like to invite you to take time to visit this special place. It is gorgeous in the day, but spectacular when the sun has set. The address is 206 W Main Street, Lewisville. Parking is plentiful. If you want company, just call me. I’d love to go with you.
P.S. Thank you to everyone who poured themselves into this project, but a special thanks to Steve Thomas, Hank Cates, Steve Hermann, and Kim. It would not have been possible without you. I love you all.
A few weeks ago, Steve Thomas and I started talking about building a prayer garden on Lewisville’s Salvation Army property that he manages. It is a perfect spot – the gateway to Old Town Lewisville, adjacent to the Main Street sidewalk, built around the 9′ tall cross we constructed last year. The cross is a reminder of God’s perfect love, and the prayer garden would be an invitation to come and spend time with Him.
The timing was terrible though. Steve was exhausted by relief efforts in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. My salary had been reduced due to the economic uncertainty and I was simultaneously hit by unexpected, major home repairs. The crowds that used to flock to community serving events were all on lockdown in an effort to control the contagion. Outside work was nearly impossible due to the dangerously high summer temperatures in north Texas.
It was a perfect storm.
However, the more I thought about it and prayed for guidance, the stronger the calling became. In the midst of the storm, the need for God in our lives seems more evident than ever. When waves crash and lightning flashes, we instinctively raise our eyes to Him and pray for mercy. When miracles are needed, we reach out to Him.
My desire was to honor Him and build a beautiful place for Him to spend time with my neighbors. Ironically, only He had the money, the ability to provide the time, and power over the weather that were needed for my gift to Him. If I wanted to glorify Him, my first step had to be to trust Him to provide.
In faith, I stepped from the comfort of the boat into the storm raging around me.
The familiar story of Jesus walking on the water is told in Matthew 14:22-32. The disciples are alone in a boat in the middle of the night when a storm blows in. The strong wind and waves threaten to destroy them all when they see Jesus walking toward them on top of the storm. Peter stepped out of the boat and began to walk toward Jesus. However, he became distracted by his circumstances, took his eyes off of Jesus, and began to sink into the sea. Jesus reached out, lifted him up, climbed into the boat with him, and the storm stopped.
It is a story of Jesus’ total authority over this world. It is also a story of our power when we trust in Jesus. Peter’s display is impressive even if it was short-lived.
I imagine an alternate ending to the story. It begins the same way – the terrified disciples are in their boat which appears likely to capsize at any moment. Lightning tears across the sky, thunder booms, and waves crash violently into the tiny vessel. In fear, they hold onto their seats and the boat’s edge as tightly as possible, until Peter stands up and begins to climb out of the boat.
In this fictional version, John shouts out, “Peter, what are you doing?”
Peter looks back over his shoulder and replies, “This boat isn’t safe, I’m going to stand with Jesus.”
Then John stands up and grabs Peter’s arm to stabilize both of them as the boat rocks fiercely and says, “You’re right. I’m going with you.”
Realizing what they were doing, James shouts, “Wait for me!”
One at a time, each of the disciples releases their hold on the boat, locks arms together, and steps onto the sea. They walk together toward the Savior. At first cautiously, then inspired by their success, they let go of each other and dance in celebration as they come closer to Jesus. The empty boat bounces away in the background, no longer relevant.
In my fantasy, Peter never sank because his friends encouraged him in his faith. Together, they all walked on the water. Although these heroes didn’t actually stand together on that day, it wasn’t long before they did, facing threats much scarier than splashing water.
Building a prayer garden in this stormy season seems crazy. In many ways, I am doing well to keep my head above water. My faith is occasionally strong but as unreliable as Peter’s. I will admit to being scared as I took my first step with my eyes on Jesus. But my story will end like my fictional version above because of the strength of my friends.
When I first stood up, Kim stood with me. She never questioned our finances or how much time would be required. Always at my side, her eyes never left Jesus.
Although I had the concept to build a prayer garden, I had no vision of what it should look like. When I went on-site to brainstorm, Carra stepped out of the boat with me. Together, we developed a vision that is guiding us forward.
When I couldn’t see a pathway to achieve the vision, Steve Hermann climbed out of the boat. Cooperatively, we are mapping out the tasklist.
When the work seemed endless, Hank took his first step onto the water. In the melting heat, my partner has been there every step. The joy he brings assures me that he has kept his eyes focused on his redeemer.
When the mission required more hands, Columba and Steve Thomas stood and joined us. This weekend, we need to move 2,000 pounds of concrete benches into position. When the task sounded daunting, my friend Barron hopped out of the boat.
Others will inevitably join us until the protection of the boat seems absurd. As a family of believers, we strengthen each other to keep our eyes on God and trust him with our protection. The storm will pass sooner or later. My joy is in my Savior and my friends who share his spirit. Regardless of the storm, our future lies with him.
My dream is to look back and see an empty boat floating away, no longer needed by anyone.
One of my greatest blessings is the amazing people that God has placed in my life. Whether or not you are named in this short post, my thanks to you cannot be spoken enough. Your loyal support keeps me focused, and I hope that I offer the same to you. Encouraging each other, we realize that nothing is impossible. We walk on water today and we will soar with eagles tomorrow.
If you would like to join in the effort to build our prayer garden, there are a lot of jobs still to be done. After the benches this weekend, we install a large rock that flows water, then we lay ground cover, and finally plant all the greenery that makes it beautiful. If labor isn’t your thing, donations to Unashamed Missions are welcomed.
Prayer warriors, please come and christen the site. Our first bench is waiting for you.
Skill sets aren’t important, we welcome the passion that marks each Water Walker.
To see progress, the address is 206 West Main Street, Lewisville. Check it out!
I was in the front yard of the Salvation Army in Lewisville talking to Steve Thomas when my phone buzzed. We were excitedly making preparations to construct a Prayer Garden on Main Street and I had no intention of interrupting our discussion. I glanced at the screen to see who I would need to call back.
The name on the screen made me stop cold.
Polly Champion had been in declining health for weeks. In the first week of June, I was at her house when she had to go to the Emergency Room. Instead of the minor diagnosis that she had hoped for, she learned that her cancer had returned with a vengeance. The ensuing surgery left her in agonizing pain. The family had hoped for the best but had to call in hospice last week to manage her pain. As part of that treatment, they discontinued her daily dialysis. Her body was winding down.
If Polly’s daughter, LaSonya, was calling me, there was only one reason. I asked Steve’s forgiveness and stepped away to answer her call. She gave me the news that I dreaded was coming. Polly had passed away earlier that morning.
I muddled through the rest of my conversation with Steve, but the excitement was gone. I told myself that I knew it was coming. Polly was eighty years old and in poor health. I tried not to think about it, pushing down any other thoughts that surfaced and trying to stay distracted.
The next afternoon Polly’s other daughter, Lisa, called me. Her call showed up as “unidentified” so I let it go to voice mail while I continued my call on the other line. A couple of hours later I saw the notification and played back the message. Her recorded voice told me that she had called to make sure Kim and I had heard the news, “because you guys knew how mom loved you and she would really get onto us if we didn’t call you. You guys stay blessed and we love you because you are family.”
The torrent of emotions couldn’t be suppressed this time. It is an amazing honor to be called family by the Champions and I began to mourn Polly’s passing.
I don’t mourn for Polly. She would have never allowed that. She had been anxious to be called home to Jesus and receive her reward. I mourn for me because I miss her.
I met Polly in November, 2016. She lived alone in a small home that was built in the 1960s. It needed a series of basic repairs that I worked with the First Fruits team for two weekends to complete.
Following the same pattern as countless other workdays, I met with Polly before the workdays to ensure that I understood the tasks and her expectations. Afterward, I followed up with her to make sure things had been done properly and address any little things she still needed help with.
Little by little and visit by visit, our relationship moved past the chores and became an unlikely friendship.
I use the word unlikely because Polly and I don’t seem to have much in common, at least the way most people view life. I am still married, thirty years younger, and very active. She is retired, a lifetime local, and the matriarch of a sprawling, four-generational family. Our homes are eight miles away, but our communities seem worlds apart. Flower Mound is an upscale town full of new construction, while Old Town Lewisville is more down-home and diverse.
We have each grown where God planted us and frequently laughed at our differences. Friendships aren’t built on differences though. They grow out of common bonds.
Polly’s previous cancer attacks had exaggerated the unavoidable effect of time on her body. On each visit, we would take time to pray together, thanking God for his blessings and asking him to have sympathy for our suffering. Usually, I would lead the prayer. Polly is much livelier than me when we pray. She cries out to Jesus right in the middle of somebody’s sentence! Folks don’t do that where I come from, but she was always genuine and I think Jesus liked it. We enjoyed sharing time with our Lord together.
Sometimes she would call me while I was at the office. I always tried to answer. She would tell me if she was feeling sick and ask for my help because I was one of her prayer warriors. I had never seen myself that way, but she did. Polly looked past my present to see my potential the same way God does, and I loved her for that.
Polly was poor as most people viewed it. What I saw was a lady who had what she needed, provided by God at just the right time. She never seemed to have money in the bank but her bills seemed to get paid. Her refrigerator didn’t have a lot in it but she was never hungry. When her home required larger repairs, a local charity, Hearts for Homes, stepped in. God’s faithfulness was on display in her life.
For a long time, Polly thought that I worked for Hearts for Homes. She would call me to come over for all kinds of reasons, both big and little. Maybe it would be to fix a remote control that didn’t work. Other times she would tell me that she really hoped for new furniture for her living room. Whatever she asked for, I did my best to honor her request. I bet two years passed before she figured out that I just did those things because I liked her.
For the first time, I offered a “blank check” to someone who wasn’t my family by blood or in-law. Since Polly was clearly under the protection of the same God who provided all my blessings, it seemed proper to use what I had to meet any of her needs. She could ask me for anything and if it was within my power, she could have it immediately. She frequently exercised that right but never abused the privilege.
One time she called me to see if I had a new bulb for her bedroom TV because her screen wouldn’t light up anymore. Polly was prone to blinding headaches that could leave her confined to bed. On those days, her TV and old episodes of The Rifleman were her companions, so I considered it an important request.
I said, “Yes ma’am, I do have a light bulb for your TV and I’ll bring it over.” After hanging up, I asked Kim to buy a second-hand TV. When I carried it in, Polly asked why I had a whole TV when all she needed was a bulb. I told her “That’s how they sell TV bulbs now.”
After that, she used to say that if she ever needed something done right now, she could count on me.
Occasionally, I stopped by her house just because I needed to talk. Polly had wisdom and a manner about her that was refreshing. Although an army of family, friends, and neighbors seemed to wade through her living room, I never felt like an intruder. We would typically chat for an hour or two, but she would share as much time with me as I needed. I knew I could count on her.
Some of my best friends seem like unlikely ones. Our lives may not match, but they are complementary. We help each other to see the full palette of colors that our Father paints with. Some friends can understand exactly what I’m going through, while others help me to see life in a new way.
Polly always seemed to send me home with a new perspective.
It seems like I’ve lost a lot of people lately. Each of them was dear to my heart. Dealing with their loss has been like the pains of a phantom limb. In my mind they are still a part of me, but when I reach for them they are gone.
The wounds don’t heal quickly and a raw nerve gets bumped every so often. Part of me wants to hold onto my pain because it is all I have left of them. Another part of me wants to wrap thick bandages around every hurt place so I don’t feel anything. All of me hopes that my heart stays soft toward others even though suffering is inevitable.
May God provide comfort when the people I love seem too far away. May he listen to my news when the people I would normally run to can no longer hear my voice. May his presence be tangible on days when I need a friend.
Congratulations, Polly. You raised your family well. You were a vibrant part of your church and community. Your love ran deep and wide. You walked with your Lord through all of your days. All of these things are now yours for eternity, less all the sorrow and pain. You can finally stand face to face with the Savior whose Spirit has guided your life.
Until we meet again, I will do my best to preserve the unlikely friendships in my life, embracing our differences as part of God’s complete plan. At the end of my days when God calls me home, I will search the faces of all those who gather to greet me. I know that you will be there with your giant smile and an embrace that will let me know I am home at last.
On my trip to Tennessee a couple of months ago, Dad gave me Mom’s journalings. They aren’t a proper journal. She was wildly inconsistent in capturing her thoughts and only began the attempt at the age of fifty-seven. They are a jumbled assortment of stapled pieces of notebook paper, hotel notepads, sheets torn from a spiral notebook, and even a single entry that was carefully typed.
Mostly, she captured the events of the day or notes from a sermon. There are only occasional times that she opened up and shared what was on her heart. It is those glimpses into her soul that bring her alive again if only for a moment. Two of those entries are letters she wrote in 2010 and 2013 to her maternal grandfather.
The letters are the only time she used that format and are very similar to each other. She provided no insight into her motivation for writing them. The first letter is below but has snippets that I borrowed from her later note. I’m sure she would forgive me for the edits. If anyone wants to see the original, handwritten versions, a link is provided at the bottom.
Here is the letter, written by a sixty-seven year old grandmother to her grandfather, who had passed away forty-eight years earlier.
Dear Papa,
It’s been so long since we talked. But in my mind, it seems only a short time. I will always remain in my memory that child of 7, 8, or 9 sitting beside you on the pew alongside the deacons at Old Saline Baptist Church, a church with a 100-year old history probably even then.
You helped take offering and took part in the service but always came back to sit beside that insecure child who looked up to you so.
I can hear you now singing “The Old Rugged Cross” or “I Won’t Have to Cross Jordan Alone” and for those moments I was secure, sitting beside this man bigger than life, who loved me enough to bring me to church with him and let me sit beside him with all the other deacons, would keep his hand on my shoulder as the service concluded and I felt like somebody. I can’t remember the sermons but I’ll never forget being present with you in worship.
I’ll always be thankful to you and Mama as well that you raised my mother in that little church, in those traditions so that even when you no longer walked this earth with us or sat under the sweet-gum tree your daughter, my mother, carried on the traditions and love for our Lord. I sat beside her for the next 12-14 years before I married with that same feeling of love and security.
How many lives you formed through generations with your gentle, sweet spirit, humor that resonates with me today, love that spoke so loudly in your care for Mama who could not share with you for those last years of your life.
Thank you Papa for the heritage you left, the example you lived for us to emulate. I pray it won’t die in my watch because I fail to pass it along to our grandchildren.
I regret that our grandchildren won’t have the same memories somehow. Times have changed and though many things are better those relationships are a real loss. The greatest consolation is that I’ll cross Jordan sometime in the not so distant future. I can’t wait to hear you sing The Old Rugged Cross again one day. I’ll recognize your voice before I see your face.
Love you, Papa, Jan
After reading this letter, I set it down and imagined my mom as a little girl. I was sad that she was insecure and didn’t always feel like she was “somebody”. I hoped that I made her feel the same way that Papa did, but worried that I abandoned her to insecurity while I focused on myself. God spoke to me in that moment and told me that it was OK. This letter wasn’t my mom’s story, it was Papa’s.
Papa died six years before I was born. Mom never shared a lot of details about her growing up years, so he has faded into obscurity in the four generations that followed him.
His name was Melvin Dison. If you google his name, you can find a picture of him as a young man, learn that he lived from 1890 to 1962, and that his wife’s name was Myrtle. That’s not a lot. Solomon lamented as much thousands of years ago.
Melvin came to understand his place in history though. In the eyes of a little girl, he reflected the heart of The Father. He accepted responsibility in his church family. He sat on the front row and worshiped passionately. But most importantly, he embraced a small child to make sure that she knew that she was loved.
God is our Papa, and he makes us feel the same way.
The fortunes of billionaires like Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos, and Elon Musk will disappear after a handful of generations. Melvin’s riches however are still growing. His smile still radiates in my memories of my mother, or when I see my aunts Kay and Pam. His embrace lives on every time that Preston hugs his granddaughter Emery. His voice speaks through me when I worship.
Melvin understood enduring greatness that should guide us today. When we accept Jesus, His spirit comes alive inside us. We walk this earth as an embodiment of who He is. Our testimony invites others and God’s love spreads across space and time. Almost sixty years after he died, Melvin reminds me of the power to change lives that is in me.
Each of us may only be a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. But never believe that our time is without impact. It shines in the eyes of a little girl who became a grandmother herself and generously poured out the same love she received. It guides me to do the same.
Thank you, Melvin.
The original letters are captured in pictures available through the link below. If you have memories of Melvin, please share them in the Comments.
