A Dad Who Prayed

Every morning it was the same.

The alarm went off at 5:59 a.m. We listened to a couple of minutes of news and noted the weather. Barry slipped his arm around me, drew me close, and began to pray.

I loved to hear him pray.

He thanked God for His goodness and His blessings. He prayed for each daughter by name, mentioning their specific needs. He prayed for our grandchildren. He asked for wisdom with reliance on a Heavenly Father who cares for us, one day at a time.

And he often, with some variation, repeated the same phrases. I never knew where these words came from until after he passed away. Tucked into the books next to his side of the bed, I discovered a half sheet of paper, photocopied from an unknown book. I've bolded the words I heard most often.

FIRST THINGS FIRST
The day begins for [John] Stott* at 5:a.m. He swings his legs over the side of his bed and starts the day in prayer:

Good morning, Heavenly Father; good morning, Lord Jesus; good morning, Holy Spirit. Heavenly Father, I worship you as the Creator and Sustainer of the universe. Lord Jesus, I worship you, Savior and Lord of the world. Holy Spirit, I worship you, Sanctifier of the people of God. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

Heavenly Father, I pray that I may live this day in your presence and please you more and more. Lord, Jesus, I pray that this day I may take up my cross and follow you. Holy Spirit, I pray that this day you will fill me with yourself and cause your fruit to ripen in my life: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Holy, blessed, and glorious Trinity, three persons in one God, have mercy upon me. Amen.

For decades, Stott has begun each day with a version of this Trinitarian prayer. 

That's all the paper held . . . until I carefully, almost reverently, turned it over. In Barry's familiar handwriting I found this addition: "That I might live a continual life of repentance, being transformed into the glory of God through the gospel of Christ by the work of the Spirit (2 Corinthians 3:18).

I will always treasure the memory of Barry's morning prayers, prayers filled with worship, humility, and a deep desire that his children walk in truth.

 *John Stott (1921-2011) was an English Christian leader and Anglican cleric.

The Making of a Man

On May 15, 2015, I lost my best friend . . . my husband, my confidant, my true love for nearly forty years.

Even after he stepped over the threshold into the heavenlies, I learned a few things about him I didn't know before. Close to 500 people came to the visitation and/or memorial service. Many of them told me stories of their connections with Barry. Over and over again I heard the words, "kind," "gentle," "a good man." What a legacy he left us all.

After everyone found their way home after the service, my sister stayed a few more days. She helped me clean bathrooms and floors, launder sheets and towels, and make up beds.

After Barb and I finished in "our" room, Barry's bedside stand caught my attention. I dropped to the floor to take a closer look. Stuffed into the bottom section and spilling onto the floor, I noticed a large print Bible, his guidebook for life. I  found titles such as Composers on Music, A Gospel Primer for Christians, The Consolation of Philosophy, The Secret of Father Brown, Dialogues of Fenelon, Hearing God, and The Lazy Gardener. I also discovered a small book of Norman Rockwell prints, a 2011 anniversary card I had given him, a couple of textbooks he ordered to keep up with Elisabeth in English this past year, and a treasury of Curious George stories in Spanish.

I leaned my back against the bed to take it all in, then said to my sister, "This is the perfect snapshot of Barry's life. All these interests packed into one small space . . into one small life . . . that he lived out in a BIG way to touch many lives."

With intention, I left the "picture" just as you see it here. Somehow it represents the story of a man with an undeniable quest for learning. And the making of a man who shared his quest with whoever wanted to join him on the journey. 

I have a feeling, I'll be learning a few more things about Barry as I sift through his piles of papers and file folders, the 3 x 5 cards from his pockets, and his library of books.

I love you, Barry. And miss you more than words can express.

A New Appreciation

Sometimes I take everyday gifts for granted . . . but don't realize it until they're not there, even temporarily. Can you relate?

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My husband's  been out of commission for a week and a half. Intense pain brought us to the ER, the primary care physician's office a couple times, and finally to the fourth floor of the hospital. The surgeon removed the pesky problem--or so we thought. It's been a rough recovery, though, which leads me to question if there's isn't more to the issue . . ..

The recliner has become Barry's bed. He's finally keeping clear fluids down . . . yet I wonder what tomorrow will hold. He has tried to engage, but exhaustion has a way of taking its toll. We miss his take on the newspaper headlines, his "living encyclopedia" answers to our questions, and his sense of humor. He can't mow the lawn and trim the yard, take the garbage out, weed the flower beds, or plant the broccoli . . . We've managed to pitch in and take up some of the slack, but we realize one thing more than ever. He does a lot around here!

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So thank you, Barry, for all you do every day--and more importantly, who you are to all of us. Please get well soon. We love you!

What gifts do you appreciate, perhaps even more because of changes in your life or in the lives of those you love? 

Why the Pharmacist Made Me Cry

If you know me well, you understand that I lean toward the side of alternative medicine, i.e. natural ways to stay healthy. We use essential oils, herbs, and home remedies, not to mention preventative measures like healthy food choices and habits.


But sometimes we find our backs against the wall.

This past week has been one of those times. An ER visit for my husband left us in need of some OTC meds and prescriptions, which sent me to the pharmacy multiple times. And as you have probably surmised, I'm a little leery about the drug store scene.

So, I asked a few questions.

The pharmacist not only answered them, but offered practical, useful information. In the midst of the flurry of her busy afternoon, she took her time, looked me in the eye, and encouraged me to call if I had any more questions. She treated me like an important part of her day. It meant the world to me, by that time a little frazzled and more than  exhausted.

I can hold up under duress for a long time but let someone express kindness, and I might find myself in tears. Like when I drove out of the parking lot that day. 

When in a quandary about whether we should even go to the ER, I called a nurse friend whose words soothed my worries and offered a logical plan of action. I blinked back the tears then, too.

Kindness. It made all the difference in my day.

What stories can you tell of kindnesses, large and small, that turned your day around?

The Making of a Story

Remembering a story is a little like taking a box of photos off the shelf, lifting the lid, and spreading the pictures out on the table. Each, a moment frozen in time. One by one, we pick them up, study them, compare them. Often the subjects overlap or the same scene has been captured from another perspective. We discover we can't always place the pictures--or the story--in a linear sequence. Rather, they represent multiple layers of experience. They illustrate the observations and perceptions of both participants and bystanders in the story. As we sift through the photos, we recall each occasion. Emotions come rushing back. And as time passes, we try to comprehend how each picture, each story, fits with the others in our lives.

So, how does one go about writing a story?  What is the process of recording memories, thoughts, and passions? I like to think of a story as a snapshot. One moment frozen in time. What led up this picture? Who are the people? What are they doing? Why? What are they thinking? Feeling? Hearing? Seeing? Tasting? Smelling? What are the implications of what is represented? What will happen next? Who or what is missing? How does the image affect you today? What could or should have happened? How does the snapshot affect the future?

One picture. One story.

Your snapshot may be an actual photo or an image indelibly fixed in your mind. A longer story strings any number of pictures together like an old-fashioned filmstrip, one scene at a time.

Perhaps you've always wanted to do a little writing. Or, maybe this is a new thought for you. Here's an opportunity:

Got wisdom? Why not share it through your writing?

 

Join Sherry Boykin, founder of But-Kickers: Growing Your Faith Bigger Than Your "But," for a fun writing workshop on how to identify your story, how to address a specific audience, and how to write memorable material.

 

Free and open to all.

 

Friday, April 17 at the Scranton, PA Steamtown Mall, Library Express,

10:30 a.m. - 2:30 p.m. Click here for more information and to register.

 

Because He Lives

Easter morning brings back the memory of a story, a story that turned apprehension into hope.

 

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"Pregnant! The word jolted me as I listened to the nurse's voice on the other end of the line. I was thirty-eight with an eleven and fourteen-year-old, and God wanted me to raise another child?

I decided to keep the news quiet as long as possible. I felt embarrassment mixed with panic and needed time to get used to the idea. At the same time, I felt guilty when I thought of the many who longed for a child and found themselves grieving with empty arms.

 

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A few weeks later, Easter Sunday found us visiting my parents' church. I felt as green as the dress I wore. God must have smiled as the service began. He had a special message just for me, one I would carry with me for a long time. It came in the from of a song, one written by Bill and Gloria Gaither when they, too, were expecting a child.

 

This child can face uncertain days because He lives!

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow . . . I know He holds the future . . .*

 

Tears sprang to my eyes as I squeezed my husband's hand. The resurrection of Jesus . . . Of course! Because He lives, I could trust Him with our future and the future of our tiny secret, fearfully and wonderfully growing deep inside me.

November 1997

 

We named our baby Elisabeth Grace in remembrance of God's promise in 2 Corinthians 12:9. "My grace is sufficient for you . . ." Now a junior in high school, Elisabeth brings her humor, conversation, and friends to the dinner table. How could I have ever doubted God's wisdom? That Easter morning holds a hallowed place in my heart. God's faithfulness during that time has given me courage to face other challenges, far more daunting.

 

I'll always remember the day when Elisabeth, then in elementary school, said to me, "I'm glad my middle name is Grace."

I couldn't trust my voice to answer, but gave her a wobbly smile. Me, too, Elisabeth. Me, too.

 

*Copyright by William J. Gaither, 1971.

 

Friends: Picking Up Where We Left Off

A friend stopped by this past week, one I hadn't seen in years. We had a wonderful time together. I had kept up with her through her family's prayer letter and her blog. She served as my husband's secretary for a while and later became our daughter's first grade teacher. Twenty-some years, a husband, and four kids later she finds herself a missionary--and a breast cancer survivor.


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We reminisced about how her then-fiancé proposed to her in my husband's office suite, about the time her spelling lesson ended when our daughter somehow got her head stuck in a chair, and about how I taught her to quilt while her firstborn baby slept. She brought a couple of quilts with her to show me her latest projects.

But we did more than catch up. Our life stories differed, but we shared many of the same emotions, the same questions, the same favorite Scripture promises.

The same faith.

We picked up where we left off--with easy conversation, straight from our hearts.  


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I like having a friend like that, don't you? There's something special about a relationship that keeps going no matter how long since the last good-bye. How many times had I prayed for my friend during her illness and when her family had special needs? There will always be special connection. 

God has blessed me with other friends like that. I smile when I see their names on the caller-ID, the email, or FB. It's fun to hear their voices when I surprise them with a call. It's always wonderful to pick up where we left off.

Perhaps I need to take a little more time to stop by, pick up the phone, or send that email.

Thanks, Anne, for a wonderful visit. Let's stay in touch!