A Shepherd's Heart: The Legacy of Pastor Larry

       Larry with one of the children in Honduras  

 I was asked not too long ago what my husband Larry’s favorite Bible passage might be. I honestly didn’t know. I had of course heard him preach hundreds of sermons over the years. I have lined up on a bookshelf several loose-leaf notebooks full of messages that he compiled over his forty-some years of pastoring. Also, an over-flowing cardboard box sits on his closet floor full of papers with sermon titles, waiting to be either organized or shredded. As for his favorite, I was clueless, and no, I never thought to ask.

Recently I gave Fawn her dad’s Bible. This past week she asked me the same thing, if I knew what his favorite verses might have been. She pointed out that she found his mention of a passage from Philippians a few times as she thumbed through the well-worn pages:

“And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.” Philippians 1:9-11

I imagine Larry had several favorite portions of scripture; it would have been hard for him to settle on one. But as I read over this passage, I couldn’t help but think how beautifully it described him as he walked the path that God had prepared for him those many years ago.

Yes, he was a preacher, and a good one. He spent hours preparing his messages, and it showed. But his greatest gift? He had the heart of a pastor, a shepherd who genuinely loved the sheep entrusted to him. It wasn’t just the late-night calls from emergency rooms or sitting with a family saying their final goodbyes at the bedside of a loved one.  It went far beyond what might have been expected of him.

It would take an entire book to tell the many stories of the people he touched. Here are just a few:

She didn’t attend our church; he didn’t even know her. But that didn’t matter. She had a mess, the result of a kitchen fire. I don’t remember how he became aware of her need, but he went, and for several hours he scrubbed the walls and did what he could to make that home habitable once again. A couple of years ago we were attending a Christian concert in the area. A woman sitting in the row behind us recognized us and introduced herself. She was the daughter of the woman whose home had suffered that fire those many years earlier. She expressed how much his kindness had meant to them, always remembered. And never forgotten. 

Sarah Stephens, a writer with the local paper, knew Larry quite well and contacted him concerning a pair of young people, siblings, who lived in horrible conditions with their father. Their trailer was in squalor with sinking floors and crumbling walls. Could he help? She would find a place for them to stay, but their stuff, including some pet rabbits, needed hauled and temporarily stored. The church’s utility room was soon full of their possessions, with the cages and their pets directly outside the back door. Some grumbled about the pastor bringing those dirty things into the church. The contents in those containers were not the cleanest, and it was necessary to call the pest control people in before the whole thing was over. But I don’t think Larry thought much about that. I don’t know where that brother and sister are now, but my hope is that they will never forget the kindness extended to them through the hands and feet of two people who saw their need and did something about it.  

He showed up at the church one day, desperate for help. With an invalid daughter and the loss of his job, he and his family had been forced to move out of their home and into a dark, gloomy substandard mobile home. He didn’t ask for money, just if we might have some food for his family. There was no hesitation. Larry gathered up the food that had been donated and followed the man to his place so that he might know where he lived. For the next several months they were visited, encouraged and through my husband’s example, others from the church helped provide for some of the personal needs of that man and his family. Eventually, with a new job and improved finances, he was able to move his family into a nice home, which he insisted we come to see. As we stood in the living room, the contrast between that dark trailer and this place with the light pouring through the windows was striking. But even more so was the light in that father’s eyes, so different than the first time we had met.

And that’s what my pastor/husband did. His love knew no bounds, no matter who the person or what their story might be... 

 

...And it was all to the praise and glory of his God. 

The Kit

 

                                      The Kit cradled in my hand

I saw the bird first, barely recognizable, torn into several pieces. I knew immediately that it had obviously met up with my cat that I hadn’t been able to call in the night before. Poor bird. I know cats will do cat things, but I still felt bad for the feathered fellow. And then I saw it. A slight movement just inches away from the carnage in the grass drew my attention to the small creature that lay there, its chest moving just slightly. I drew closer. A baby rabbit, appearing to be just days old, had obviously met up with my feline as well. How or where, I didn’t know, but there would have been no chase as with the bird. He had most likely been taken from his family's burrow. There was a small puncture wound where the perpetrator had most likely latched to carry him across the yard, but he was most definitely alive. Carefully I picked him up, and as I began to gently caress his body, he stretched, extending his legs.  

I had left the house for my morning walk when I made the discovery of that tiny kit just steps from the back door. I knew as he responded to my touch that I wasn’t to leave him alone. I grabbed a couple of tissues and, holding him in my left hand, started down the path behind our home that leads to the park’s walking track.

As I left the trail and entered the park, suddenly, without warning, I began to cry. Grief often comes unexpectedly, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of loss and the realization that things will never, ever be the same again. Memories of my husband lying in that hospital bed five months earlier washed over me like a flood. I looked at the tiny creature that I held close, feeling my caress as I walked. Those long days that Larry lay in that narrow hospital bed, hooked to tubes and lines, I wish I could have held him close like this.

I walked the trail for about an hour, at times smiling and greeting others as we passed. And then there were the moments when the tears would come without any prompting. They just came. It was then that I would hold that tiny creature I was carrying just a bit closer to my heart.

When I was young, our cats would often drag home young rabbits. We were never able to save any of them. So, on my return home, I prayed, asking the Lord to show me where the burrow was. I knew the chances of survival would be better with the mama. It didn’t take long to find, recognizing it by the rabbit fur surrounding the hole. I placed him deep inside, feeling as I did so, the softness of his siblings. I hope he makes it. Whatever the outcome, I hope I was able to offer that tiny kit, at least for a little while, a bit of comfort. I know he did that for me.      

CALLIE

 

Callie

I had never felt so alone. As I crawled into bed that first night without Larry, I was never more aware of the gulf between where I lay and the side that had been his. Though a king size, it had never seemed quite this big before. The bedspread, where he would have been, lay flat with his two pillows set neatly in their place. The emptiness of that space matched the feelings I had at that moment. The longing to have him there, lying close to me, was overwhelming. I just wanted to feel him, feel something. I turned to my side, reached for the light and welcomed the darkness, anxious for sleep to take me away from these feelings of loneliness and loss. 

It could not have been more than a minute or two later when I heard a plop on the bed and then felt the weight and warmth of a small body lying on the back of my legs. Callie, the calico that I had rescued just a few months earlier, did something she had never done before. She decided to not only join me in bed that night, but to lie in such a way that I would especially feel her closeness, her touch. And I was comforted.  

Callie has continued to climb onto my bed since that first night, waiting for me to settle in so that she can draw close for those few moments. God has his ways. For me, he brought a little calico cat into my life that no one else wanted. I believe it was for this very time, to remind me that I am seen and loved and cared for more than I can possibly imagine. And for that, I am grateful.  

           Stink Bugs

Stinkbugs, stinkbugs,

Crawling everywhere.

Walking cross the counters,

Climbing up a chair.

They’re hanging in my kitchen.

I’ve never seen such gall.

And there they go, some other ones,

Are scaling up that wall.

Look, there’s another one,

Sitting in my sink.

I try to send him down the drain.

Can’t squish him cuz he’ll stink.

Now they’re hiding in the corners

So, I go to get my broom,

And find them in the crevices

In every single room.

There’s a bug, inching his way

Across a window blind.

I never know just where they’ll be

Or how many more I’ll find.

Now they’re in the bathroom,

Playing in the tub.

Come on in they seem to say,

And join the stinkbug club!

When I think the war is over,

And open up the door,

Those nasty bugs swoop in with friends,

So now there’s even more!

There was a time I’d set them free.

But in my house, they want to be.

They like it here, so I’ve been told.

They want it warm and hate the cold.

Sorry guys, I’ve no bad intent,

But there’s something I must say.

You’re way too smelly for this nose,

So, I can’t let you stay.

Down the toilet or sink you’ll go

And I've one more word for you.

Let your buddies know as well,

It's goodbye, adios, adieu!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking with Larry

Larry and I like to walk. There's a park with a half-mile track next door, and we spend time there almost every day. We could get a gym membership I suppose, but we prefer being outside.  We're sky watchers, and no one except Charlie Brown has seen more characters hiding in those cloud formations than us. I suppose we've always been that way. There was a creek next to our first parsonage, and we walked it regularly. While serving in Honduras, we took every opportunity we could to walk the streets of La Ceiba or head to the mountains outside the city. Our last pastorate in New York had a park with a track right across the road from us. Rudy was still with us back then, eagerly pulling us along with his leash. 

Larry has dementia. Ok, let's call it what it is. It's Alzheimer's. And with that, there are many things he's no longer able to do. It's hard to watch, to see. The same man who built an entire wing on to the mission house in Honduras with just one person assisting him is no longer able to handle the simplest of tasks in or around our home here in Alabama. 

That's why he likes to be busy outside. Though he's no longer running the mower, he can still take a machete to the brush that runs alongside the tree line of our property. Raking and bagging up the leaves and pinecones that blow across our backyard brings him a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. The last time the hedge clippers were charged up, he was able with some help to lop off a few of the tree branches that hung over our lawn. Our neighbor Rick came over last week and did some trimming around our place. I was grateful as even the little things are getting more difficult.  

But there are harder things. Reading is a thing of the past. A year ago, he could still read one of his old sermons, though very slowly, his finger pointing at each word on the manuscript as he sounded it out. When we first met with a neurologist in Rochester after his diagnosis, she reassured us that because of his advanced education and pastoral skills, he had a good reservoir of vocabulary stored up. But as time has passed, most of that reservoir has been depleted. Conversation is difficult. As a preacher, words came easily. That's what he did. He spoke. He taught. He counseled. And now he struggles to form the simplest sentence. That's what Alzheimer's does. It's a robber. 

But the one thing it has not stolen from him, from us, is our love of a good walk. Even when the weather is especially uncomfortable, this is Alabama after all, we make time in the morning or in the early evening when the sun isn't beating down. No, the disease couldn't steal that from us. But something else could. And it tried. 

It was in the spring of last year that Larry started complaining about pain in his feet, making it increasingly difficult for him to walk very far. An appointment was set up to see the podiatrist and x-rays were taken revealing several prominent bone spurs running along the sides of his feet. The doctor explained that there was just one option for removing them. "We can set you up for surgery," he said. "Just let us know what you decide."

I knew Larry was discouraged and disappointed at the news. The one thing he was still able to do, that which brought him such satisfaction and joy despite the health battles he was facing, were our daily walks. 

We were sitting in our living room a few nights later when he was asked if he would like his feet to be anointed for healing. He nodded. As the oil was rubbed into the bone spurs, he was prayed over in the name of Jesus. It was quiet for a moment, and then as he stood, he began to jump up and down on his feet as if testing them. The pain was gone.

That was almost fifteen months ago. We told the podiatrist to forget about scheduling Larry for surgery, there was no need. Our walks started up once again, and they've not stopped. There are days we walk three or four miles, sometimes we might get to five or six. It wasn't long ago that we did seven. We high-fived each other on that one. 

As we walk, I believe God smiles as we marvel over a beautiful butterfly or when we find and pluck ripened berries from a bush. When we exclaim at the sight of multi-colored blossoms bursting all around us, he delights in that. And finally, as we walk and talk with him about the things and people who are upon our hearts, we know he is listening. I think that's the best part of all. 

I don't know if God is going to heal Larry's mind or not. There is one thing I do know, however. To our God, there is not a bit of difference when it comes to taking out bone spurs or wiping away memory-robbing plaque from one's brain. He can do it all and one day he will. But in the meantime, we are enjoying our walks, a gift that a loving Father gave us to share. And we could not be more grateful.

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.