Missing Rex

I hear that the New York Yankees are going to the World Series this year. My brother Rex would have been so excited. That was his team from the time we were young kids. He had the cards to so many of the greats during that time: Micky Mantle, Roger Maris, Whitey Ford, and other names that I have since forgotten. He and his friend Bob were both big into trading, and they had the best of the best. That was long before people saved things like baseball cards, thinking they might be worth something someday. The fact that my sister Dawn later attached those same baseball cards to the spokes of her bicycle with clothespins, reproducing the flapping sound of a motorcycle as she cruised down Chestnut Street confirms that. Even if those cards were still tucked away in a drawer somewhere in the confines of our home in Weston's Mills, they obviously were no longer in the pristine condition that collectors demand. But they're not tucked away anywhere. From what I heard and understand, when my brother tried to track them down several years later, the truth was told. They had gone the way of the trash bin. 

Rex passed away not quite six months ago after a long hard battle with Parkinson's. Eventually a nursing home had become the only option for him. No one loved sports more than my brother, and even in his new setting he stayed engaged with all of them, via the large television screens in the visitor's lounge, propped up in his wheelchair. I can picture him now, so thrilled at the prospect of his team at the World Series for the first time in fifteen years. Yeah, and it would be all he'd want to talk about over the next several days.  Rex loved to talk. 

I don't remember grieving during the early days after Rex left us. More than anything, I was relieved and grateful that he had finally escaped his broken body, his spirit was free. He was a man of deep faith, and I knew the day would come when I would see him again. And that's why what happened a few days ago took me by surprise.

I saw them hanging from a rack at our local Big Lots. Army men. You know, the little plastic ones that stand a couple inches tall. And I suddenly saw my brother as a kid with his collection on our living room floor, lining them up for battle. Without warning, my throat began to tighten, and my eyes were starting to feel wet. I turned towards Larry, not standing far from me. My voice caught as I pointed at the packages of plastic soldiers and spoke of my brother and one of his favorite pastimes. I missed him. And I grieved.

It's funny, if my brother had any other collections when we were kids, I don't remember them. His baseball cards and army men are the two things that stand out. So, I bought a package in honor of him. And though I've not watched a baseball game all season, I intend to catch what I can in the coming days. I want to do it for him. For Rex. And yes, I'll be rooting for the Yankees. 

Seeing Clearly

She was hardly into the eye exam when she stopped, raised the testing device and looked directly at me. "It's time," she said. "This isn't working. You need the surgery."  I knew I had cataracts, but during my exam several months earlier Dr. Rose indicated that it would most likely be a few years down the road. I had noticed, however, that the glasses last prescribed to me weren't helping much, especially when it came to driving after the sun had set. Except for the more familiar roads, I avoided the areas I didn't know, even having to decline invites to a couple of special birthday celebrations.  

I was referred to an ophthalmologist who many consider to be the best in this part of Alabama. But still, I was not happy at the prospect of spending the next several weeks preparing for the upcoming surgery which would mean several trips to Montgomery and a regimen of steroid and antibiotic drops. The second eye, scheduled to be done four weeks after the first, made this whole venture feel like a very long inconvenience.

Once I let it be known, a bit begrudgingly, that I was scheduled for cataract surgery, the stories began. It seemed like everyone knew someone or had gone through the procedure themselves with nary a negative word. Ben from church was especially encouraging. "My one regret is that I put it off as long as I did," he said. "My vision would be so much better if I hadn't waited." And then he smiled. "You'll be glad you had it done. You'll see. Things will look a lot brighter."  

It was a few hours after the first of my old lens had been removed that I saw it. The yellow haze that I had become so accustomed to and had considered normal, was now replaced with a white light, accentuating the colors and bringing into sharper focus everything surrounding it.  Over the next few weeks as I continued with the steroid drops, slowly tapering off to that one last drop, I was actually anticipating my next surgery date, excited at the prospect of seeing out of both eyes what I had experienced in the one.

During those first weeks after my second surgery, I would still feel the urge to remove a contact or take off my glasses by raising my hand towards an eye or the bridge of my nose, something I'd been doing instinctively for 60 years. It's understandable. I was ten years old when I got my first pair of glasses, so I'd been living with blurry vision most of my life. Old habits are hard to break, but as time passed, I found myself reaching less and less for something that is no longer there. 

Except for three or four pairs of cheap reading glasses lying around the house that I picked up at the local Dollar Tree, corrective lenses are now a thing of the past. The bathroom drawer that held my contact supplies, including the dozens of lens cases that had accumulated over the years, is now empty.  Rummaging through another drawer, I gathered up the glasses I had stored there and dropped them into a container at the library designated for the local Lion's Club. 

Looking back on all this, I didn't realize how dull the lenses in my eyes had become. It wasn't until they were replaced with the new ones that I understood why my optometrist had made the decision to send me on to someone who could make things so much better. What I had seen as a time-consuming inconvenience has turned out to be one of the best decisions ever made for me. Yes, made for me, because I know if it had been mine to make, I would have settled for the easier option, to do nothing. So, I got what I needed most, first through a doctor who gave me a gigantic push and then through a friend who said the exact thing I needed to hear. "You'll be glad you got it done. Things will look so much brighter."

There's a passage in Scripture that talks about not seeing things clearly. Different versions use words like dimly, darkly, blurred and cloudy. The Message describes it like "squinting in a fog, peering through a mist." That's exactly how I felt driving after dusk before the surgery. Barely able to see the lines defining the various lanes, I would only travel the roads most familiar to me. But with my new lenses I can now face the challenges of night-time driving with greater confidence. And yes, there are places that I can now travel that I would never have dared venture to when I was seeing through my yellowed, dingy eyes. I just didn't know how bad things had gotten until I was willing to let the Ophthalmologist make the cuts to remove the old and replace with the new. 

I need to add a footnote here. I started to write this post over a year ago but couldn't finish it. When it came to my conclusion, I drew a blank. I didn't know how to end it. Until now. After months of sitting in its draft form, I'm ready to finish what I started all those months ago. Today I called and talked to my brother who lies in a nursing home in New York. Parkinson's has ravaged his body, now broken beyond all repair, and he has very little time left. As I spoke to him, just the smallest slit of an eye opened, acknowledging that he was aware of me, even from afar. 

I know that not too many days from now he will open his eyes once again. But unlike what he has seen on this side of eternity, his now perfect eyes will be taking in sights that we who are still looking through the "glass darkly" can hardly imagine or think. That yellowed, dim, dark, cloudy lens, now removed from my brother's eyes will let him experience the light that comes from God Himself, allowing him to look upon the face of the one he has loved and lived for most of his life.  

A Sheep Tale

Our Sheep

I heard a story this week about seven sheep that recently escaped a slaughter house in Patterson, New Jersey, and after being rescued, were sent to an animal sanctuary where they will live out the remainder of their days quite comfortably. How they escaped is yet to be determined, but needless to say, it was a really good move on their part. And that brings me to our own personal sheep story.

It was 1981 and we had just moved into our newly renovated parsonage in rural Pennsylvania. In its former life it had been a farmhouse, so it came with a few acres of land, some outbuildings and a barn. Larry and I looked at those empty buildings and wondered what to do with them. Here we had a small farm right outside our door, but the stalls sat empty. And then we got the brightest, or so we thought, of ideas. Why not get us some sheep? 

Our parsonage came with a small farm   

A couple of our church families raised sheep. We would often see Marilee and Junior Chaffee's flock grazing as we drove by their place, looking so serene and tranquil. Yes, for sure that's what we needed. So we stopped at their home one day and asked if they might be willing to spare a couple of ewes and a ram. Sure enough. A few days later Junior deposited three sheep into our keeping. Our shepherding days were about to begin. 

Our nephews Jonathan and Matthew meeting one of our sheep 

It's been over forty years since we attempted to take on the roles of shepherds, so some of the details have been forgotten, possibly due to memories simply fading over time. But I think it more likely that some things are best forgotten because they are just down right embarrassing. And in our case, I believe this describes us perfectly. 

I still have vivid memories of our sheep taking off down the dirt road that led to our parsonage, their hind ends and tails in the air, as if out for a Sunday stroll. In spite of the fence that surrounded their pasture, they were always breaking out. At first Larry was anxious, wondering how he could possibly get them back in their pen, but it wasn't long before he learned that if we left them alone, they would eventually come home,"wagging their tails behind them." 

They were constantly breaking out and taking off

But if the ewes were a bit hard to control, the ram was worse. A bit cantankerous, it was virtually impossible to keep him in his enclosure. He ruled, taking over the grounds. One Sunday morning we heard and felt several loud bangs and thumps coming from our front porch. A television antenna, several feet tall, sat in our yard directly in front of that porch, bringing in the few stations we were able to get in rural Bradford county. The ram, feeling especially grumpy that morning, had hit that thing so hard, he knocked it completely out of the ground and left it leaning up against our battered roof. 

Our cantankerous ram

It was early spring when we had two lambs born that finally made us admit that we weren't cut out for this. Neither of the babies survived, and we knew that it was time to find a better home for our woolly residents. The Jennings, well-acquainted with the needs of sheep, lived up the road just a short distance from us. Neighbor Dick loaded the three into his truck and as he pulled away and rounded the bend, we felt a sense of relief. Maybe we were a little sad, a bit disappointed that we hadn't done a better job. It hadn't seemed like it would be all that hard. At least not until we were actually in the thick of it.

I guess not everybody's cut out to be a shepherd. It was a harder job than we could have ever imagined and we really had no clue as to what we were doing. It would have been better if we'd hung with someone first who knew sheep: observing, asking questions, learning, equipping ourselves for the task ahead. But because we assumed it was going to be an easy job, we winged it and failed miserably. And yet, looking back, I believe there was an object lesson being played out right in front of us. 

For there's another kind of shepherd. That is the one who loves, cares for, nurtures and grows the sheep, following and living life under the example and instruction of the Greatest Shepherd of all. I've known lots of them, my husband Larry included. It's not an easy job, tending to the various needs of sheep. Some are easy to lead; they bring joy and encouragement to the shepherd. But others are difficult, even cantankerous like our ram. There are others who want to do their own thing, not liking boundaries and  rules, strolling off the property figuratively speaking to see what's around the bend. Sometimes they come back on their own, and sometimes the shepherd goes after them, searching until they're found. But he's always there, always ready, always available, because he understands what's at stake. Eternity. 

 

Odessa

When Larry and I arrived in Elmira, New York in the summer of 2009, we could not have imagined the adventure we were about to embark on as Larry took on the role of pastor at the Wesleyan Church. From the moment we entered its doors and began to interact with its people, we knew that this was the place for us. For the next 10 years we would call Elmira home and the people of that church our family. Even after these three and a half years since Larry's retirement, we still miss that place and its people more than we can express. 

And that brings me to Odessa. She often told the story that she was determined not to like us. She had loved the previous pastor; he was young, and well, we weren't. But it didn't take long for her to realize that we were pretty likable and that we truly loved the people that God had sent us to shepherd.  And there was no one that we loved more than her. I mean, how could we not. There was absolutely no one like her!

Odessa in "bling" one Christmas Sunday 

                                                

I nicknamed her my "bling bling friend" because of her love for jewelry and sparkle. I don't ever remember her showing up to church, sitting in that same back pew which she had claimed long before we ever moved into the parsonage next door, without something on her person or in her hair, often highlighted in various colors. She was a southern girl, which she would not let anyone forget even though she'd lived in New York most of her adult life, and her fashion flair was definitely a reflection of that. She also had a bit of that southern "rebel" in her as well, which she proudly declared on a pretty regular basis. 

And she was beyond generous. As the self-appointed "candy lady" at church, she knew how much Larry loved his chocolate and looked for every opportunity she could to make sure he got his favorite confections. Holidays and birthdays gave her an excuse to make sure that we were remembered with a card and a gift. Even after we left Elmira for Alabama a thousand miles away, the cards continued to come. She didn't miss a holiday. 

And speaking of cards, I can't imagine how many she must have sent over the years to those who simply needed a reminder that they weren't forgotten. We saw that lived out when we would visit the nursing homes, cards on display on dressers and tray tables or hear of the phone calls she had made. She served in her own way, not making a big deal about it. But if she saw a need, she stepped in and did what she could. No fanfare. That's just who she was.

The last time we spoke to her was just a few days before she passed on from here to her new home. I told her we'd be back for a visit the following month and that we wanted to spend some time with her. Well, I guess she couldn't wait, her body was simply too tired. Yes, we were disappointed, but we'll just have to wait on that visit for a bit longer. You see, she knew Jesus. She trusted Him as her Savior a long time ago. So as disappointed as we were, I know that we will see her again. And then there will be no more goodbyes.

    

She was absolutely delighted that Pastor Larry
danced with her at her granddaughter's wedding!

 

Autumn's Wedding

Autumn's "Giving Tree" wedding cake 

Autumn was adamant.  "I want to get married on St. Patrick's Day." As far as I know, Irish genes don't run through our family, and to top it off, the holiday was inconveniently falling on a Tuesday. But she loves the day and it was her dream, her choice. Most of us, her immediate family, were living in New York. We'd not only have to get all of us to Alabama, there was the matter of finding a place to stay once we got there. As it turned out, the timing could not have been more perfect, our renters having just moved out and on to another state. Our house was sitting empty and we could stay there.  But there was still the small detail of furniture. 

 

But my super-organized daughter had already thought of that. "I've got it all figured out mom. All we need is a table and some chairs, and I can borrow air mattresses for the bedrooms.  There's a fridge and a stove so you won't have to eat out the whole time."  Several days later, arriving weary after our thousand mile trek south, we found air mattresses in each of the bedrooms, adequate furniture to keep us comfortable for a few days and enough food in the pantry to take care of a few meals during our stay. Yes, she had indeed thought of everything. 

When we left Alabama to pastor in another state,  Autumn was halfway through her college career at Auburn University. After graduation she stayed in Alabama, far from family. So when Jimmie  asked her to be his wife, she had no mom or sisters close by to help take on some of the responsibilities. From the search for the perfect wedding gown to the selection of bouquets and boutonnieres, she was pretty much on her own.  

 

Autumn is a lover of books and trees, so it seemed only fitting that she combine the two. She selected a favorite, "The Giving Tree" and went to work. From the invitations to the design of the cake, along with the hand-painted dishes, centerpieces and favors, she planned and constructed every detail of her wedding to fit her theme. 

She and Jimmie booked the venue, sprawling grounds featuring a lovely old bed and breakfast with lush gardens for the outdoor ceremony and a large, graceful pavilion for the reception. It was perfect for the intimate ceremony and reception she desired.  The guest list was not extensive, made up only of hers and Jimmie's immediate families and very closest of friends. 

The day dawned beautifully, perfectly. The ceremony would begin late in the afternoon, the wedding party gathering a few hours earlier for dress and pictures. Again Autumn had thought of everything, including hungry kids. There were finger foods laid out for the taking. 

Valor, the ring bearer, sampling the finger foods 

If I needed to select one word that best describes that day, I think I would choose joyful. Starting with Moose the dog sporting his tux, the groomsmen in their converse, and the little people drawing oohs and ahs from those in attendance, there was pure delight in every moment. Finally, there was the setting itself, Autumn standing by her groom with her father officiating, a majestic tree behind them, as if it grew there just for this occasion. Just for her.  

Little person Elley

Looking sharp in their suits and converse shoes

Moose decked out for the occasion 

 

The perfect setting

And then there was the laughter. Autumn had picked out a favorite song, asked her sister to sing while the keyboard and violin accompanied her. The wind stirred up just as Fawn began, the gusts teasing, persisting in turning the pages of music sitting on the keyboard. "You've Got a Friend in Me," was as much laughter as song, and somehow, it felt right.  

The song was as full of laughter as it was music  

In fact, the whole day felt right. Autumn had planned and prepared so well, that every part of it was easy to enjoy.  I watched my radiant daughter relishing every moment, so deserved after months of getting ready for this day, most of it on her own. She laughed and joyed in the celebration of marriage to this man she wanted to spend her life with. 

Look, I made mama happy cry

Joyful Autumn

 

Today Autumn and Jimmie are celebrating their seventh anniversary. They've already had some wonderful adventures and continue to live them.  They also have a precocious little girl named Archer, a beautiful and unexpected blessing. 

There will always be challenges, they've already faced a few. But something tells me they'll be just fine, finding joy and laughter in the journey. 

Happy Anniversary Autumn and Jimmie. Much love, Mom.

Photographs taken by Stephen Poff

The Touch

I had just left my car to walk the short distance to the food store when she saw me. Our eyes met, she smiled and I smiled back.  It was just what she needed I suppose to give her the courage to ask, "Do you have five dollars?" I was taken back a bit. "What do you need it for?" I asked. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation on her part. "I need cigarettes. I'm addicted to them." And after the slightest pause she added, "I'm just being honest." I looked at her wistfully, regretfully. I might have shaken my head just slightly as if to say, "Food, maybe yes. Cigarettes? No, don't think so." And I turned towards the shopping cart rack.

"Give her the five dollars." It wasn't audible, but I heard it nonetheless. "Give her the money and tell her about me." I turned back, opening my wallet as I walked towards her, thumbing through until I found a five. "I want you to know that Jesus Christ is the center of my life," I told her as I handed her the bill. And then I asked her name and if I might pray for her." She nodded. "That would be nice." I laid my hand on her arm, and calling her by name, had a conversation with God. I don't remember all I said, but looking back, I don't think that was the most important part of this story anyways.

The encounter lasted no more than five minutes. I will probably never know what impression, if any, those few moments made. That she didn't have five dollars for cigarettes suggests there were probably more serious issues in her life. But as I finished praying, she suddenly reached out and hugged me. "Thank you," she said. "It felt good to be touched again."

I don't like cigarettes. I don't smoke, never have. At first I didn't say anything, I didn't have to. My face and body language said it all. But then I heard that Voice, putting me in check, asking me to set my personal bias aside. And because I listened, I believe her greater need was met.

By the way, this encounter happened early this past spring, the pandemic's influence lessening, but still holding some sway over our daily lives. Signs strongly encouraging mask wearing and social distancing still hung on store windows and doors. The past year had meant loneliness and isolation for many. Perhaps this woman had experienced much of the same.

I still don't know her story and most likely never will. But for those few moments, I hope she sensed it wasn't just my touch upon her arm that day. 

Larry's Ties

Larry wearing his favorite football tie
 

Larry loves his ties.  Except for our time in Honduras, he rarely stood in the pulpit without one.  With 40 plus years in ministry, he's accumulated quite an assortment, taking up a good section of his clothes closet.  

Just some of the ties hanging in Larry's closet

But with that, he's also given a fair share away.  During his final Father's Day Service as pastor, he presented to each man and boy in attendance a tie out of his collection.  He had spent the day before sorting through and pulling out 30 or 40 of varied colors and designs before passing them out the following morning.  One summer during kids' camp, he put a tie around the neck of each boy for dress-up night.  I happened to be there that evening and saw a row of boys, proudly sporting their neckwear, parading into the dining hall to the applause of the girls and and their counselors.   

Even in retirement he continues to wear his favorite accessory.  Last year when the churches were shut down, he dressed up each Sunday morning with a button-down shirt and matching tie before accompanying me, a member of the worship team, to an empty sanctuary for the livestream. Just for fun, I started posting pics of him and his selection of the week on social media and people have been "following" his ties ever since.  

Larry wore this "bug" tie the first week of shutdown. 
 It seemed appropriate 

We love thrift shops though we probably spend more time looking than we do buying.  Lately, however,  Larry has started searching out, well, you know what.  There's a place over on Memorial Highway that has theirs for a buck. You just have to work your way through a couple of big boxes filled with other random stuff to find them, but he doesn't mind.  It's the thrill of the hunt I guess.  

 

His latest find from the Good Will Store

Speaking of hunts, a surprise package arrived some months back from our friend Deb in New York.  There were some treats for Rudy the dog, a couple things for me, and for Larry, a bundle of  ties that fit perfectly with his likes and personality.  She enjoys searching out the hidden treasures of a thrift store as much as we do, but when I asked where she managed to find the one he picked out as his favorite, she responded with one word.  Amazon.  

Larry's favorite from friend Deb

I suppose most of us collect something or other. I have a collection of snowmen, but they stay stored in our attic most of the year. But Larry enjoys sharing his tie collection all year long, sporting a different one each week. And as you can see, the children and other friends and family are great about joining him from Sunday to Sunday as we take the shot. It makes for memories and fun.  

  

Seeing friend Mac for the
first time in 14 years.
       This was a happy moment to share!     

 

Kids from church joining Larry for a picture

Autumn getting in on the fun

Babies too! 

Granddaughters are always nice 

Last week a small package came to our mailbox addressed to Larry. Imagine his delight when he opened the mailer to find several ties in nice condition of various designs tucked inside. His sister Paulette operates a community clothes closet and decided to surprise him.  It was like Christmas in July.                        

This butterfly tie belonged to
our friend Billy Headley
 who is now with Jesus

I recently heard someone make the comment, "Who wears those things anymore?" Well, I know one guy who does.  Recently he had the privilege of wearing two that had belonged to some special friends, now deceased, given to him by their widows.  He was honored to do so.  

This one belonged to Jimmy Stanfield
who is also with Jesus. 
 His granddaughter is standing next to Larry.