The Parable of the Half-Baked Potato

Lessons Daddy Taught Me

In January of this year, the call came that we were both hoping for and dreading.  CM Tucker Veterans Home in Columbia had a room for Daddy.  For many years, Daddy had lived in the presence of Parkinson’s Disease – during those years he worked in maintenance at Peachtree Center, he went camping with my mom and other family and friends, attended countless family celebrations and generally lived a full and happy life.  However, as time passed and the disease progressed, Daddy began to lose his ability to care for himself and do all the things that those of us who are healthy so often take for granted.  By January of this year, Mother was having to care for his every need, and we found ourselves making the difficult decision to move him to “Tuckertown” as he called it.  As Daddy has traveled this difficult road, through his words, actions, and stories he has taught us all some important life lessons.

First, Daddy has taught us to be wise in choosing our life’s partner.  One reason moving to the Tucker Center was difficult for Daddy was that Mother took such good care of him.  She helped him dress, shaved him, managed his medicines, took him out to eat, fixed his favorite foods, drove him to the rook room, carried him to Tribe Talk Live, made sure he had his cheese crackers at bedtime, and a thousand other things that made his life full and happy.  She took the “in sickness and in health” part of her vows seriously and worked very hard to make his life happy and full.

Second, I learned never give up on your dreams.  In these last months, Daddy’s dreams were very simple.  He wanted to be at home with my mother.  When he first arrived at Tucker, he was fully aware of where he was and made no bones about wanting to go home.  In fact, one evening Dee and I brought him shrimp for dinner.  He refused to eat it, saying he would take it home with him and eat it there.  Then he looked at me and said, “Get me out of here now!”  Explaining to him that we couldn’t do that just didn’t go over with him.  As he held his cup of water in his hand, he asked me, “Are you going to take me home?”  When I tried once again to explain that it wasn’t an option, he threw his whole cup of ice water on me.  Man, he had good aim, even sitting in his wheelchair.  We cleaned up the water as best we could, and as I sat there shivering in my wet britches, Daddy decided he had made his point and ate every one of the 12 shrimp we had brought him.  However, he never quit wanting to go back home and eventually began to believe that he was home.  One day when I was pushing him in his wheelchair down the hall at the Tucker Center, he looked around him and said, “You know Linda.  Your mother and I don’t need this much room.  I think she and I should give this house to the church and build ourselves something smaller.”  Many times, when he was talking to my mother on the phone, after a short conversation he would tell her he needed to go to work but that he would be home in a few hours.  He often called his caregivers Ann and would get upset if one of them didn’t answer to her name.  Bless their hearts, they played the role of my mother quite often because it made Daddy happy.

Daddy taught me that there is always time for a good story.  Daddy was a storyteller all of his life and that didn’t change when he got to the Tucker Center.  He entertained all his visitors and his caregivers with stories about his life.  Some of the stories were true, like the time he and mother were on the pontoon when the water got rough and a bucket of worms flew up in the air and dumped all over my mother, even going in her mouth.  Other stories were creations of his vivid imagination, but he believed they were true and they made him happy.  While Daddy was living at the Tucker Center, he built multiple houses on the lake, bought and sold property which made him a fortune, rode in a helicopter and threw money down to my mother, bought and sold several trucks, and worked in maintenance at Tucker.  He often complained that they didn’t pay him and he was going to retire.  When he got too upset about not being paid, his nurses would write him a “check” for his work that he would carry around in his pocket.  One of my favorite stories Daddy told was about his purchase of a motorcycle.  We were sitting in the dining hall while he ate his lunch one day and he told me that he had bought a motorcycle.  We talked about what kind it was and how much he paid for it.  After a while, he got a big grin on his face and said, “I gave the motorcycle to Zach.”  I asked him if Tommy and Genene knew about that and he said “no.”  Later that afternoon, we were sitting out on the front porch of Tucker when a motorcycle roared by on the street below.  Daddy looked at me, grinned, and said, “There goes Zach.”

Perhaps the most important lesson that my daddy taught me through these last few months is that true love never fails.  Your body can fail you, your mind can fail you, but the love you have for others remains strong.  It may exhibit itself in unusual ways, but it is love still the same.  My husband, Dee, arrived at Tucker one afternoon to visit my daddy and found him tenderly cradling a sock in his arms.  Daddy was obviously upset and when Dee asked what was wrong Daddy said, “My cat has died and I need someone to bury it.”  He thought the sock was his cat, Lillie Belle.  Daddy often talked about his babies (his dog Daisy Mae and cat Lillie Belle), and worried about them being taken care of.  He also kept each of his children on his mind.  One of his nurses,

Jennifer Evans, became my sister, Debbie, in his mind, and Daddy would often tell me, “I just talked to your sister a minute ago.”  One day we were visiting and Daddy couldn’t wait to tell me about my sister, Cathy, running in a foot race.  Apparently, Cathy was running against an Olympic champion and was 12 laps behind her when the last lap began.  Then Daddy grinned and said, “Darn if Cathy didn’t catch that woman and win the race.”  He was so proud.  When Daddy had a problem that needed to be solved, he had me call Buddy.  One day, he told me his truck had broken down, and he was worried someone would tow it away.  I told him that I would call Buddy and ask him to take care of it for him.  That didn’t satisfy Daddy.  “Call him right now.”  So, I did and, fortunately, Buddy was on his way home from work and answered.  I explained about Daddy’s truck and Buddy talked to Daddy and told him that he had put it in his garage and would take care of it until Daddy could come get it.  Tommy, he talked about you a lot.  Sometimes he was worried about you – he thought you were sick and I had to do some quick talking to convince him you were fine.  Other times, he would tell me about a job you had keeping books for a pharmacy and how he was helping you run the numbers.  Even when we couldn’t be with him, we were always real in his heart and mind.  His love for us led him to create situations in which he could express that love.  His greatest love was my mama.  I don’t think I ever visited him that he didn’t talk about her.  Sometimes, he told me that he had just seen her;  she was working around the corner.  Although this comforted him, it became a problem when he wanted me to take him by her office to see her.  “Linda, her office is in this building.  Why can’t we go see her?”  So, I lied.  “Daddy, she had to go out for a while, she had a meeting, she’s off work now and gone home.”

Other times, he worried about her health.  He was convinced that she was addicted to drugs that she ordered from Mexico.  Most visits, we would call Mother so that Daddy could talk to her.  More than once, Dee and I would be sitting there listening to their conversation and Daddy would put his hand over the phone and whisper to us, “She’s drunk or she’s on pills right now.”  One day when they hung up from each other I called Debbie and asked her to assure Daddy that she would get mother into a rehab program and make sure she didn’t do any more drugs.  I couldn’t convince him she wasn’t doing what he believed she was doing.  As I’ve thought of his concerns, I’ve realized that he was doing everything in his power to take care of her.  His mind set up situations that needed solving and then he stepped in to help solve them.  Although Daddy often expressed concern for my mother and her addiction problems (for those of you who don’t know, Mother is not an addict), he also spent a great deal of time expressing his love for her.  One day on the phone, he told my mother that he had an idea.  He wanted them to renew their vows.  “What do you think about that Ann?”  Another day, he told her that he wanted to dance with her.  As he talked about wanting to hold her in his arms, I was putting my hands over my ears thinking, TMI Daddy – too much information.  One of the sweetest conversations I overheard them have was when they talked about how Daddy had always told her he loved her.  Mama reminded him that he would tell her, “I’ll love you forever” and Daddy finished it, “and one more day.”  That conversation occurred about a month ago, so even towards the end of his life, Daddy remembered who mattered most to him.

What I would say to you my family--mama, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren-Daddy loved you.  When life took away most everything else, it couldn’t take away his love.  Be proud.  Know who you are.  You are Basil Clary’s beloved family.

Pictures of Basil

This past January, when Basil moved from Gaffney to Columbia to the C.M. Tucker Center or “Tucker Town,” as he quickly named it, a large number of family members came with him to move him in and help him get settled.  His entourage filled three cars.  As we unpacked his Gamecock blanket, his supply of cough drops and cashews, his military police ball caps and his television, we saw a bulletin board on the wall across from the foot of his bed.  “We’ve got to fill this board with pictures,” we said.  “We can keep the faces of people who love him and snapshots of moments of joy in his room and, hopefully, in his heart.”  That two by three foot corkboard was soon filled to overflowing with photographs, cards, notes—pictures of life and love we hoped would make that strange new place feel more like home.  We realized that one of the best things we could do to help him through a tough time of change was to fill that room with pictures for Basil. 

About nine months later, we’ve gathered here because we’ve moved into a strange new place.  We’ve begun a new chapter of life without Basil in this world with us.  This isn’t a journey any of us wanted to make and it’s tough.  Averi, one of Basil’s great-granddaughters, put the challenge of this time into words so well through this letter she wrote for him after his death. 

Dear Granddaddy,

            I really miss you and was heartbroken when you passed. I think about Thanksgivings and Christmases without you there. I think about conversations in your living room and your chair being empty. No one will ever be able to replace the man who once sat in that now empty chair. But, I know that we didn’t show up to be sad. We showed up to celebrate what a truly great life you lived. I know you’re watching over all of us right now form heaven. I promise that our family will live life in a way that honors your name and the legacy you left behind.

            I really was lucky to have an amazing great grandfather like you. You always made me laugh, you always let me know how proud you were of me, and you always made me feel special and loved. But it wasn’t just my life you touched, I know that you touched the lives of every single person in this very room. I am eternally grateful for the years I had with you, and I will cherish the memories forever!

                                      Love you,

                                                         Averi

Since we find ourselves in our own kind of Tucker Town today, a place that in some ways feels far from home, we need to take hold of our opportunity to make it better, even make it beautiful.  Just as we filled room 402 of Patton Place with pictures for Basil, we need to fill our new place, our new chapter of life, with pictures of Basil. 

In one sense, this has already happened.  Over the past week, I’ve been the gathering place for cherished snapshots of Basil’s life.  The slide show some of you saw during the visitation includes about 200 pictures, each one evidence of a life well lived and beautiful memories made.  Every picture of Basil bears a testimony, “He blessed my life.” 

Each one of you has a unique set of pictures of Basil to keep and cherish, some in your photo album and the best ones, the most important ones in your heart.  Let me share of few of my own pictures of Basil as I remember and give thanks for one of the most important men in my life’s journey.  The first I would call…

Welcome to Gaffney

Linda and I had been dating a few months when I made my first trip to Gaffney to meet the family.  Everyone was intrigued and a bit anxious about this psychology student preparing for the ministry.  Debbie asked Linda if I’d call on her to pray. 

Mammy set me straight for being late.  But at the dinner table, the first time I’d eaten with Basil and Ann, our relationship got off to a great start.  Basil, testing the waters of sarcastic humor with me, told Linda, “Pass the tea pitcher to me before Dee drinks it all.”  I intercepted the pitcher and, while Basil looked on, poured every last drop of tea into my glass.  He didn’t throw me out, though he probably should have—many times.  But that evening was my first experience of one of Basil’s gifts.  He treated me like family.  I believe I can speak for all the in-laws who’ve married into the Clary clan that Basil embraced you, right from the start, as one of his own.  Only two years after I met Basil, my own father suddenly passed away.  The faithful family love of a man I admired has been a star in my sky for which I’m very thankful today.   

That dinner scene stirs in my heart another picture of Basil at…

The Head of the Table

Basil, like many fathers of his generation, had his place to sit at the table.  The rest of the family took its place around him.  That was true in ways much more important than the seating arrangement.  For a long time, I didn’t know that the Clarys were a blended family.  I knew they were mixed up, but not blended.  I didn’t know it because you couldn’t see it.  Basil loved all his children fully and deeply.  He was “daddy” to you all.  And that flowed out of the love he had for Ann, a love story that took them through 58 years of marriage.  If you want to know what love is, I wish you could’ve followed my little mother-in-law around her house as she met Basil’s every need every day for years before his condition demanded other care.  During these past months at the Tucker Center, Basil would often say, “I love that little woman.”  And in the strength of the love they shared, the rest of us became a family.  

I have another picture of Basil as a…

Football Hero

Though Basil’s roots are in Gaffney, his family lived in St. George during his high school years.  During that time, Basil was a star, really the star of the high school football team and basketball team.  Being a small school with a short bench, Basil had to play both offense and defense.  He also kicked field goals and extra points, so he was involved in virtually every play of every game.  In one game, as he played quarterback, an opposing player delivered a dirty hit on Basil and knocked him out cold.  He lay motionless on the field, but Mammy was moving very briskly in the stands.  The legend goes that she had removed one of her shoes with a pointed heel on it and was on her way to the field to deliver righteous retribution on the player who hurt her boy.  Ike intervened and Basil was the only casualty of that play.  Basil played quarterback for St. George for three seasons and never threw a single interception.  He led his team to many victories.  He was quite a basketball player too.  When Linda and I lived in Henderson, NC, we had a backyard basketball goal.  During a visit, Basil came out in the yard to shoot a few.  A concrete well cap stood about twenty-five feet from the side of the goal.  Just to challenge himself, Basil stood atop that well cap and hit three shots in a row.  He decided the time had come to go indoors. 

Basil was always a gamer.  He knew how to figure out a strategy for winning anything he did.  Linda and I played Scrabble with him once.  She and I impressed ourselves with the big and strange words we formed.  Basil knew that Scrabble is about where you form a word more than the word itself.  He double lettered and triple worded us into the ground.  Then, to celebrate his victory, he asked Linda about her educational pedigree, then asked me the same question.  He ended his post-game interview by remarking, “I just beat two Furman graduates, one who’s about to get his master’s degree.  I think I did pretty well.”  

Late in his life, Basil loved to play Rook with a circle of dear friends not far from his home.  There was no gambling involved, other than Basil’s driving there and back, but once again, he knew how to play the game and win the game.  And he made it fun for everyone. 

Have you seen the picture of Basil in his uniform?  The story of his life includes a picture of his…

Military Days

Basil didn’t welcome the draft.  Mammy didn’t either.  The story goes that you could see her heel marks all the way from Gaffney to Ft. Jackson as she tried to hold on to him and keep him from going.  But he went and he served.  Basil was a military policeman who guarded some of our nation’s early nuclear weapons in Texas.  We honor him for giving some of the years of his youth to serve our nation.  Out of that experience, Basil was always a very patriotic American with a deep respect for all who serve. 

The next picture of Basil I want to mention illustrates some of the fun he brought into my life and many of yours.  I call it…

ESPN

I was visiting the Clary home.  Linda had gone somewhere, leaving me in the den with Basil.  Being a sports fan, he often watched ESPN in the early days when they featured a lot of kick boxing and Canadian football.  A kickboxing match was on TV.  The round ended and, as often happens at such events, a beautiful young woman who was not, shall we say, overdressed, stepped into the ring carrying a sign announcing Round 2 was about to begin.  Basil and I sat there in silence for a moment, the ministry student and the father of the young lady he was dating, when he said, “That stuff don’t bother us preachers, does it, Dee?”  I think I answered, “Doesn’t bother me a bit, Basil.” 

Basil could see and seize the humor in a situation, put it into words, and brighten the day of everyone around him.  But not even he knew what to say in the scene I’d call…

A Short Ride in the Truck

Our son, Josh, was a toddler in a car seat.  After we all met for a meal in Gaffney, Linda and her mom went shopping, leaving Basil and me with Josh and his car seat.  We made plans for several stops we would make, a guys’ afternoon out.  We walked out to Basil’s pickup truck in the restaurant parking lot to install Josh’s seat and get on our way.  That’s when we made a discovery.  Basil’s truck didn’t have a center-seat seatbelt.  The only place we could strap the car seat down was the passenger side of the truck.  The car seat wasn’t so tall that you could see it from outside the truck.  This left me only one place to sit—in the middle of the seat, right up next to Basil.  We wracked our brains for an alternative, but no good options emerged.  So, we all crawled in the truck.  Basil cranked it with me sitting closer to him than a teenage sweetheart, and said, softly, “Dee, why don’t we just go home.”  I quickly seconded the motion. 

Many of our heart pictures of Basil have him in the black and gold of his Gaffney Indians.  He was, without a doubt…

The Fan

Soon after I married into this family, I learned one of Basil’s preseason football rituals.  About August, he would say to me, “Dee, I don’t think we’re going to have much of a team this year.”  I’d answer, “Oh, that’s too bad.”  “Yes,” he’d continue, “we just don’t have much of an offensive line.  Those little boys don’t average but about 285 pounds.”  A grin would come across his face and I knew football season had begun. 

I tell people they haven’t seen real high school football until they go to a Gaffney Indians game.  And you haven’t experienced Indian football unless you saw a game with Basil.  Most of the games I attended with him were at the old Reservation.  He greeted people from the time he got out of his car, shaking hands on both sides of the aisle has we climbed the stadium to his reserved seats.  He knew everyone within ten seats of his.  And when his team took the field, they had his full and full-throated support.  In fact, one time, I’m told, Basil cheered so loudly and enthusiastically after a big play that his teeth flew out of his mouth and bounced off the back of the fan in front of him.  Basil’s smile would’ve been incomplete if he hadn’t intercepted his top plate before it fell to the ground.  That was the Allstate Good Hands play of the game.  Even when illness limited Basil’s mobility, the coaching staff reserved a special parking place for him so he could attend.  And he and Ann were Thursday night regulars for Tribe Talk Live at Chick-fil-A. 

I love the fan Basil was because he didn’t just cheer for his Indians (who gave Byrnes a whipping the night before Basil died, by the way).  Basil cheered for us.  He was our biggest fan.  He cheered for us in whatever we did.  We saw it, even in his days of illness at the Tucker Center.  Linda or I would say,“We’re leaving, but his grandson is coming by later.”  “Would that be the state champion wrestler grandson or the physical therapist grandson?”  Or Linda might comment “Daddy has to behave with a minister in the family.”  “Do you mean his son-in-law the minister or one of his grandsons-in-law who are ministers?”  Trust me—the Tucker Center staff and residents knew our family very well.  The Gaffney Indians never had a greater fan than Basil.  And neither did we. He’d ask us, I’m sure to keep cheering for each other.

Attending games with Basil brings another picture of him to mind.  Basil was a great…

Friend-Maker

I often joked that Basil would go to Walmart and come out with a new wrench and two new friends.  He had an uncanny gift for connecting to people.  He would find a way to start a conversation with anyone anywhere that would usually result in finding common ground and starting a friendship.  I’ve seen Basil make friends with millionaires and with the down and out.  He connected with people with whom he had much in common and people who were vastly different.  He saw every stranger as a friend he hadn’t yet met.  In this impersonal age with so many people living their lives through their smart phones, we need to walk in Basil’s footsteps and rediscover the gift that awaits us in every person God sends across our paths. 

I also have a picture of Basil…

In the Workshop

Basil was a gifted craftsman who built wooden furniture for his home and his family.  We cherish several things he built for us.  He and Ann were guilty of industrial espionage more than once as he would take his tape measure to a furniture store and, when no sales staff was looking, call out the dimensions for Ann to jot down.  Then he would hurry home and create a reproduction.  He shared his heart and his gifts through every one of those creations. 

Giving reminds me of Christmas and my heart picture of Basil as our family’s…

Father Christmas

Basil loved Christmas more than anyone I’ve ever known.  He loved to decorate, right down to spraying snow on the tree.  He loved the magic and mystery of waiting for Santa to come.  He loved the Clary rituals of him going to the tree before anyone else to see if Santa had come.  He loved opening his gifts, especially those he had left subtle hints about, like item and page numbers from catalogs.  Among these many Christmas memories, one stands out in my mind that revealed so much about Basil’s heart. 

We were gathered in the basement on S. Petty Street on Christmas morning.  The Wright girls were very young, but Basil had decided Jennifer was old enough to receive one of the new-fangled digital watches.  She opened her watch and was thrilled with it.  Happy Hallmark movie ending, right?  No.  Natalie saw Jennifer open her watch and came to Basil, lip trembling and big eyes pooling up with tears and asked, “Do you have a watch for me, Granddaddy?”  A look of horror flashed across his face.  He didn’t think Natalie was old enough to care about a watch.  He couldn’t stand the thought of her feeling left out.  So, in a moment of generous genius, he answered, “Of course I do.”  He took the watch off of his own wrist and gave it to her.  And we all saw granddaddy’s beautiful giving heart.  We gained yet another glimpse of what I think was the secret of Basil’s wonderful life, what made him so precious to so many.  Though he was a great athlete, a veteran, a hard worker, a big strapping man, Basil was always a….

Joyful Child

I believe one of the secrets of life is experiencing the joy of the journey.  Basil never lost the childlike gift of finding great joy in simple things. 

·        The taste of a Gaffney peach.

·        Teasing a grandchild.

·        Riding the sled down the driveway and the hill on a snowy day.

·        A game of cards with good friends.

·        Barbequed wienies in the crockpot at Christmas.

·        A weekend camping trip with Ann. 

·        Spoiling one of the little animals in his life.

·        Rolling down the car window as he returned to Cherokee County to breathe in some of the air that smelled so much better than the air anywhere else.

Basil rejoiced and was glad in each day the Lord made.  What a gift and example to us all. 

This journey began at the Tucker Center.  I want to take you back there for one last picture of Basil, one of him…

Surrounded by Love

When we learned that Basil’s body was wearing out and that his earthly life was coming to a close, his room at the Tucker Center became a sanctuary of love and gratitude.  Ann was at his side.  All the children spent time with their dad.  Brother and sisters came to him. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren looked at him, talked to him and held his hand.  Hymns were sung.  Prayers raised.  Stories told.  Laughter shared.  Tears shed.  Love expressed. 

That, my friends and family, is a picture of what a life well-lived is all about.  In those closing hours of life, Basil didn’t ask for his trophies or medals, none of the things we so feverishly pursue, but only to be surrounded by the people he’s loved into the fullness of life, people who tearfully gratefully saw him off on his final journey home. 

You and I are blessed.

We have these pictures of Basil to keep. 

We have this example to follow.

We have these gifts to share.  

The Worst Sermon Ever Heard

Anyone who’s tried to preach has had the experience of a message that went all wrong.  I’ve had a few.  I’ve read the wrong scripture.  I’ve suffered a few embarrassing slips of the tongue (don't ask).  I’ve told a story or two that seemed like a good idea in my head, but crashed and burned in the worship service (really don't ask). 

No one hits a home run every time in the pulpit, but I believe that the worst sermon ever heard comes from the pew (yours and mine) when we fail to take our place in God’s house on the Lord’s Day.  I know that life is complicated.  I know that our culture doesn’t care about Sunday worship and offers countless competing and conflicting events.  But think about what you are saying when your place in God’s house is empty: 

Forget the Sabbath!  I’ll keep it for myself.

I follow Jesus, but only part-time!

My children don’t need to learn about Jesus and His love for them. 

Many things in my life are just more important to me than God.

The church doesn’t need my help—they’re doing fine!

I have nothing to thank God for this Sunday. 

My teenager knows it all about friendship, dating, college life, and dealing with temptation. 

Lost people don’t need my example to lead them to the place where the gospel is preached and God’s love is shared. 

Jesus is the Lord of my life—when I have nothing else to do!

Pretty bad preaching, don’t you think?  We’re called to do better.  Make the message of your life a positive invitation to find life in Jesus Christ and live for Him. 

Sunday’s coming.  Good luck with your sermon.

The Right Place at the Right Time

With all of the conversation about the eclipse, the sun, moon and Earth lining up perfectly to create an awe-inspiring result, I've been thinking about how God works in our lives to line things up for amazing results.  Let me tell you about a time when God worked in my life in a way that still boggles my mind.  

I was a seminary student in Wake Forest, NC.  I had completed two years of my three year Master’s degree.  I was just a year away from graduation and, perhaps, gainful employment.  As my second year of studies was winding down, the time had come to sign up for fall classes.  That’s when something very strange happened.  I hit a wall.  I couldn’t bring myself to sign up for classes.  I enjoyed school and had usually done pretty well in my studies, but, for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I simply couldn’t sign up.  I decided that what I needed was some time to do ministry instead of studying ministry.  Guided by that thought, I applied to several hospitals that offered a residency in Clinical Pastoral Education.  I hoped I would be accepted, serve and learn for a year, then return to school and finish my course work.  After a few weeks, I was invited to interview for the chaplaincy program at Spartanburg Regional Medical Center.  My interview went pretty well, but the chaplains were curious as to why I wanted to do the program before finishing my seminary work.  I answered them as best I could, telling them I wanted to serve more than study for a year. 

After a few long days of waiting had passed, my telephone rang and I was offered a position in the program.  I later found out that the lead chaplain wasn’t exactly sure why he chose me.  He usually didn’t accept students who hadn’t finished their seminary studies but, as he said it to me, “Somehow I knew you were supposed to be in my program.”  I wasn’t sure why he chose me either, at least, not yet.

I’d worked in the hospital for a week or two when my family received some devastating news.  My father had a brain tumor the doctors could do nothing to treat.  He had, at best, a few months to live.  When I heard the doctor’s report, two bigger-than-life feelings filled my heart. 

One of them, of course, was grief.  I loved my dad and certainly wasn’t ready to let him go.  He was only 54 years old.  After working hard his entire life, he wouldn’t see a day of retirement.  He wouldn’t see any of his children married.  He’d never hold a grandchild.  Barry hadn’t even graduated from high school.  Though he’d suffered through my early preaching efforts, he wouldn’t hear me preach as a pastor.  My world had suddenly been turned upside down. 

But grief was not alone in my soul.  Beneath the howling winds and crashing waves was an awareness I couldn’t escape.  Through an amazing series of circumstances I couldn’t explain, God had put me exactly where I needed to be. 

Instead of being five hours away in seminary and needing to drop out of classes to help my family, I was thirty minutes away from them and able to visit my father almost every day.  Linda was at Furman, less than an hour away from me.  Her love and support meant the world to me.  I had a wonderful support system in my coworkers at the hospital.  They were faithful friends who gave me listening ears and sympathizing tears.  I could worship at my home church, people I’d known and loved for a lifetime. 

I was heartbroken, to be sure, but I also knew in the depths of my soul that God had worked in an amazing way, lining so many things up perfectly for me to walk with my dad through his illness and help my family after his death.  

I believe that same great God is working in your life in that same great way.  This may be the perfect time for God to accomplish something amazing.  May you see how God is lining things up in your life.  

Busy or Fruitful?

One of the stories which followed my parents throughout their married lives is one which took place at a choir social. Mom had mixed a churn of ice cream and dad sat on the back porch in a large circle of men, churning and talking. Soon the circle began to thin as the churning got hard, showing that the ice cream was ready. But dad just kept on churning. Finally, everyone but dad was gone and he decided that something must be wrong with the ice cream in his churn. He opened up the cylinder and looked inside. All of the ingredients were there, but he and my mom had forgotten one little thing – the dasher. He could have churned all night and not had any ice cream. He was doing something – but he wasn’t accomplishing anything.

We can easily confuse being busy with being effective. Doing something for God is not the same as accomplishing something for God. We can churn all the time but accomplish nothing because we don’t have a dasher, a purpose. We cannot measure our Christian lives by how busy we are, but by what purpose is guiding our lives.

One of my favorite stories about Jesus is found in Mark 1:29-39. Jesus is in Capernaum where He has taught the people gathered at the synagogue. He has healed a man tormented by an evil spirit, Simon’s mother-in-law, and many others. The whole town gathered at His door for Him to touch them, to help them, to heal them. Jesus is literally surrounded with opportunities to do good.  But listen to what happens next:

(Mark 1:35-38) Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Simon and his companions went to look for him, and when they found him, they exclaimed: "Everyone is looking for you!" Jesus replied, "Let us go somewhere else-- to the nearby villages-- so I can preach there also. That is why I have come."

Early the next morning, He gets away by Himself and prays. The disciples find Him and exclaim, “Everyone is looking for you! There is much to be done! You can be busy for the rest of the day!” But Jesus tells them that He will not go back to the good things He can do in Capernaum. Through prayer He has renewed His sense of purpose. He must walk away from the busyness of good things that He may do the most important thing – preaching the good news in other towns.

Jesus didn’t churn without a dasher.  He knew the difference between busyness and living with a God-given purpose. So must we. 

We Love You, Bobby Haley

I was honored to be one of the voices praising God for the life and ministry of Rev. Bobby Haley.

We’re here today, Bobby Haley, because we love you and praise God for your life. 

We love you, Bobby,

For being such a fan.  You loved your Alma mater, Mississippi College.  You kept up with the St. Louis Cardinals, often sporting a Cardinals baseball cap to let the world know where you stood.  Amid the roar of many Clemson Tigers, you crowed proudly for your Gamecocks.  You were never a fair-weather fan.  Your loyalty ran deeper than last season’s record or next season’s prospects.  You were just a fan. 

In that same spirit, you cheered for us.  When you chose us in friendship, you put on our colors and never took them off.  When we won, you celebrated with us.  When we lost, you helped us up, dusted us off, and gently coached us for our next challenge.  And you always believed we could win.  You loved us the way God loves us, Bobby, and that’s why we will always love you. 

We love you, Bobby,

For that childlike spirit you never allowed to grow old.  Life was always a gift, an adventure, a celebration for you.  That’s why your heart could so quickly connect with a VBS class of first graders or a room full of adults.  You had the freedom to read and teach the scriptures one minute, then gather a group around you to lead the congregation in “baby shark” or, my all time favorite, “Doo Be Dah.”  Even if I tried, I could never forget you in front of a church, saying, “Be doo be dah…” You helped us find the child within us and live as joyful beloved children of God. 

We love you, Bobby,

For being an overcomer.  Your life had a rough start.  You didn’t dwell on that and never talked about it, but you were dealt a pretty rotten hand.  But you played that hand masterfully enough to win.  You worked hard.  You welcomed Godly mentors into your life.  You got an education at Mississippi College and Southwestern Seminary.  You discovered your gifts and developed them for God’s kingdom.  You married a wonderful lady and began a beautiful partnership in marriage and ministry.  You welcomed children in the world and gave them a strong faith and sweet love.  We love you, Bobby, because your life teaches us that faith is the victory that overcomes. 

We love you, Bobby,

For making us into missionaries.  I’ll never forget you coming to my study in Greenville to ask permission to recruit a few people from your new church to complete that year’s roster for your Kentucky Mission Trip.  I answered, “Bobby, let me be sure I understand you.  You want to know if you can invite our people to do missions.  I think I can support that.”  You recruited five or six people that year who returned, with joy in their hearts, tears in their eyes, and a firm promise to return to Kentucky the next year.  Word spread.  Hallway conversations of “I want you to go with me to Kentucky this summer” grew the team.  Within a few years, you took fifty-five adults and youth, easily a tenth of the church family to Kentucky.  And once those people tasted the joy and felt the fulfillment of giving their lives to God’s work, they didn’t stop with Kentucky.  People came back home with a missionary calling to serve Christ in their community in new ways.  Others went to Africa and South America and Jamaica to help people in need and share God’s love.  Bobby, everywhere you went, in your low-key unassuming way, you made missionaries.  And I will always thank God for the way you shaped the lives of my sons.  Josh and Andrew made many trips to Kentucky because of you.  Those trips taught them the importance of service, the power of the gospel to cross cultures, and the great joy that comes from joining in Christ’s Great Commission.  They are better men because of you, Bobby Haley, and I love you for that. 

We love you, Bobby,

For seeing and celebrating the beauty and dignity of all people.  Some of God’s people do very good things in an absolutely awful way, with a spirit of Messianic condescension that resembles some kind of holy float in a Mardi Gras parade, riding through God’s world throwing out trinkets of help and attention to the needy crowds, then moving on.  But, Bobby, you were the polar opposite of that.  When you talked about the people you served, you spoke, not of how needy they were, but how rich they were in faith, in perseverance, in hospitality.  You didn’t talk about how much you could teach those you served, but how much you learned from them.  You never implied their worship was backward, but that is was passionate, artistic and reviving.  Bobby, you came to every man as his servant, not his savior.  And that’s why so many people in so many places are proud and grateful to call you friend. 

We love you, Bobby,

For showing us how to hurt faithfully.  You came into my life and my church at a time when your heart was deeply wounded.  But as I got to know you, I saw that you weren’t giving in to the temptation to be bitter.  You didn’t sit on the sidelines of God’s kingdom licking wounds, assigning blame or excusing yourself from God’s work.  You were honest about your pain, but you didn’t let pain compromise your calling.  You’ll never know how much your example has meant to me.  I’m sure many others could say the same. 

And especially today, we love you, Bobby,

For leaving us with no doubts about how your story ends.  You belonged to Jesus.  You were your Heavenly Father’s precious child.  You walked with God.  And now the grace that saved you, the grace that calmed your fears and saw you through every challenge of this life has seen you home.  I believe the angels sang “Pass it On” as you entered the city.

We’ll always love you, Bobby Haley.  And with a few "Kentucky flies" in our eyes, we’ll strive to shoulder the mantle of ministry you leave behind.