Coming Home

Our Alabama Home

It was January of 2010,  and we were experiencing our first New Year in Elmira, a small city on the Southern Tier of Upstate New York.  We'd been living in the South for the last 14 years, so it would be a big change for us, even though we'd both been raised in snow country. For the next ten years we would welcome in each New Year from our little parsonage on the corner of Charles and Federal Streets.  It was the first time in many years we'd lived in such close proximity to the church that Larry was pastoring,  and we loved the spontaneous visits and activities we could host in our home.

We had sensed almost from the moment we came to interview that this was the church for us.  It would be confirmed through a divine encounter Larry had a few days later that these were the people God had chosen for him to shepherd. To love.  And that's what he did.  We did.   

When I met and fell in love with a preacher boy, there was a sense in my spirit that this was what God had prepared for me all along.  I believed it was my calling, very much in the same way that Larry was called to be a pastor.   When the challenges were especially difficult, and we've had our share, I would remember that this was what we were created for.

The diagnosis was not unexpected but still difficult to hear.  Dementia.  We'd seen the signs.  Larry was having noticeable memory issues and finding it harder to keep track of all the responsibilities associated with being a pastor.  And though the illness was fairly early in its progression, we sensed that it was time to step away from full-time ministry and enter retirement. It was not an easy decision.  We loved our people, our community, our calling.  We would have been content to stay the course for much longer.  But we learned a long time ago that the journey often takes some unexpected turns. This just happened to be a big one.

I've always considered myself pretty adaptable.  When the kids were young, we packed up and moved to Costa Rica and then on to Honduras.  That meant both a change of cultures and  language. We've lived in the country (on a dusty dirt road), small towns and cities of varied sizes. Moving was never easy, but I saw each change as a part of the journey already laid out for us.  And with the changes,  there was always the exciting prospect of discovery and adventure in new places with people that we would get to know and grow to love.

I have to be honest. I was not anticipating this next leg of the journey.  People would often congratulate us on the retirement that was fast approaching, the obligatory thing to do I suppose.  But I felt no sense of anticipation at the thought of leaving this life that had brought us such a sense of fulfillment and joy for the last forty-two years.   

It was in August, just over a year ago, that we stopped after a long day of several hundred miles and snapped a picture at the Alabama border, grateful that we had just a few more hours of travel.  The sentiments from that welcome sign, aptly borrowed from the southern rock group, Lynard Skynard, spoke more deeply than it had on our occasional visit back to the southland over the past 12 years.  That's because this time we were coming back to stay.  

When Larry resigned his position from the church in Alabama, we never anticipated living in this house again.   But after putting it on the market and trying to sell it on and off for seven years, we came to the conclusion that it simply wasn't to be.  When the time was right, this would be our home again.  Perhaps we should have known that this was God's plan all along.  This place, this house, for this time.   

When we first came to Alabama back in the summer of 1995, our first months were in a rental.  Less that a year later, we were living in a brand new house, our first ever, on an acre of land.  A contractor who attended the church offered to build a home for us at his cost. It was one of his last jobs.  Cancer took him within a year or so after we moved in.  And so here we are, living in a house built by someone, who in spite of his own need, provided for ours 25 years ago.  And God, knowing what our need would be down the road, chose to keep this place for us.  

Starting with the farmhouse turned parsonage on that dirt road in Pennsylvania, to the mission house in Honduras, and finally, on to that dear place on the corner of Charles and Federal in New York, all have been home to me. To us. But at this juncture in our lives, I am especially grateful for our Alabama home. We are taking each day as it comes with the challenges of dementia, and I am learning to be content in this season of my life.  And as for what comes next, there are no guarantees.  But for now, we are simply grateful.  

Water from the Well

A free-flowing artisan well in Prattville, Alabama 

We stopped by one of the artisan wells here in Prattville a few days ago to fill our water jugs.  I met the nicest lady who had come to fill hers as well, and we chatted while Larry helped an elderly gentleman carry several full containers to his pickup.  This was not the first time we've met and visited with people at what appears to be one of the most popular spots in town.  Earlier this summer we met a group of women from a church in Montgomery loading various sized containers, anything that held water, into their van. It was obviously as much a social event for them as they gathered around the well, laughing and talking among themselves.

When we first moved to Alabama almost 25 years ago, I didn't think much about the artisan wells in the area.  We were living in a brand new house and I was perfectly content with the water pouring out of those shiny kitchen spigots.  Besides, my life was simply too busy to be hauling bottles of water into the house for what was at that time a family of six.      

Fast forward to Elmira, New York where we would spend our final years of pastoral ministry.  We were settling into the parsonage when a member showed up with a water cooler and plopped it down in our kitchen.  "As long as you're here, you help yourselves to as much water as you want from my store." he insisted.  One sip of that pure, spring water was enough to convince us that it was worth the few miles drive to John's business to keep us in supply, and for the next ten years that's all we drank at home.  When one has had a taste of the best, it's hard to be satisfied with anything else.

"Take the cooler with you,"  John insisted when Larry offered to return it as we packed up our household items. "That was a gift."  And a wonderful gift it had been, but out of his generosity I had moved beyond simple preference to dissatisfaction with anything but that pure,  unadulterated spring water.  And the other downside to all of this, we'd have to start buying what had been so generously given to us over the past ten years.

Not too many days later we pulled into our Alabama driveway, this time to stay.  The moving truck had already been emptied of our belongings, including the water cooler which now sat empty in the kitchen corner.  A couple days later, we were drinking what had come from one of those same wells that I had hardly taken notice of all those years earlier.  A couple of the guys who were helping us move in had taken our empty jugs and filled them with water that was still pouring out of the ground all these years later.  It cost us nothing, and it was good.  Very good.

Larry filling up one of our jugs 

Back to that elderly gentleman who Larry was helping a few days ago.  "Some friends visiting here from Chicago took as much water as they could fit in their vehicle back home with them," he said.   I thought of those women who travel from Montgomery to fill their bottles from the well.  And as I stood talking with my new acquaintance, we couldn't miss the deeper meaning in all of this.  She recalled Jesus meeting the woman at the well, a place where she opened her heart to the greatest need in her life, the Living Water.  I remember that all those years ago, I was satisfied with what came out of my tap. It was fine. That is, until I had a taste of something that was so much better.

Prattville--also known as "The Fountain City"     

Message from a Fortune Cookie

It always hits me a bit after the new year rolls around.  I have this insatiable desire to organize and get rid of stuff.  A couple years back I hit the big file cabinet that holds our personal papers.  I spent days going thorough every single folder, throwing out and shredding documents from years back and reorganizing what remained.  I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment after finishing up and gave myself a good old pat on the back.  Yep, I was pretty proud of myself.

Therefore, when the subject came up on what we're keeping and what we're not, I thought to myself, "I've got this!  I mean, pack rat I am not.  Clutter?  Not my thing.  Too much stuff?  Absolutely not!" 

Several weeks earlier Larry had announced to the church that he would be retiring sometime during the summer.  With that announcement came the daunting realization that we had a big job ahead of us.  It's called packing, and it would be nothing like that move from seminary to our first pastorate.  For seven months we had lived in a tiny furnished apartment in student housing.  I think all we had were some wedding gifts, a few kitchen items, a vacuum cleaner and a dining room table (sans chairs) that we bought at an auction for fifteen or twenty dollars.  Fast forward 42 years and the accumulation was, needless to say, quite significant.

The big items weren't the problem.  What we needed we would keep.  What we didn't need, we could  sell or give away.  But the smaller stuff, well, where to begin?  Besides three closets full of clothes and bookshelves stuffed with books and movies and photo albums, there were boxes, totes and large containers full of holiday decorations, old letters, music books, toys, dolls, old photographs and Packer paraphernalia.  There were trunks full of costumes for dress up and puppets from our missionary days.  Board games and puzzles filled up the corners of the attic and children's books cluttered the shelves along with the old VHS tapes that hold the memories of those growing up years with our children.   

Yep, we had stuff.  And lots of it.  So where to start?  It wasn't 30 minutes later that I was peering into one of the kitchen cupboards.  Even though the move was several weeks away yet, I felt the need to start, to begin somewhere, and this was as good a place as any.  The first thing I spied was an unopened fortune cookie from Chinese takeout a few weeks earlier. Removing it from its plastic wrapping, I broke open the cookie, pulled out the tiny slip of paper and read the following: Unnecessary possessions are unnecessary burdens. 

Message from a fortune cookie  

Well that was certainly not applicable where I was concerned. Unnecessary possessions? I didn't have all that many things that are unnecessary, and the stuff I do have, it's just a natural accumulation of lots of years of living.  And besides, how seriously should I take some saying that comes out of a fortune cookie anyways? And yet the timing was uncanny.  Well, since I was in the cupboard I figured I'd get through my spices, some of which I knew I'd had for a v-e-r-y long time.  By the time I was done I'd tossed a dozen or more tins and jars of the stuff, some expired by several years I'm embarrassed to admit,  into the trash.   But it felt good, really good.  I could do this.  Round one done.

A few days later I hit the closets. Things went pretty well until I came to the one that held those things that I no longer wear but hang on to because of some emotional connection.   I found myself staring at the purple dress I wore at both Fawn's and Autumn's college graduations.  I hadn't worn that thing in 10 years and knew I probably never would again.  I'd tried it on a few years prior, thinking it'd make a great Easter dress but it was a bit tight in the stomach.  Unnecessary possessions are unnecessary burdens.  It was time to let it go.  Stupid fortune cookie. I just had to open it.

My purple dress donated to the church's clothes closet

In the meantime Larry was attacking his study with a vengeance.   Books, old sermons, teaching notes, letters, pictures, photographs, gifts and assorted paraphernalia being packed away in totes, tossed or given away.  A couple of young pastors were on the receiving end as he cleared a few hundred books out of his library, some newer, others going back to seminary days.  "I don't need them.  Might as well give them to someone who can use them." I'd never seen him so pragmatic, this man who is notoriously sentimental.

That same pragmatism came a bit harder for me, surprisingly, as I am not quite as nostalgic as my husband.  But reality was starting to sink in.  Our forty plus years of pastoring was coming to an end and some pretty big challenges lay ahead, the first of which was getting all our personals from New York to Alabama.   Larry reserved a moving truck from Budget and the date set for loading was put on the calendar.

"I don't ever want to do this again." Over the course of Larry's career, we had pastored in five different states and served in Central America as missionaries for a time, but I didn't remember moving ever being this hard. The seeming insurmountable task of packing up our entire household coupled with the thought of leaving the people and area we had grown to love for a far-off place was overwhelming.  And I repeated my sentiments once again.  "I don't ever want to do this again.  Ever."

I'm not saying that God had that little slip of paper put into that fortune cookie specifically for me.  But it was still a reminder to me over those days and weeks of sorting and packing and tossing and giving away that just because we had it didn't mean we needed it. When the last item was loaded, or should I say squeezed, onto that truck and the door was slammed shut, I felt a pang of guilt.  There was a lot of stuff in there, and despite the multiple trips to the local thrift store, I wondered if we had let enough of it go.

Our friend John showing up to help load up 

"Why did we bring this with us?"  We had been unpacking, settling back into our Alabama home,  and I had already asked Larry that same question several times while holding up the items in question.  We have already made two or three trips to one of the thrift stores here in town and have plans to haul over another load sometime soon.   Why indeed?   

Violets for Fred and Louise

Violets among the dandelions filled our yard in New York 

"Happy May Day!" I said to the cashier as I handed her the two bouquets of multicolored daisies to ring up.  "It's May Day?" she asked as she scanned the bar code.  "Yep, it most certainly is and I'm celebrating!" She smiled and nodded, probably more to humor me than anything.  I put the debit card back in my wallet and before stepping away wished her a happy May Day one more time.  I was feeling good, May had arrived, and I couldn't wait to share this day with a couple of friends.   

I always looked forward to that first day in May growing up in Western New York.  March seemed to stretch on forever and April was usually a tease, changeable and unpredictable.  But May was different.  Her disposition was sunny and she held the promise of many good days ahead.  At her arrival, the trees were blossoming and the returning birds were building or settling into their nests.  The grass was becoming a lush, thick green, interspersed throughout with the inevitable dandelion and the much daintier purple violet.   

I might have acquired my love for the month of May from my mother.  On May Day each year she would cut a small section off a roll of wallpaper, form it into a cone, make a handle and and glue it all together with a bit of wallpaper paste.  Then she'd send us on a hunt to fill it with whatever flowers we could find and each year it was the same.   We would fill our paper basket with violets.  

Fred and Louise McMullen lived next door.  I don't know how old they were, I just knew they were lots older than my mom and dad.  And they had no children.  So every first of May we would quietly creep over to their backdoor, place the basket full of violets over the doorknob, ring the bell and skedaddle before they could retrieve it.  I'm pretty sure they knew all along that the Marvin kids and their mama were behind the ritual, but we did it anyways.  Year after year.

I had decided the night before that I was going to surprise someone with flowers for May Day.  Perhaps it's simply nostalgia,  realizing this would be my last May Day in New York. Or maybe it was just one more way of thanking my mother for the example she had set for us, her children, showing us how to care for our neighbors in simple, yet tangible ways.      

So after leaving the store with my two bouquets, I called friend number one from the car.  Well into her 90's, it'd been way too long since I'd stopped in to see her.  She answered on the third ring.  The back door would be open for me, she said.  The second friend, pretty much confined to her home, seemed delighted with her bouquet as well.  But I know full well that the better part of my May Day surprise was the visit itself and that I had chosen to include them in my personal celebration.  The flowers were simply a reminder of that.         

I'm pretty sure that's what it was like for Fred and Louise as well.  The busy mom with the five rambunctious children next door (and we were) chose to include them in the joyful welcome of spring,  fully arrived after the long, long winter.  And for them, hopefully, the wallpaper basket full of freshly-picked violets placed on their doorknob was simply the reminder that there were those who cared enough to place them there.            

Violets that I discovered just today along the wall of our parsonage

Divine Seat Assignment

Larry and I flew home from a conference in Orlando this past Saturday.  It was a long enough flight that if a passenger wanted to take in a movie they could.  Somehow we ended up across the aisle from each other, him in the middle and me by the window.  The couple to my left had their screens turned on and their big headphones plugged in even before we had taxied down the runway.  Only when the attendant handed the woman beside me her complimentary orange juice did I have a chance to ask where she was from.  "Australia," she responded and immediately put her headset back into place. 

I'm not one who feels like I have to engage every stranger I meet into a meaningful conversation, including those I might be sitting by while traveling cross country.  But I couldn't help but think of some months earlier when Larry and I were returning from a visit to Los Angeles where we had traveled to meet our new baby granddaughter.  The plane was much like this one, but that time we were sitting together, Larry by the window and me in the middle.  The man next to me on the aisle seemed approachable, so I'd asked him where he was from and where he was going.  He too was from Australia but lived in the States and was returning from a trip after a visit with his aging parents. 

I need to back up.  The day before we had visited a very large, used bookstore in downtown Los Angeles, a place that Autumn and Jimmie had wanted to check out since moving to California three years earlier.  I figured it wouldn't be a bad idea to pick up something to read for the long flight back to New York.  I went up to the second level and found a small section of Christian books off in a corner.  I found something by a favorite author of mine in good condition for six dollars and packed it in my carry-on later that night.

The used bookstore in downtown Los Angeles

It was about an hour into the flight and an hour into my book when I read the following:  God is in the business of strategically positioning us in the right place at the right time.  God is setting you up....I don't believe in coincidence, not if you are living a Spirit-led life.  I believe in a sovereign God who is ordering your footsteps, preparing good works in advance, and making all things work together for good.   Then a few paragraphs later came the clincher.  Can I make a simple observation?  Notice who's next to you. What you think is a seat assignment might be a divine assignment.  The Person two inches away may change your destiny, or you might change theirs!  ("Chase The Lion" by Mark Batterson p. 41)

"Uh, Lord, are you trying to tell me that this is a divine appointment with this stranger sitting beside me?"  He'd been watching a movie for the last hour, and except for knowing what little bit he'd told me, that was it.  I didn't even know his name.  Besides, you don't try to carry on a conversation on a plane with someone wearing headphones staring at a screen.  But I also sensed that God was about to do something.  "OK Lord, if this is your plan, I'm in.  But you're going to have to get this thing started.  It's up to you."   

A few minutes later Larry suddenly whispered, "I need to get out. I have to use the restroom."  He'd been accepting coffee from the flight attendants every time they walked by.  This was the second time I was having to apologize and ask the nice, patient man in the aisle seat if he would mind letting my husband out. He smiled, a good sign, and Larry disappeared towards the back of the plane.

The earphones were now off and the screen was dark.  I felt a nudge.  It was time.  God promises to give us what we need when we need it.  In this case,  I needed an opener and He gave it to me, a simple inquiry about how hard had it been to leave his parents living so far away.  From that one question,  the conversation would continue for the next two and a half hours, the remainder of that flight.  In between the words spoken and stories shared, we were permitted to see into the heart of a man who was looking for answers to some difficult questions and seeking direction for the next season of his life. I opened the book and showed him what I had read, knowing by his expression that he too recognized that this had been a divine appointment.         

Before we landed I felt one last nudge.  I asked John (for that is his name) if he would like to have the book as a reminder that God had set up the seating assignments that day.  But mostly, that he would know that God had a plan for him in the next season of his life.  I wasn't even supposed to be on this plane," he had told us, "and as far as I know, I got the last seat."  It just happened to be by us.  He accepted my gift gratefully.  Our last moments were in the terminal in Detroit praying together. He would be boarding for Iowa shortly and we for New York.  That was the last time we saw him. 

There's a bit more to this story.  I emailed the author and shared the story of how God had used his words to bring a few strangers together on that flight out of Los Angeles.  And then I ended with this:  "I know this whole episode encouraged John at a crucial time in his life, but it also did something in me.  We've pastored and done missionary work for over 40 years.  But I needed something fresh, and those moments on that plane revived my spirit in a way that I can not explain.  Thank you."  A few days later, I received a reply, and this is what he wrote.  A big smile on my face right now. And God does it again! Thanks SO MUCH for sharing this.  Love it when the Lord sets up these divine appointments--never gets old does it?   Mark 

No, it never does.  

Finding Christmas

Cody and Kayla (aka Mary and Joseph)

"Marcy, it's Melody.  I've got a couple here with a dog in my car.  They got a flat and couldn't find a tire.  They have nowhere to go.  I don't know what to do."  I looked over at my husband.  He'd been working most of the day on his message for Sunday and had just settled onto the couch to watch some television before turning in for the night.  "Let me talk to Larry," I told her.  "I'll call you right back."  He looked at me warily, already sensing that his relaxing evening was about to be hijacked.   I repeated what she had told me and then handed him my phone. "You need to call her and talk to her," I said.   "They can't stay in their car. We've got to figure something out."   For being so early in December,  it had been uncommonly bitter cold that day.   He reluctantly made the call.

Newly married and recently discharged from the army, Cody with his new bride Kayla had traveled from Kentucky to New Jersey and then on to New England, believing that family would welcome them as they put down roots and settled back into civilian life.  But it didn't take long to realize that neither family was anxious to embrace and bring them in for the long term.  An invite from another family member in Arizona was their only other option.

That's where they were heading when the tire blew passing through Big Flats, the shopping mecca that everybody from three counties shops at around here.  Cody made a call and had his vehicle towed to the Super Walmart, not far from where the blowout occurred. Surely they of all places would have a replacement.  But they didn't.  For the next several hours, in between calling every tire place he could find listed,  he spoke to person after person as they emerged from the store, asking if they knew where he and his wife might find a place to stay the night. But no one offered them any help.   They were desperate, low on cash and a hotel was simply too expensive.  He would later say that he had approached no fewer than 30 people on that frigid Friday afternoon. When he could, he'd crawl into the back seat and share the one blanket with his bride and her dog Tobi, occasionally starting up the engine just enough to ward off some of the cold. Evening was approaching, the sun had set and the temperature was dropping even more.

And then he saw Melody.  He approached her, and when asked if she might know of somewhere that he and his wife and their dog might stay, this one didn't brush him off.  She peered into the back seat of his car and saw a girl with her hands raised,  crying out as if in prayer, pleading for help.  And she knew that this was no accident.  This was a divine appointment.

Cody and Kayla would be with us for the next three days.  We knew as soon as they walked through our door that they were to stay with us.  After dozens of calls, Melody eventually tracked down a place that could order that specific tire. But it wouldn't be in until Monday. So we gave them the spare bedroom and Melody took the dog to her house.

From the moment we met,  I knew God had a special plan in mind, and He was using us, starting with Melody, to work it out.  From the warm coats supplied through the church's clothes closet, the hundred-dollar gift card won at a special event the next afternoon and the cash pressed into their hands on Sunday morning from members of the church, they knew that they had not been forgotten.  That same morning, they read aloud for the second week of Advent, then lit the wreath and the appropriate candles.  Hope came first. Love followed. Cody was dressed in a three-piece suit that morning with a matching tie.  It was on a rack in the clothes closet.  There just for him. 

We saw them off on Monday afternoon.  The new tire was on and the gas tank filled, both early Christmas presents I guess you could say.  Tobi the dog had been reunited with his people, and all seemed right once again.  I don't think either of us could have spoken as the car turned the corner, away from us.  We had them for just three days, but we had loved them from the very first moment they walked through our door.       
Larry still calls them his Mary and Joseph, in part because they were far from home and had no place to stay.  But it was more than that.  We needed to be reminded that in the midst of our preoccupation with all the preparations and busyness of the season, we were missing it.  And they brought it back to us.  They brought us Christmas.  They needed us.  But more than anything, we needed them.       

Kayla reunited with Tobi

The Visitor

It was August 4, 2014.  It had been confirmed a week earlier that what Fawn had suspected was true, she was pregnant.  She was on vacation at the beach in Panama City, loving every moment, exhilarated at the news, having a blast.  She even had a t-shirt airbrushed with the words Big Brother for two-year-old Valor.

And yet something didn't feel quite right. She felt especially hot during that week and wore out easily, but that was certainly to be expected in August on a beach in Florida in the first trimester of a pregnancy. But that night she knew.  She was going to lose this baby. Her heart broken, she would later write these words: "How could I already love someone this much?  A little ball of cells?  And it hit me...this little one already had a soul."

A baby one month in her womb and she already felt a deep connection to this living being that had been held so closely to her heart over the past week.  And so she grieved, crying out to God as she lay there on her bed, pleading with Him to let her know that He cared.  "Jesus," she prayed, "You can come take this sweet baby if it needs to go home with you, but one thing I'm asking you is to let me feel your presence.  I need to hear you, feel you, see you...something. "

Sometime during the very early morning hours as she drifted in and out of sleep she felt something sit down beside her, the bed caving in slightly.  Still in and out of sleep, as if in a dream, she felt something lay over her. Warmth went through her, then arms wrapped themselves around her neck, hugging her for what seemed like several seconds. Then slowly rising, it brushed over her stomach and was gone.

"I started dreaming that mom was here with me" she writes, "And I called to her and asked, 'Mom, were you just in my room?'  And I told her what had happened and I said, "Do you think I should be afraid?" And she said, 'No Fawn, that was Jesus.  He came to visit you.'"  When she opened her eyes that morning, she knew that her baby was gone.

Still overwhelmed by the encounter, in tears she concluded with this: "I want another baby and I believe God will bring one in His time.  I will trust and wait.  Until then, I will heal and be grateful forever that my Jesus answered my prayer and came to me.  He feels like warmth, peace and perfect, pure love.  His embrace can't be described.  Had this not happened, I wouldn't have had this personal encounter with my Jesus.  So while hurting, I am also in complete awe....I know because I can still feel it, that it was as real as can be.  My Jesus loves me, and you and all of us.  No matter what we are going through, he loves us and is always there."

A year later Fawn would hold a baby girl in her arms.  She would call her Violet, a name she had loved and picked out for her daughter many years earlier.  A perfect fit to her name, she is full of color and life and is a reminder that God makes all things right and beautiful in his time. In the meantime, there is another child that Fawn has not forgotten.  Though she never got to hold that one in her arms, she believes that Jesus did, the night He carried her little one home. 

Violet-- full of life and in purple 

The Woodfin Family

Going Home (A Memorial Day Tribute)

Twenty years ago I flew from Alabama to New York to spend a week with my father.  I had made the trip with a specific objective, to find out more about his years in the 82nd Airborne during World War II, specifically the 325th Glider Regiment.  The time was rich, sitting at the kitchen table, recording his voice, reading old letters and looking at pictures mounted on the worn, black pages of an old photo album.  He pointed at an empty space on one of the pages, the corner mounts still intact. He told me the name of the soldier whose picture had occupied that spot at one time and continued, "He was captured in the Bulge on Christmas Eve and died in a prisoner-of-war camp.  His parents contacted the captain while we were in Berlin and I gave him this one." I wondered how many others were there that he knew that never made it home. 
      
There sits on our of our bookshelves a long, framed picture of a few hundred soldiers taken on October 31, 1942 at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.  It was taken a month or so after my father had arrived to begin his training. Less than a year later they would be in Europe, combat-ready.  Normandy came first.  One day I asked him to point out to me where he was in that photo, so hard to pick out in that sea of men, all in uniform.  As he pointed to a much younger version of himself, he said,  "Many of them didn't come home." He was quiet after that.   

This picture was taken at Fort Bragg on October 31, 1942    

                                                 
Recently someone asked me if I knew where my father was in that photo.  It had been such a long time since I had looked that I had to admit I no longer remembered where he stood. But this week as Memorial Day approached, I thought of him and determined that I would search the photo and find him again.  Two days ago I ran my finger over each face, row by row, looking into the eyes of every man,  peering out from that place and time 75 years ago. I wondered if they had any thought that day of what was ahead for them, about the possibility of not getting home after the war was over.  As for my father, I found him towards the last, I mostly recognized him by his eyes.  I  was grateful that he'd made it home.  

My father standing in the third row, second from the right 

In one of his last letters, written just a couple of months before returning to the States, he penned the following: "I will get home.  Some never will.  But they're not forgotten, at least by the boys that were there with them."  We can't, we mustn't forget them either.  I owe it to my dad.  We owe it to them.  Every last one.   

  

Ron's Legacy (A Tribute)

I recently attended the memorial service of an extraordinary man.  His name would be unfamiliar to most, he certainly wasn't famous by the world's standards.  But for over two hours I sat in a packed sanctuary filled with a few hundred people and listened to the personal stories of some of those he had impacted over the span of his life. The officiating pastor didn't preach, but I heard the most eloquent sermon spoken that day through the example of a life well lived.  It left me challenged, changed.   

Ron, the subject of this piece, lived out the greatest of the commandments.  The priority of his life  was to love the Lord his God completely with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind and all his strength.  The second greatest commandment, to love his neighbor as much as he loved himself, was for him a natural response that came out of the first.  He couldn't help himself.   

When one loves, one serves,  and over the years that's exactly what he did.  He became the coach of the church's Bible Quiz Team, even taking the young people on more than one occasion to Nationals.  Ben, one of his former quizzers, shared about the influence Ron had on him and so many others, spending hours studying God's Word with them while getting ready to compete.  I suspect, however, that beating out the opponents was not the primary reason he took on the role of coach. He was investing in something much greater,  young people building strong foundations on God's Word.  Ben's family sat across the aisle from me, his wife holding a baby with three or four other children sitting on either side of her.  The investment made into the life of Ben and others like him wasn't over when Ron's heart stopped beating.  It will continue on with the generations to come.  

What man in his retirement years wants to hang with twenty somethings on a Friday night?  Turns out that Ron did.  He and his wife were regular attendees at The Happenin',  a ministry for the young adult community in the area. From what I heard, his presence had quite an effect on that age group as well.  But it didn't stop there.  When asked if anyone else had something they'd like to say, a little girl took the microphone and talked about how special he was to her too.  It didn't seem to matter who they were, Ron found ways to connect with every one of them.               

Glenn was one of the last to speak.  He deals in cattle and shared a conversation from 25 years ago.  Ron gave him a call and told him that he was going to sell his cows.  He had left teaching several years earlier, moved to Pennsylvania with his family,  renovated an old farm house, purchased some land, built a barn and took up dairy farming.  But as much as he had enjoyed this season of his life, the thought of investing in something even greater pulled at him.  When explaining his decision to let the cows go, he told Glenn that there was already more than enough milk being produced. "I want to do something that's needed," he said.

Zambia might seem a far cry from rural Pennsylvania. And yet maybe not so much.  It obviously fit him well, for he and his family would serve the people there for the next 10 years.  With his farming experience he worked in mobilizing the people to better their lives by drawing upon the resources they already had on hand.  Working right along side the villagers, using the most basic of tools and materials,  he taught them among other things how to build dams and dig wells, giving them and the generations to come a better quality of life.

This man's life reminds me a bit of what the Apostle Paul wrote in one of his letters.  He had become a servant to all, entering their different worlds so that they might come to know Jesus. Ron was many things: a teacher, a farmer, a planter, a builder, a mentor and a friend to so many.  But mostly he was a servant, the motivation of his life never changing, always driven by the love placed in his heart by the Father.  His son-in-law, a Zambian, gave tribute to his father-in-law with the words of a fellow African.   "When I am with Ron," he said, "I forget that he is white."

There were no signs, no warnings Ron Herr was about to pass from this life to the next on the day his heart stopped beating.  Upon hearing the news everyone was stunned, there'd been no indication of anything. In fact, I think it was his daughter Tandi who said her dad was probably as surprised as everyone else. But I know as his spirit broke free he had no regrets.  He was ready, having invested heavily in what he couldn't see but believed to be true with his whole heart.  And he did that through the gift that he gave of so freely while he was here.  It was love, pure and simple.        

Light in the Village

It was late evening when the knock came at the door of the mission house.  A couple of the firemen whose station was just on the other side of the wall from where we lived stood there.   A woman who lived in a village some distance from the city needed a ride home and the ambulance was down.  They wondered if  Larry would be willing to drive her there in our van.  We had always been discouraged from driving outside the city after dark.  Unseen objects in the road were known to cause serious accidents, and cows and other livestock, often seen meandering across the highways during the day, were virtually impossible to see at night.  But the firemen spoke somberly explaining the circumstances and why it was necessary to make the trip immediately.  A few minutes later I heard the gate open and the sound of our vehicle backing out onto the street.   

This was the second trip the young mother had made to the Hospital Atlantida in the last few days. Her young daughter had become very sick and she had traveled to La Ceiba seeking help.  But for whatever reason the little girl had been sent home and her condition had worsened. Once again the woman returned to the hospital with the child, but she had come too late.  The little girl died after being admitted, and it was imperative that the two be returned to their village as soon as possible.

Kneeling on the floor of the van, the grieving mother wailed the entire drive back to her village.  Her three-year-old daughter lay behind her wrapped in the heavy, butcher-like paper that was used in the hospital morgue.  That's where Larry found her, sitting there alone beside the body of her little girl.

When Larry turned off the highway, she rose as he approached the first house. Those within heard the sound of the approaching vehicle and immediately exited and descended upon the young woman as she fell into their arms.  They would have had no way of knowing what the outcome of the second trip back to the hospital would be, but there was no question now.  Immediately the word spread and amidst the cries and sobs of family and friends, preparations were already being made.  Tomorrow the little girl would be laid to rest.

The family was poor, their house small.  But at the end of a long path was a much larger house, big enough to accommodate the village for such an occasion as this.  Within a matter of minutes word came back that they were ready and waiting to lay out the body of the child for the wake.  

Somehow Larry was the one who ended up leading the procession that night.   He would later recount that he couldn't ever remember being in a darker place.  There were no streetlights or warm welcoming porch lights to make the journey down that unfamiliar path any easier, and he was concerned that he not veer off that winding track or lose his footing.  In his arms he held the little girl who not too many hours earlier had been warm with life, reminding him of our youngest daughter back home, not all that much older than the child he now carried. 

And then he saw the light, an oil lamp that had been set out in the distance at the far end of the path.  Relieved and grateful, he shifted his gaze from the unfamiliar surroundings and focused solely on that beacon that lay ahead, drawing him and those who followed from behind.  The way didn't seem quite so dark now, that one lamp penetrating the blackness of the night just enough to keep him and the others from stumbling on the way to their destination.

The house sat expectantly as Larry carried the child through the door and laid her down.  There were others who would take over now, his part in all of this was finished.  He headed back up the trail towards the van, his arms empty, the light now at his back.  Morning would break soon enough and the oil lamp would be snuffed out until night descended once again.

I imagine Larry drove home on that black highway with the beams turned up high.  It was after all a very dark night.  But inside there was light, and it had been present all along.  It was visible when those firemen came to the door of the mission house and at the moment a grieving mother was rescued from that morgue and reunited with her family.  And the light was there when a stranger carried her child through the shadows along that uneven path.  Even before the oil lamp was lit, light had come to that village.


"You are the light of the world.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl.  Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."  Matthew 5:14-16 

   

Soaring at Harris Hill

The Entrance to the top of Harris Hill

I hadn't really thought much about taking a ride in a glider until last year right around my birthday.  Larry pastors just 15 minutes or so from Harris Hill which carries the honor and distinction of being the Soaring Capital of America.  From April through October one can see sailplanes soaring high above Big Flats, a river valley aptly named because of the large expanse of flatland that sits amidst the hills of the Southern Tier.  We have visited Harris Hill several times, sometimes sharing a bench at the overlook that gives way to a splendid view of the valley below.  As beautiful as the setting is, however, the best part is catching it when the sailplanes are flying, coming off the cliff to our backs and returning by the same way, their white wings splendid against the blue sky.  

One of the sailplanes of Harris Hill  

I've always been intrigued with gliders.  My dad was part of the 82nd's Glider Infantry in World War II.  He would say very little about his experiences when I was growing up, but I knew enough to know that he'd flown over enemy lines more than once during his time in Europe.  It wasn't until I was grown and married that he began to open up and talk about those harrowing flights into Normandy and Holland.  The thought of a glider large enough to hold more than a dozen men, all their weaponry and a jeep piqued my interest all the more.  The day would come when I would visit the D-Day Museum in New Orleans and see one for myself.

The National Soaring Museum is also there on top of Harris Hill, an aviation museum devoted exclusively to the history of  gliders.   It carries a number of the craft,  the largest being the Waco glider, the kind that carried my father into enemy territory.   My sisters tell me that he had visited the museum on Harris Hill at some point.  I wonder how he felt when he entered the fuselage and sat on one of the benches.  Did it bring him back to that day in June of 1944 when as a 21 year old he flew over the English Channel into Normandy?  Or did it bring to mind that three-hour flight over the channel into Holland, the heat inside the canvas cavern making him sick to his stomach and hearing the pop, pop, pop of the flak as it hit the fabric.  I wonder.      

The Waco combat glider of WWII  

I'm not sure exactly when I made the decision to take the ride.  I just know that one day not too long ago I knew that it was time.  In part it was for me, a longing to experience those quiet, still moments below the clouds and above the hills, being carried by the wind.  But it was also in part for my dad, to honor him and to let him know, even though he's no longer here, that I haven't forgotten.  I couldn't think of a better place to do that than at Harris Hill. 

So last Saturday afternoon I boarded a Schleicher ASK-21 sailplane.  I'd been surprised with a gift certificate for my birthday just two days earlier, and even though it's good for two years, I wasn't putting this off.  I'd been planning on this for a year and I was going up.  Andy, my pilot, had me climb into the front of the two-seater,  insisting that I'd not miss anything from that vantage point, and after explaining a bit of what to expect, the tow plane revved up.  "We were off!"

The tow plane pulling us

I can't adequately put into words how I felt at the moment the glider lifted off from that cliff.  I immediately felt buoyant, and even with the tow plane pulling us for several minutes, the sensation was different from anything I've ever experienced in an airplane, even in the smaller ones that we used to fly to the islands.  The view was extraordinary, my favorite autumn colors showing off as usual.  I felt elation and with that came joy.  It was something I had wanted to do and I did it.  And then it was over, too soon.  There was so much to see and I couldn't take it all in.  Perhaps I'll do it again someday.       

Afterwards we went through the museum and spent several minutes at the Waco combat glider from the war.  We climbed in and sat on the benches and thought as best we could what it must have been like to be a young soldier riding in that thing, knowing that there was about a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the trip. My dad told me once they were dubbed flying coffins and unlike what I had flown earlier that day, unbelievably noisy.  With no insulation the sounds of the elements, the roar of the tow plane's engines and the rat-a-tat of enemy fire did not make for a pleasant flight, so unlike what I had experienced on that sleek, beautiful bird-like craft just an hour earlier. 

Larry standing outside the Waco

We left the museum and then parked at the foot of the drive leading up to the field and stood for a few minutes at the overlook, gazing down into the valley below. Beautiful. Early October in New York is magnificent, my favorite time of the year here.  As lovely as it was, however, I didn't feel quite the same as I would have if I had taken in the view from that spot just a few hours earlier.  I was now spoiled.  I had seen it from a much higher place, giving me a tiny glimpse of how the Creator might just see all of this.  It changed me a bit, grew me some too. Soaring will do that.                                          

     

Standing outside the glider with Larry after my ride

Broken Voices (Living with Spasmodic Dysphonia)

It was an early Saturday morning in late March of 2008 that Larry and I traveled from our home in Liberty, South Carolina and headed up to Charlotte, North Carolina, just a couple hours to the north of us.  I would be attending a symposium with a hundred or so others who had come from all over the country.  As I entered the hotel lobby later that morning I immediately noticed how diverse our group was.  It seemed pretty evenly divided between men and women, but our ages seemed to span a good fifty years between the youngest to the oldest.   And as for a dress code, there didn't seem to be one. Some wore jeans and t-shirts while others opted to dress up for the occasion.  So at first glance it didn't seem like we'd have all that much in common. That is,  until we began to talk.     

A couple years earlier I had noticed something weird going on with my voice.  Right after Christmas I had what I thought was a simple case of laryngitis, possibly brought on by allergies.  Several weeks later, however, the laryngitis had developed into a persistent rasp.  I scheduled a long overdue physical which revealed absolutely nothing.  That doctor referred me to an unimpressive throat specialist who checked for nodules, found nothing, gave me some pills to try and sent me on my way.  The problem progressed.  It was harder to get words out now, as if a fist had clamped itself around my throat.  I was still teaching music and directing our church's worship and drama ministries, but I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up.  I pleaded with God to give me a name to this thing that was disrupting my life.  

One afternoon, frustrated and desperate, I sat at the computer and went on a Google search.  I typed in everything I could think of related to the throat, looking for any clue that might solve the mystery behind my troubled voice.  Then suddenly, there on the monitor, was a list of symptoms that described perfectly what I had been experiencing over the past several months.  And it had a name. 

It's called Spasmodic Dysphonia.  My brain was sending the wrong signals to the muscles controlling my vocal cords, therefore making it difficult to speak.  Initially I felt relief. At least I now knew what I was fighting and was ready to do whatever was necessary to get my voice back.  I couldn't wait to be free from the vice-like grip that had taken hold of my voice box.  

I opted for what I thought to be the most reliable treatment available, Botox injections every few months into those out-of-control muscles to calm them down.  And they worked for awhile.  Well, sometimes.  I had good weeks, bad weeks, good days, bad days.  During the good times I was grateful that it was possible to talk without getting tired or feeling socially awkward.  I cherished those days when I could call my family or make an appointment over the phone. But there were also those times when it was easier to avoid people, hoping and praying that I wouldn't have to talk to anyone, uncomfortable at the curious looks.  At those times my voice felt like it was in a prison.  

When I traveled to North Carolina that morning my voice was doing quite well.  I was having pretty good results with my new doctor in Atlanta, in fact my speaking voice was the strongest it had been since all this had started.  But I was well aware that this was temporary.  My vocal cords would start doing their own thing again and that's why I needed to be here, to meet and learn from others who had been through this.  

As I approached the registration table, there was a cacophony of voices like I'd never heard before.  Some seemed close to normal, possibly benefiting from injections or some other procedure.  But others sounded strangled, struggling to be understood or even heard, some of them much worse off than I had ever been.  The lobby seemed like a tiny universe with its own peculiar inhabitants speaking an odd language.  Except that I was a part of this little microcosm and immediately felt a connection with these people.  Though they were strangers to me, we shared something in common. We all had broken voices.   

Before the day was over I would hear story after story of people whose lives had been interrupted just as mine had been.  There was Leta.  I had met her once before in my doctor's office in Atlanta.  Tall and striking, she had a very successful career in sales before her voice broke.  Warm and vivacious with a vibrant faith, she talked about the challenges she faced daily in her line of work.  There was the young missionary wife who had plans to go to Russia with her husband before their mission board advised them to consider another field where the people wouldn't be expecting physical perfection.  I still hear the frustration expressed by the recently diagnosed police captain who feared that his newly broken voice would be interpreted as weakness and cause a loss of respect among those under his charge.   

But all those I met were fighters.  Like the pastor who continued to preach each week by whispering his messages into a microphone and the nationally syndicated radio host who with treatments was able to continue on with her career and the teacher who showed up everyday in her classroom with an amplification device to be better heard and understood by her students. 

When we climbed back into our car that evening for the ride home I knew that God had prearranged this day for me.  During one of the sessions I had asked the question that had been most on my mind.  I had been grieving my loss for awhile and wanted to know, needed to know,  if things would ever feel normal again. Several in that room immediately rose to tell their stories, some of whom had lived with broken voices for a long time.  Unequivocally the message was the same.  Things will get better.  And I would make it.   

Things did get better.  I still faced challenges, of course, and at times became discouraged.  One of my next treatments didn't work, and because of insurance issues, I went well over a year unable to get any financial help.  But I was now better able to handle the setbacks and disappointments in part through the examples of those whose resilience and courage had so inspired me.  Their voices might have been broken, but their spirits were not.  They were the ones who said I would make it.  They'd be pleased to know they were right.  

Rex's Journey

Larry and me with Rex a year ago 

My brother Rex turns 65 today.  Five years ago on his 60th we traveled to Olean and helped celebrate that milestone in a pavilion at the same park where we both learned to swim when we were kids.  My mom would have us walk up to the fire hall during the early mornings of summer, and from there we were bussed to the Olean pool just a few miles away.  I don't remember how many summers we took swimming lessons there, but we both became pretty good in the water.  That pool was eventually torn down and replaced with another.  I read that the rec center where the newer pool sits had to be closed this past summer for an overhaul. Just a reminder that time takes a toll on things.

Time has taken a toll on my brother as well.  Diagnosed with Parkinson's a little over 10 years ago, the disease has little by little worn my very active brother down. As time passed, leaving for work extra early in the morning and staying late wasn't enough.  His body was simply refusing to cooperate and he couldn't keep up on the workload.  So three years ago he did what he had tried with all his strength not to do.  He resigned his position and applied for early retirement.

The first year wasn't too bad.  He was still relatively active and able to climb the stairs to his room and shower on his own in the upstairs bathroom. But life is unpredictable and many times cruel.  A stroke right before Easter in the early spring punched him in the gut and knocked him to the ground. They called it a minor stroke, but coupled with the Parkinson's, it drastically changed his life.  A few weeks in a nursing home, trying to get his strength back, was probably the low point for him.  He was eventually released to return home, but life was not the same. The upstairs bedroom had been replaced with a hospital bed off the dining room and the shower was used only on the days when he was strong enough to climb the steps with help.

But neither has life been all bad.  In adversity, good things can happen as well.  A well-timed gift can come out of nowhere.  A long-time St. Bonaventure basketball fan, the university called, offered him season passes and a spot just beyond the court for his wheelchair with a good view so he wouldn't miss a thing.  For years he has been known as the Flag Man, cheering on the international students by waving their flags when they were on the court. The school now in turn expressed their appreciation for what he had meant to them, and they wanted him there. As far as I know, he made all the games, even when he didn't think he could.    

An article on "Flag Man" Rex Marvin,  from the Olean Times Herald in 2007

The two of us didn't always get along growing up.  It had nothing to do with age, we're only eleven and a half months apart.  But our interests and temperaments are pretty different.  Music was my thing, but he'd complain when I'd break out into song on a car trip which I did a lot.  I was the oldest and thus the responsible child and perhaps a bit bossy. He had more of a tendency to get into trouble, like almost burning the garage down when we were kids.  He liked matches and fireworks almost as much as I liked to sing.  But as time passed and we both began to grow beyond ourselves, I began to really like this brother who loved loud noises and Yankees baseball and amusement parks.         

One year minus 13 days between us 

Whereas time wears away at these bodies, it can do the very opposite within the spirit of a person. Perhaps it's more the awareness of the fragility of life as we age, or as we see those that we care about slowly fading before our eyes, that we finally get it.  For me, it was also the example of my sister, a schoolteacher with time off in the summer, who drove up from Maryland and spent two weeks spending time with, caring for and serving her brother during an especially difficult time.  He ended up being admitted to the hospital. 

A couple of days later we were sitting in his room with him. He was frustrated, close to tears, wondering what had caused this sudden spiral downwards, leaving him unable to do anything at all for himself. Just a few days earlier he had been on an upswing, even feeding himself without the uncontrollable shaking that comes with the disease. And now he couldn't even hold a simple utensil that lay beside the supper that sat on his hospital tray.  With that I picked up the silverware and began to feed him, one spoonful at a time, while with each bite I talked to him and encouraged him to continue on the best he could in this journey called Parkinson's.  And when he was finished I held him and prayed over him as he wept on my shoulder.

I hear that Rex is on the upswing once again.  He's getting around better, is feeding himself again, sleeping better and feeling more positive about things.  I'm glad the road's a bit smoother for him right now.  It's a nice place to be and I hope he's there for a long while.  Happy Birthday Rex. Continue on with your journey.  You're doing just fine.  
         

Rex's birthday present--He can get upstairs on his own!