Thanks for the Memories

     I am a keeper.   By that I mean, I am one who keeps.  I'll leave it up to you whether I'm worth being kept. 

      I've never really understood those who aren't keepers.   I mean, how could anyone throw away the cardboard sign, with the name of their elementary school on it, that hung around their neck when they won a part of the City Spelling Championship as a 6th grader in 1958 ?  Or,  how could they even think about sending to oblivion their report cards from Grades 1-12 ?  Not that I'm all that proud of them.  But, you just never know when you might need some of this stuff.

    I even kept my ACT score booklet from 1964.  But after hearing what my grandkids are scoring on theirs, that 50-year old booklet may finally be headed for the shredder.  

    How many of you still have your college acceptance letter ?  The postmark on mine is September 8, 1964, (with a 5-cent stamp).  I still have my college diploma, which proves to everyone my four years of satisfying the course of study I chose, so I can imagine what you non-keepers are suggesting I do with my acceptance letter and four years worth of college grade slips.

 

  Several times, I've considered throwing away my Selective Service card.  Maybe it's time for me to give up for good any thoughts I might have to serve in the military, but if they ever need me, I'm ready.

    And how about the Southern Airways ticket from the first time I was ever on an airplane---a flight from Bristol, Tennessee to Memphis, Tennessee to run in the Volunteer State Athletic Conference Cross-Country championships when I was 20 years-old ?  What say you ? Keep...or toss ?

    You know those 1 1/2 " by 3" name cards that you order at High School graduation time to put in with your graduation announcements, which serves not only as an invitation to your Graduation Ceremony, but also an invitation to contribute to your College Fund ?  You guessed it.  I ordered too many in 1964---and just can't bear to part with the unused ones.

     If you're not a keeper, you've likely stopped reading by now, in disgust.  If you are a keeper/saver, then you know that I've only barely mentioned the tip of the memorabilia iceberg here. 

     So, is there an explanation why we do this ?  Why our attics and our basements, even the spaces under our beds are full of these keepsakes and relics ?  I could probably pay someone $100 per hour to come up with an answer why  I  do it.  But then I'd have to pop open one of my about-to-explode keepsake bins and somehow find room to keep the notes from my first ever counseling session.   So instead, I'll just throw out a couple of theories gained by a much cheaper self-analysis. 

     First of all, I honestly think I save a lot of this stuff because of the joy I think it will bring others some day.  For example,  my 46 year-old daughter has never seen the hospital bill from when she was born.  How could she not gain a great deal of satisfaction from seeing that ?  The only question is, why have I waited so long to show it to her ?

     A few years ago, I took all of the birthday, Father's Day, Anniversary, and Christmas cards I had received (which  of course I had saved religiously for years), and gave them back to those who had lovingly sent them.  I knew the joy of laughter that these cards would bring to others.  Surely, they realized that what they had sent  was so meaningful to me, that I had saved them, in some cases, for decades.  Cool, huh ?

     Finally, many of the treasures that I've saved are reminders of God's overall provision at any given time, regardless of the anxiety I might have been feeling at that time of my life.  And that fact that He never fails is  something we need to remember, whether we're keepers or not.

     So, go easy on the keepers in your life.  And remember....they may just be keeping something that will bring a much-needed smile to your heart any day now.

     Thanks for listening.   Right now, I need to go read what my High School classmates wrote in the back of my yearbook 50 years ago.  As I recall, they wrote some very encouraging words.

History Lesson, Part 3

     I wrote earlier that there are three particular places that have captured my historical heart.  My passion for Washington D.C. and Pearl Harbor will never wane.  The third place has received more of my attention over the years, but only because of its proximity.  I've lost track of how many times I've visited the Gettysburg Battlefield.  I think it was only twice before 1990.  Since then, I've probably been there and refought the battle at least 6-8 times.  

     I had always been interested in the Civil War, but watching Ken Burns' 9-part PBS series, The Civil War, in 1990, fired an interest into a passion.  After that, I immersed myself in books about the battles of Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Vicksburg,  Gettysburg, and others.  I learned all that I could about the Generals who had commanded in both the Union and Confederate armies---Lee, Grant, McClellan, Jackson, Burnside, Longstreet, Pickett, Sherman, and Meade.

     Others in my family have playfully wondered why a couple of visits to Gettysburg wouldn't satisfy my thirst for battle.  I usually explain that there are parts of the three-day battle I just don't fully understand yet.  I've never had the heart to tell them that even moving to Gettysburg wouldn't allow enough time to fully comprehend what there is to know about Little Round Top, the Wheatfield, Culp's Hill, and Pickett's Charge.

A small section of the Cyclorama mural

     But although there is much still to learn about this critical battle in the War Between the States, I've come to realize that there's something deeper that draws me back to these ridges and hills that were so strategic on July 1-3, 1863.  I have always had difficulty grasping the idea of Americans killing Americans.  What motivated these men on either side to risk their lives in a War that killed 620,000 and wounded 476,000 ?  But on a deeper level, what I've really wondered is----how would I have responded in the face of obliterating musket fire and death happening all around me ?  Somehow, I feel if I just walk the Battlefield and climb the ridges enough times, I'll discover the answer to that question.

     During our most recent trip,  we visited the Cyclorama, a 360 degree cylindrical mural painting of the battle, 27 feet high and 359 feet in circumference.  The narration for the sound program at the Cyclorama included some revealing quotes from soldiers who were at Gettysburg.  I think they give some insight into answering the question of what motivated them:

     "You ask me if the thought of death does not alarm me.  I will say that I do not wish to die...I myself am as big a coward as any could be, but give me the bullet before the coward when all my companions are going forward." ----a Confederate soldier 

     "If I fall, it will be in a good Cause in the defense of my Country....my home and fireside."

---Private Andrew J. White, 30th Georgia

     "The man who does not dread to die or to be mutilated is a lunatic.  The man who, dreading these things, still faces them for the sake and duty of honor is a hero.

----Union Captain John William De Forest

     "A soldier has but one thing in view, and that is to fight the battles of his country with honor, have a liking for all his brothers in arms, and the blessing of God and the prayers of his friends at home."

----a Union soldier

     "In great deeds, something abides.  On great fields something stays.  Forms change and pass;  bodies disappear, but spirits linger, to consecrate the ground for the vision-place of souls...Generations that know us not and that we know not of, are heart-drawn to see where and by whom great things were suffered and done for them..."----Union Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, 1886

     There's an exchange in Thornton Wilder's drama, Our Town, that leads me to believe I'm not the first,  nor the last person to be eccentric enough to find a 150 year-old battle worthy of scrutiny.  In Act 1,  two characters, Mrs. Gibbs and Mrs. Webb are having a conversation about their husband's hobbies:

     Mrs. Webb:

  "Well, Mr. Webb just admires the way Dr. Gibbs knows everything about the Civil War.  Mr. Webb's a good mind to give up Napoleon and move over to the Civil War, only Dr. Gibbs being one of the greatest experts in the country just makes him despair."

     Mrs. Gibbs:

  "It's a fact ! Dr. Gibbs is never so happy as when he's at Antietam or Gettysburg.  The times I've walked over those hills, Myrtle, stopping at every bush and pacing it all out, like we were going to buy it."

     My hope is that some of my descendants will walk this peaceful Battlefield someday and  "pace it all out" ,  learning as much about themselves and receiving as much enjoyment as I have.

Restored cannon in museum

North Carolina Memorial on Seminary Ridge

Gouvernor Warren statue on summit of Little Round Top.
He saved the day, and possibly the entire battle for the Union by recognizing
with just minutes to spare a severe Confederate threat to
the Union left flank.

From the summit of Little Round Top, looking toward Devil's Den

  

     

Dreams Delayed

     After I was old enough as a boy to understand the significance of what my Dad had experienced and survived at Pearl Harbor, I began to dream of visiting Battleship Row, thinking if I could just be there and concentrate deeply enough, I could live it as he had lived it.   But I just couldn't figure a way to traverse the 4,500 miles and cover a price tag that was far out of reach of what my newspaper route profits could provide.  

     So, everyone has to live with a dream delayed, right ?  But, I read every book I could, and watched every movie and documentary ever produced about the Day of Infamy, getting as close to the Pearl as I could without actually being there to touch her.

     I still hadn't fulfilled my dream when, on August 24, 1998,  Daddy fought the last battle of his life.  Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis had done what Japanese bombs and torpedoes could not.  On Christmas Eve of 1941, his parents had received that joyous telegram, saying that the report of his death was a mistake.  But there would be no such telegram this time.   And as I watched helplessly as he slipped away, I saw the same courage that he had shown all of his life.  The same courage that I knew he had shown on the deck of a battleship at the age of 18.   Now that he was gone, I was even more determined to make whatever connection I could with that critical time in his life---and mine.

     Finally, in November of 2006, the dream became reality, and I was blessed to travel to the island of Oahu and absorb this Pacific haven that I had so badly wanted to see for over 50 years.  Finally, I didn't have to depend on the limited view of a photo in a book to see where Battleship Row had been.  It was difficult to contain my excitement as we exited the bus at the Visitor Center.  As we made our way out of the museum, and the vista revealed the Harbor, other visitors saw the clear, sunny day as it was, with only the modern Memorial visible on the surface across the channel.    But I saw the USS Arizona, the USS West Virginia,  the USS Tennessee,  and the USS Oklahoma engulfed in rolling, black smoke,  and white-clad sailors in the water, swimming through burning oil.  I looked keenly at the West Virginia, hoping I could spot my Dad---or rather, my Dad-to-be.  But there was too much smoke.  Too much fire.  Too much confusion.   Japanese planes,  Zeros with the unmistakable, large red circles on their wings, still were descending toward the "battlewagons", dropping their bombs and torpedoes, strafing the decks with machine gun fire.  And there was nothing I could do to stop them.  Maybe if I could have arrived a couple of hours sooner, I could have warned them that the planes were coming....  Then, a tremendous explosion seemed to lift the Arizona completely from the surface and broke her back, instantly killing hundreds below her decks.

USS West Virginia, in the midst of her own and USS Arizona's billowing smoke

USS West Virginia

      When I feared it might be more than I could bear to watch, the scene became quiet.

     There was no black smoke, no concussion of explosions.  No screams.  Instead, now I was standing in the gleaming white memorial that straddles the sunken USS Arizona.  The other visitors obviously hadn't seen what I just had.  But we all stood reverently and peered just below the water's serene, green surface where the remains of this gallant vessel rest, along with the remains of 1,102 sailors.

     My eyes searched south and west a bit,  toward where the West Virginia would have been anchored, trying to imagine what my Dad was thinking when the first torpedo struck.  My only regret was that he wasn't standing next to me, sharing his memories of that tragic day. 

       I had heard before that many times, those who survive a tragedy such as this may suffer intensely, wondering why they were allowed to live and others were not.  Maybe that could explain why Daddy would never really share the depth of that day.  I'm not sure.  But one thing I am sure of.   He made the most of surviving that day and the rest of the War.  He came home and married Virginia Frances Botkin, and together by God's grace, they raised a family that continues to grow.  And continues to miss him and love him dearly.  Perhaps someday I'll share, especially for the benefit of their descendants who haven't been born yet, how Ray and Virginia met and courted during such a turbulent time.

     

History Lesson, Part 2

     "Yesterday, December 7, 1941---a date which will live in infamy---the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."

     I've listened often enough to a recording of President Roosevelt's December 8, 1941 Declaration of War speech, that I can say it perfectly, with identical pauses and voice inflection.   I wouldn't be born for another 4 1/2 years, but even today, over seven decades later, I really don't know how close I and all of my descendants came to not receiving the gift of life.

    My Dad, Raymond E. Smith, was aboard the USS West Virginia on that beautiful Sunday morning in the paradise of Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.   He was there because he had decided to delay his plans to attend college, forgoing football scholarships to Capitol and Ohio Universities. Instead, he joined the Navy shortly after graduating from high school in January, 1941.  Now, 11 months later, at a time when his Mom and Dad and one brother and four sisters were contemplating Christmas without him  and battling snowy weather, he and his shipmates found themselves battling deadly torpedoes, bombs, and machine gun fire.

     I was within him that day, and I was part of his hopes and dreams, but if I was ever to be born and call him Dad, he had to survive this surprise attack.  There were many dreams that died that day.  2,335 servicemen were killed on this Day of Infamy.  But I can't help but think about how many marriages would never happen and how many children would never be born, because of the destruction on that day.  I said earlier that I'll never really know for sure how near I came to never being born.  That's because my Dad would never really explain to us the events of the day.  All we knew was that he had seen shipmates die and swam through burning waters to nearby Ford Island. My Mom told us that he had nightmares and night sweats for some years afterwards.  I'm told that this reticence to share the horrors of personal war experiences was typical of this generation.  But as I explained in my last writing, I have this desire to know of historical events like this as if I were there.  But my desire and his willingness never met on reliving the events at Pearl.

     Ironically, he was initially among those reported killed in action. Somehow, in the confusion,
the Navy Department notified my Grandparents that he was among those killed on the USS West Virginia.
     The Columbus city newspapers published his picture and honored him as the first Columbus serviceman killed in action in World War II.    The news could not have been more devastating.   To lose an oldest son,  so far from home.  But as they grieved and began to accept the fact that he was gone, an unbelievably special package arrived at the door on 870 South Wayne Avenue on Christmas Eve, 17 days after the attack.   A telegram arrived from the Navy Department, saying his reported KIA status was a mistake.....that he was alive and well and had been reassigned to another ship, which turned out to be the destroyer,  USS Mahan.  That ship would be sunk, ironically, on December 7, 1944, as a result of Japanese kamikaze attacks, but he would survive that as well,  and I would be privileged to know him for 53 more Christmases, beginning in 1946.

My Dad with Grandma Jesse and Grandpa Delbert

An aging clipping from the Columbus, Ohio newspaper

Merry Christmas

Dayton National Cemetery



We honor your legacy:
Mother

Roger & Nancy

Jon & Wendy

 Abby

 Anna

Scott & Heather

 Brady

 Avery

Nora

Eric & Brittany

Jack

 Audrey

 William

Steve & Nita

           Jason & Maggie

 Violet

 Rhett

Josh & Katie

Travis & Carly

 Finn

 Annie

                                       Fred & Linda                                                

 Mike & Traci

  Jonah

  Lydia

 Troy & Ashley

 Calais

Salem

                                                                                              

                       

       Over 100 men of the USS West Virginia were killed that day.  I can't help but feel a certain closeness to them, because they were my Dad's shipmates.  I'm grieved that their dreams ended there,  and they weren't able to go on to realize the benefits of the freedoms for which they died.   But I thank them for anything they might have done to help my Dad stay alive that day.   And he did more than just survive.   He made the most of the blessing of coming home,  after over  3 years of fighting the enemy on the open seas.  He left a legacy of hard work,  excellent effort,  honesty,  forgiveness, loving his family, trusting God and the blood of Christ, and courage, especially in the face of debilitating disease in his final days.

   


 Those living in our family now who are old enough to understand, know most of the details of this story which I've related.   But I write this mainly in an effort to pass it along to the very young and to those not yet born, so that they may make a personal connection with their heritage.
    


























                                                                                 

                                                

                                             
                               

History Lesson, Part 1

     If any of my descendants reflect someday on why they get excited about finding ancient treasures in their attic,  or if they wonder why they get goosebumps while visiting a museum full of relics that are hundreds of years old--then I hope that they'll read this essay and consider that their love of the days of old just might be in their DNA.  

Fort George, Ontario Canada

     As a 9 year-old boy, while on a family vacation, I loved the excitement I felt for the first time, when we visited a restored British fort in Ontario, Canada.  Fort George also had a museum, with artifacts from that War of 1812 era, and I was enthralled.   I couldn't understand why no one else in the family wanted to spend as much time looking at the exhibits as I did.    In other boyhood trips, I visited the Ohio and West Virginia state capitol buildings and soaked up every display in their museums.

Somehow, I had been gifted with a passion to learn how generations past had lived.   And I realized early on that I didn't just want to read about them or visit their locations.  I wanted to somehow leave the year of 1955 or 1958, and break through into the year of 1776, 1812, 1863 or 1941.

  

     I've never lost that passion.

     In fact, while I've been blessed to travel to 42 of the 50 States, there are three particular places where  I've been most successful in breaking free for a time from the present, and watched dizzily as the hands on my watch wound backwards. Over the next three days, if you'll join me,  I will share each of these three places both with you and of course, with that descendant who I hope will inherit my time-travelling ability.    Now, mind you, I'm not ruling out the possibility that one of my eight grandchildren will receive the "gift",  but if not, maybe some of their unnamed off-spring will make a bridge to their great-grandfather,  when they go to a Civil War museum at the age of 9 and annoy the rest of their family by wanting to read every exhibit. 

     The first time I visited Washington D.C. was a pressed-for-time, whirlwind trip in the early 70's.  But it was enough that I knew I had to return someday, and spend as much time as necessary to absorb our national treasures.  I eventually did return, and I was not disappointed.  I wondered how anyone could visit here and not be energized about our American heritage.  Watching the solemn and disciplined guarding of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers.  The overwhelming sight of row upon row of white headstones at Arlington National Cemetery,  each one etched with the name of someone who had served our country in a memorable way.  I was in awe of the Marine Corps Memorial which is located not far from the Arlington Cemetery.  This massive bronze statue depicts six servicemen raising the American flag on the summit of Mt. Suribachi on the island of Iwo Jima during WW II.

 

Marine Corps Memorial

     There are so many sites in Washington that stir the
imagination about American history.  There are too many to mention them all here.  The Washington, Lincoln, and Jefferson Memorials.  The White House and Capitol Building.  The Vietnam Memorial.

     Then, there's the Smithsonian Institution, the guardian of some of our nation's most treasured keepsakes.  I will mention only one here, one that's been in the Museum since 1928.  Suspended from the ceiling, so it appears to be in flight,  is Charles Lindbergh's single-engined plane, the Spirit of St. Louis, N-X-211, which he flew non-stop from New York to Paris on May 20-21, 1927.  He did what no man before him had ever done.

     It's not easy to describe the transcendence of being that close to this winged participant in history.  With every ounce of Jules Verne-like  ability I have, I tried to get in that cockpit with Lindbergh and go back to May 21, 1927.  Once, I felt like I was almost there, but was jostled from behind by someone who apparently just didn't appreciate the finer points of time travel.  I think the only way I'll ever do it is to have the entire Museum to myself.   You'll probably say I don't need to apologize, but please don't think me strange.  I just love the whole idea of being there when history is made.  Although Custer's Last Stand and the sinking of the Titanic would probably be exceptions....

     The next time I write, I'd like for you to come along when the time machine will be dialed in for a Sunday in December of 1941----in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. 

The Hourglass Town

      I can't recall when I first read or saw a production of Thornton Wilder's play,  Our Town.   If I did read it in a high school English class,  I'm fairly certain it had no profound effect on me at that time.  It had to have been later, sometime in Act 2 of my life.  That was when I was actually teaching Our Town to high school students, and at some point realized how well this play dramatizes what I believe about  the passing of time, and the appreciation of each day of life. 

     Wilder constructed the play into Act 1 (Daily Life),  Act 2 (Love and Marriage) and Act 3 (Death). A drama can hardly get more basic than that.  But the truths are deep.

      One writer, recalling a similar experience to my own, says: "By the late eighties, I had entered my thirties and had a foothold in life;  I had buried both my parents; I had protested a devastating war; and I had fallen in love.  In other words, I had lived enough of life to finally understand what was so great about Our Town."

     So, what exactly gives the 1937 play its greatness ? I think its power lies in its ability to celebrate how valuable are all the days of life.   Even the most ordinary of days eventually proves to be extraordinarily precious.  As the Webb and Gibbs families and other Grover's Corners townsfolk are introduced, we see them as they are now, but we're told ahead of time by the narrating Stage Manager character about triumphs and tragedies that will come into their lives much later.  There is a striking poignancy about seeing them live life, while we, but not they, know how much longer they have to live it.  Naturally, we can't help but wonder what we'd do with that same information.

     Throughout the play, the characters astonish us by asking the same questions or making the same observations about life that we have.

      Emily Webb, a young bride-to-be, says to her father,

"Why can't I stay for awhile just as I am ?", reminding all of us of those times when, on the verge of adulthood, we may have longed for the carefree days of childhood.

       What we've come to experience for ourselves about how quickly time passes is simply, but eloquently confirmed by the Stage Manager in the opening lines of Act 2, when he tells us what's happened since the end of Act 1:

"Three years have gone by.  Yes, the sun's come up over a thousand times.  Summers and winters have cracked the mountains a little bit more and the rains have brought down some of the dirt.  Some babies that weren't even born before have begun talking regular sentences already; and a number of people who thought they were right young and spry have noticed that they can't bound up a flight of stairs like they used to, without their heart fluttering a little.  All that can happen in a thousand days....."

    Later, the Stage Manager makes a similar observation:

"You know how it is: you're twenty-one or twenty-two and you make some decisions; then whisssh!  you're seventy: you've been a lawyer for fifty years, and that white-haired lady at your side has eaten over fifty thousand meals with you."

    Finally, in Act 3, there's no avoiding the reality of death.  Although Wilder's view of Eternity doesn't appear to be a Christian view, he does allow that there is something permanent about every human being.

     Looking back, I can see now that Our Town's view on the passage of time had an interesting effect on the way I spiritually perceive people.  When I look at a young child or a middle-aged person, I now mentally envision them through each stage of life, and think of who they might be in their old age.  When I see someone who has reached old age, I try to imagine who they were in their prior stages of life.  In both instances, my hope is to better love them as they are right now.

    If it's been awhile since you read it, or if you never have, spend some sand from your hourglass and experience the play, either by reading it or, better yet, watching a production.  My guess is it will likely help you to better appreciate the definition of the word whisssh.

     

     

     

       

        

Open the Book

       Is there anything more magnificent than finding something precious, something we thought we had lost forever ?   A lost wedding band, miraculously returned after being gone for months, even years.    A precious, old photograph, found after years of being tucked in a seldom-read book.   A treasured letter from a grandparent tumbles out of an old jewelry box in the attic.   But the joy of being reunited with these things is no match for the overwhelming wonder of a parent finding a lost child,  of siblings finding a long-lost relationship,  or of a husband and wife rediscovering love after they thought they were headed for an inevitable divorce.

       But as special as all of these things or relationships are, there is something even more precious  that we can lose.   One of the lesser-known books of the Bible,  Nehemiah, tells us what happens when an entire nation rediscovers their love and need for God,  after intentionally losing it.  

     After ignoring God's law and warnings for years, the Jewish nation was defeated by the Babylonians.  Their capital city of Jerusalem was destroyed, and many of them were forced into a long and painful exile in Babylon.  Seventy years later, they were allowed to return to Jerusalem by a more friendly Persian ruler.   Nehemiah, the Jewish governor,  oversees the difficult task of rebuilding Jerusalem's broken walls and burned gates.   In the book that bears his name,  Nehemiah  describes the  amazing response of the people in a spontaneous celebration of rediscovering a love they thought they had lost forever.   Here are some excerpts from Nehemiah 8:


    They told Ezra the scribe to bring out the Book of the Law of Moses, which the Lord had commanded for Israel.  So on the first day of the seventh month Ezra the priest brought the Law before the assembly, which was made up of men and women and all who were able to understand....

He read it aloud from daybreak till noon.....

Ezra opened the book.  All the people could see him because he was standing above them;  and as he opened it, the people all stood up. Ezra praised the Lord, the great God; and all the people lifted their hands and responded, Amen ! Amen ! Then they bowed down and worshiped the Lord with their faces to the ground.....

Then Nehemiah, the governor, Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who were instructing the people said to them all, This day is sacred to the Lord your God.  Do not mourn or weep. For all the people had been weeping as they listened to the words of the Law. Nehemiah said, Go and enjoy choice food and sweet drinks, and send some to those who have nothing prepared.  This day is sacred to our Lord.  Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.

          I hope that if you're still looking for a lost ring or other treasure, that its Day of Finding is near.  If you're missing a lost relationship, that your Day of Reconciliation will come soon.  But most importantly, if you've wandered from God,  the Greatest Treasure of all, or never really found Him in the first place, that you'll ....Open the Book.   You'll find everything there you've been looking for.

       For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.  John 3:16

     

       

Just Over the Hilltop

     Most of us can't imagine having lived our entire lives at the same address.  In many ways, that's a blessing, exemplary of the freedom we have in America to move our residence at will.  We may pack all our worldly belongings in half a dozen friends' pickup trucks and move a relatively short distance, from one neighborhood to another.  Or we may load everything into one cavernous moving van, and travel across several state lines, taking our families and our dreams on a sojourn to where there are different climates, different dialects, even different fast food chains.

      But I'd like to suggest that perhaps the blessing of mobility can be outweighed by losing some of the foundation of memory and steadfastness that comes from living in the same home for many years.    I can list 13 different places in 67 years where I lived long enough to have a mailing address,  but only in 3 of them did I live for more than 8 years.   It is likely that those 3 homes, if they could speak to one another, would have the most interesting stories to tell.

      From approximately age 2-13  (1948-1959),  this 2028 Ferris Road house in Columbus, Ohio, became the home that nurtured my boyhood.  It was here that I learned to pretend, to read, to explore.  To first grasp the glories of the changing seasons.  There were helmetless football games played on hard ground, but cushioned by the crispy leaves of late autumn.   Those games were soon followed by the fresh, white blizzards that gave us the raw material for the grandest of snow forts.  Then, without fail,  the spring rains brought the irises which lined the stone driveway, and all the other greenery of rebirth and awakening.   But for me, the allure of summer was beyond that of all the other seasons.   For it was then, it seemed,  that we kids transformed into the full mode of childhood.   Baseball,  cowboys and Indians, bicycle rides, Popsicles, Kool-aid, trips to both the library and the swimming pool.   There were warm, starlit nights, and powerful thunderstorms that might arise at any hour of the day or night.   I can't prove that the skies were bluer then....you'll just have to take my word for it.

2028 Ferris Road

     But, whatever the season, when the hard play ended, we retreated into this less-than-spacious home,  for rest and shelter.....and Mother and Daddy's love.   It's been 55 years since I walked out of that house for the last time, but my memory can still take me on a fairly accurate tour through each room, if you'd ever like to visit.

142 West Kibler (Blizzard of 1978)

     The next house I lived in for 10+ years was at 142 West Kibler Street in Bluffton, Ohio, where  Nancy and I lived and raised our family from 1970-1980.  Our perspective on living in a home had changed since our magical years as kids.  Now we were parents, wanting our three kids to have the same adventure and wonder of being children that we had enjoyed.  For some reason, it's a bit difficult to grasp that only 20 years separated our childhoods from theirs.








     Finally, from 1980-2011, we enjoyed the longest residence of all at 173 Bern Street in Bluffton, Ohio.   If the walls in this home could speak they would  boast of celebrating 3 high school graduations, 3 college graduations, 3 weddings and the birth of 8 grandchildren.  And that alone is enough to be elected into the National Home Hall of Fame. ** (Must have a minimum 25 years of service to qualify)
    She had a reputation for being witness to frequent laughter, good food, hard work and prayers of thanksgiving.  But she also saw her fair share of sickness, tears and just-can't-sleep heartache.  But always there was God's grace and mercy.  She saw an abundance of that....

     Inside, she had one of the higher quality family height charts, marked in pencil behind the utility room door.    Her main outside feature was a pie-shaped yard south of the home, affectionately known as "The Far Patch." (partially seen in the right of this photo.)

173 Bern Street (1981)

173 Bern Street (2013)

      On a fantasy level, I have considered how wonderful it would be to have all of the homes I've ever lived in reconstructed, and the full homesteads, yards included, adjoined on one large site, in a celebration of God's provision.

      So, consider the homes in which you've lived.  What are the sights and sounds that you can remember, even now ?   How did each home serve your needs at the time, and what blessings did it bring to your life ?

     One thing that all of our homes have in common is that they are just temporary dwellings, just as our bodies are.   I am saddened when I look today at my boyhood home.  It has not been cared for, and unless something is done soon, I suspect it will have to be destroyed.

     The Bible tells us that God has placed in our hearts the desire for a Forever Home.  John 14:2-3 also records Jesus' words about what that Forever Home might be like:

      In my Father's house are many mansions.  If it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you with me that you also may be where I am.


  Just like we all used to say when we were kids....

"Daddy, how much further ?  Are we almost there ?"

"Oh yes, kids.  Home isn't far now.....It's just over the hilltop......"

   
 
     

The Living Years

       In 1989,  a British soft rock group,  Mike and the Mechanics,  released a memorable, soul-deep song entitled The Living Years.   As I gather my thoughts for what will be the sixteenth Father's Day since my Dad went to be with the Lord,  the lyrics of The Living Years sting a little bit.   They sting a bit like my hand did when trying to catch one of my Dad's pitches,  after forgetting to put a sponge inside a worn-thin catcher's mitt.  How often have I wished that just one more time,  I could crouch and look at the grin on his face as he tested me with his hardest fastball.

             Although not all of the lyrics will, of course, be true for you or me, some may strike home.  Before you read them, and watch the video, you may want to put a sponge in the mitt of your heart:

Every generation

Blames the one before

And all of their frustrations

Come beating on your door

I know that I'm a prisoner

To all my father held so dear

I know that I'm a hostage

To all his hopes and fears

I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Crumpled bits of paper

Filled with imperfect thought

Stilted conversations

I'm afraid that's all we've got

You say you just don't see it

He says it's perfect sense

You just can't get agreement in this present tense

We all talk a different language, talking in defense

Say it loud, say it clear

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late when we die

To admit we don't see eye to eye

So we open up a quarrel

Between the present and the past

We only sacrifice the future

It's the bitterness that lasts

So don't yield to the fortunes

You sometimes see as fate

It may have a new perspective on a different day

And if you don't give up, and don't give in, you may just be okay

Say it loud, say it clear

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late when we die

To admit we don't see eye to eye

I wasn't there that morning

When my Father passed away

I didn't get to tell him

All the things I had to say

I think I caught his spirit

Later that same year

I'm sure I heard his echo

In my baby's new born tears

I just wish I could have told him in the living years

Say it loud, say it clear

You can listen as well as you hear

It's too late when we die

To admit we don't see eye to eye

    

Thinking this weekend of all the sons who miss their Fathers.

      I feel blessed not to have the regrets that this man in the song has.  Regrets maybe, of not letting his father know how much he loved him, while there was still time.  Daddy knew I loved him and respected him more than any man on this earth.   Oh sure, there's not a day passes that I don't feel the sting of wishing I could share with him about his grandkids and great-grandkids,  talk about the Buckeyes,  or  ask him how he handled retirement so well.   But on the day that  his spirit slipped bravely out of a body taken over by Lou Gehrig's disease,  we all knew that he was safe because he had trusted in the blood of Christ.  

     Once in awhile I get what I'll call visions.  They're not really visions, in the strictest sense, but they're more like movie scenes that I compose in my head.  One particular "vision" I had sometime in the early months after Daddy passed away.  As I'm entering Heaven, there are two long lines of people I knew during my life.  They are facing each other and applauding, as I pass between them.   Quickly, one face stands out more than others.  That's because he's taken a step out into the open space between the lines and leaned way over to make sure I can see him.....and he's applauding in both love and pride.  But the thing that really chokes me up is the grin on his face..... that same grin he'd show just before he 

unleashed that fastball toward me in the back yard.

        If your Dad is still living and you can honor him this Sunday, renew your appreciation of 

the living years.  The Apostle Paul, in his Ephesian letter, 5:15-16, says:

         Be very careful, then, how you live--not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.

Thinking this weekend of all the daughters who miss their Dads.

We miss you , Gene !

       

            

       

         

I'm out of the picture.....waiting and praying with a glove on.  We miss you, Daddy.