Recalling An Angelic Grandmother

        I’ve been thinking about my grandmother this week.  Today, February 27, would have been her 112^th birthday!  She’s been gone over 30 years now, but she continues to have a great influence on my life; in fact, she once saved my life.  Or maybe it was an angel. 

        We lived two doors down from her and I spent as much time at “Nana’s” house growing up as I did my own.  She doted on me and my siblings.  I could set up my electric train at her house, creating a railroad network than ran through all the back rooms and she never said a word.  She took me on wonderful trips: a train trip to Washington, DC; a cross-country trip across the nation that took us through 17 states; and trips to Alaska and Hawaii.  But she also expected the best from me.  She was my private tutor; grooming me in public speaking, drilling me on English skills and she was constantly trying to improve my penmanship (a failed effort!).  Nana rarely said no to me, but there was one occasion when she not only told me no, but said it loudly, emphatically, and unequivocally!   And the odd thing was—it was over the seating arrangement at a Sunday lunch. 

        After church each Sunday my grandmother and a group of her little-old-lady friends were go out to eat lunch and I often went with them.        There was a large group of ladies on this particular Sunday and we waited while they set up a big table in the very center of the restaurant.  We didn’t pay much attention to it, but over the table was a huge, rectangular, heavy light fixture with inlaid florescent bulbs.  It was almost as large as the big table where we ate.

        I started to sit down when my grandmother said sternly, “You can’t sit there!”  I didn’t understand.  What difference would it make where I would sit?  

        “Why?” I asked.

        Normally when I asked my grandmother a question she would take time to explain, but not this time.  In fact, totally out of character for her, she almost bit my head off when she said sharply, “Because I said you can’t sit there!  That’s why!  The answer is NO!  You sit over there and I don’t want to hear another word!”  Then my grandmother proceeded to sit in the seat I wanted and sent me to the other side of the table!

        Everyone looked at my grandmother with wonder.  No one had ever seen her this way.  I was almost in tears.  The little ladies thought she might be having a “spell!”

        I followed her command and soon everything settled down as we ordered our food and I listened to the ladies critique the sermon and the choir special of the morning.  As we were eating our meal, I asked for a refill on my soft drink.  I recall the waitress taking my glass and walking over to the serving counter.  As she was pouring the drink, I watched as the glass overflowed, but the waitress was totally transfixed on something else.  She was looking at the falling light fixture above our head.

        Then came a loud noise and the huge, heavy light fixture crashed down on the ladies at the table.  I heard screams.  I could hear my grandmother pleading, “Get if off.  Please get it off of me!”  It took several men to lift the fixture off.  An ambulance arrived and my grandmother was taken to the hospital.  Three or four of the ladies were treated in the emergency room.  There were no critical injuries.  No broken bones.  My grandmother was hurt more than anyone.  She had a terrible bruise on her shoulder where the light fixture hit. 

        The doctor told her it would take several weeks for the swelling and soreness to go away.  “I’m just thankful it was me,” she said.  “What do you mean?” the doctor asked.  “Ray wanted to sit in that chair, but for some reason I wouldn’t let him.”

        “If that had been him, he may have been killed,” said the doctor.

        I was thinking about Nana on her birthday, which was also my birthday.  I might not have been here to celebrate and write this column if she had not made me sit on the other side of the table that day.  Was it my grandmother?  Was it an angel?  She was always an angel to me!   Happy Birthday Nana!

                                                                                                           

 

THE GREAT BLIZZARD OF 1980

        The big snow this week brought back memories of a much bigger snow 34 years ago when we were living in the church parsonage in Pollocksville, NC.  We remember that snow for a number of reasons, but primarily because we had four children including a two month old baby, and God sent his angel.    

        Weather forecasting is not an exact science today, but 34 years ago it was even more of a guessing game.  We heard we might have some snow, but no one predicted or could have guessed the magnitude of the storm that dumped almost two feet of snow on Jones County, North Carolina. 

        Earlier in the winter, someone brought me an old gas heater for my office at the church.  My office was always cold, but this old, gas heater –did I mention it was old—could get my office toasty in a few minutes.  I don’t know how old it was, but I would guess it went back to the 1930s or earlier. 

        The little town of Pollocksville didn’t have natural gas, but the church already had a propane tank to heat the baptistery water.  (See the story below)  We moved the propane tank (it took two people to move it) to outside my office window and ran a piece of copper tubing from the tank to the old gas heater.  I think I told you earlier it was old—very old.

        Meanwhile, out in the Atlantic Ocean, a classic Nor’easter was moving up the east coast while a frigid high pressure mass of Arctic air was blowing in from the north.  The weather forecasters finally realized what was taking place and told everyone to get home as quickly as possible because when this storm hit, it would be fast and furious and wouldn’t let up for quite a while.

        Jones County has always been rural and somewhat isolated from the rest of the world.  When we lived there, we had to go to New Bern (15 miles north) to buy groceries.  There was only one traffic light in the whole county.  Today there are two traffic lights.  We did not have cable television.  The most advanced technological device I had was a pager since I was on the local Fire Department and Rescue Squad, and a scanner that was tuned to local law enforcement and emergency channels.  The county only had one road grader which was operated by Junior Phillips who lived across the street from our house. 

        We bought groceries once a week and were well stocked so we didn’t need to make a mad dash to New Bern to the grocery store.  The church and the parsonage were located on adjoining lots.  I could walk out the back door and across the yard to enter the back door of the church.  I walked over to the church that afternoon to check and make sure all was secure.  When I looked in my office I saw the old gas heater and thought, “Well, if the power goes off I know where we can come to get warm.”

        Late in the afternoon it started snowing and the forecasters were right on target—it came in fast and furious.  The ground was quickly covered.  The snow was falling so fast I couldn’t see the church from the house.  The scanner was blowing up with reports of accidents.  Joyce was cooking supper and we were settling in for a long winter’s night when it happened.  The lights flickered and then went out. 

        We didn’t have any power.  Our house didn’t have gas logs or a fireplace.  Without electricity we had no heat.

        “Ray,” Joyce said anxiously.  “The baby! What will we do?”

        “I know where we can get warm,” I said.  “My office.  I can turn on the old gas heater.”

        About the time I said that, there was a flash of lightening.  We were in a thunder snow storm.  The wind was blowing so hard the blinding snow was coming in sideways.  You could not see more than 10 feet in front of you. 

        “”I can’t take the baby out in this,” Joyce said.  “Is there any way you can bring the heater over here?”

        I put on several layers of clothes, then put on my fire turn-out gear.  The boots were perfect for a big snow and the heavy coat would protect me from the furious wind.  I put my fire helmet on as if I was about to enter a burning house. Grabbing a flashlight,  Joyce wished me well and I was out the door. 

        By now the snow must have been 8 to 10 inches.  It was hard to walk in the heavy snow and the wind kept me guessing which direction I was walking.  And, I could not see the church. The flashlight was useless.  I was blinded by a blizzard—a complete white-out!

        Somehow I managed to make it to the church.  I went in under a covered awning that led into the basement.  Stomping the snow off of my boots, I used my flashlight to trudge up the steps to my office. 

        Even though I had gloves on, my hands were almost frozen and I had trouble disconnecting the copper tubing.  I finally freed the copper tube and guided it out the window.  Then I reached down to pick up the old gas heater.  It was not only old, but it weighed a ton.  Using both hands, I was able to pick it up.  Rather than risk walking down the basement stairs with the heavy heater, I used the main entrance to the church even though it would mean a longer walk in the wind and blizzard back to the house.

        I remember thinking that I needed to stop and rest, but the snow was stinging my face the same way it would in a sand storm.  I trudged on, out of breath, thinking I was going to drop it.  I kept thinking about the children and the baby, and praying that God would give me the strength.  I somehow made it to the house.

        I had to sit down and catch my breath.  I was covered in wet snow.  Joyce was already moving a mattress into the den so we could all sleep in the room with the heater.  Once I situated the heater I said, “Now comes the hard part—the propane tank,”

        I had already been thinking about how I would move the tank.  My thought was that I could roll it.  That would have worked on a normal day—but I had not taken into account almost a foot of snow. 

        As I made my way past the basement entrance to the church, I saw that awning that covered the entrance had collapsed under the weight of the snow.  And to think I had walked under that a few minutes before.

        I made my way to the window outside my office where the imposing propane tank was standing in the quickly accumulating snow.  I disconnected the copper tube and affixed it to my fire suit.  Then I gently pushed the tank on its side and started to roll it.   Only—it wouldn’t budge. 

        After several unsuccessful attempts, I stood the tank back up and grabbing it with a bear hug, I tried to drag it.  I did—it moved a few feet.  But it took every ounce of energy I had.  I tried again—a few more feet.  I not only was dragging the heavy tank that had recently been filled, but I was dragging it against the resistance of a foot of snow.  And the snow was still whipping down in a fierce blizzard. 

        I kept pulling at the tank, a few feet, a few more feet.  I would get out of breath.  Once I tried to pull it and lost my grip, tumbling backwards into the snow.  My heart was pounding.  I thought, “I could have a heart attack right here.  They wouldn’t find me until the spring thaw!”

        Joyce was also getting worried.  I had been gone too long.  I should have been back with the tank by now.  The house was getting colder.  There was no way she could leave the baby and the children.  She anxiously peered out the back window in the direction of the church, but all she could see was blinding snow. 

        I guessed I was half-way to the house.  I had come too far to turn back.  I could go to the house without the tank, but what good would that do.  Without any heat, we were all in trouble. 

        There was one thing I remember doing.  I was praying.  Praying that God would send me super-human strength.  Praying that God would send an angel to help me.  I kept thinking about the children, the newborn baby, my dear wife—they were all depending on me.  But I didn’t think I could make it.  I was totally exhausted.  It was harder and harder to budge the tank, even a few inches.  I tried rolling it again.  No luck and this time, I almost didn’t get it back up.  I sat down in the snow to catch my breath.  I remember thinking that I better not sit too long.  With the way the snow was pummeling down, I would be an igloo in no time. 

        “Please God, help me . . .”

        That was when I saw the light!

        Mike Coward was one of the “Good ole’ boys” in our church.  He had one of these big pickup trucks with 4 wheel drive and big, big tires.  He was riding around in the blizzard when “something told me to check on you.” 

        Going to the parsonage door, Joyce told him what was going on.   He headed in the direction of the church and soon found me and the tank.  Together, we lifted the tank—it took every ounce of energy I had left—and placed it outside the den window. 

        I was so frozen, I couldn’t even attach the copper tubing, but Mike did.  As I was trying to take off my fire suit, he hooked up the old gas stove and lighted it.  Just like that the room as getting warm and my angel was off to rescue another poor soul. 

        I finally thawed out.  We lit candles.  I turned on the scanner, that worked on batteries, and heard that no emergency vehicles were moving.  Everyone was trapped by the blizzard.  Later that night we heard Junior Phillips pull his big road grader in front of his house.  He went inside and went to sleep.  He later told us that trying to plow the road was useless, so he came home.

        All six of us slept in front of the old gas heater that night.  In fact, it got rather toasty in the room.  The children and the baby slept soundly.  Joyce and I stayed up, wondering when the storm would let up.

        The next morning we were blanketed by 18-20 inches of snow.  We took everything out of the refrigerator and put it on the front porch to keep it cold.  The power stayed off for a couple of days, but the old gas heater—did I tell you it was old—the old gas heater kept us warm. 

        I will always be grateful to my angel, Mike Coward, who rescued me that night.   And whenever we have a big snow, I think about the Blizzard of 1980.  And Ella Rae, our granddaughter has a favorite story:  “Tell me that story, Gdaddy.  The one about when daddy was a little baby in the big snow.”  And I do—I tell the old story, and like the old gas heater, it warms me every time. 


HERE IS AN OLD POST ON A SPECIAL BAPTISM THAT EXPLAINS ABOUT THE GAS HEATER WE USED TO HEAT THE BAPTISTERY




It was 30 years ago when he rode his bicycle into our back yard and stopped for a visit.  Johnny was a kind, gentle, and pleasant young man.  I’m guessing he was in his 20s.  People told us he was “a retarded boy,” a term we don’t use anymore.  Like many who are limited in different ways, Johnny made up for with an over-abundance of love and kindness.

        “How do you get that water in the pool?” he asked. At first I didn’t know what he was talking about.  “What pool?”

        “The one in the church,” he said. 

        I asked him if he wanted to go and see. We walked over to the church and I showed him the pipes that supplied water to the baptistery.  

        “Is it cold?”

        I explained to him how we heated the water with a makeshift gas stove that looked suspiciously like a still.  Satisfied, Johnny got on his bicycle and returned home.

His father approached me a few days later and told me that Johnny was talking about being baptized.  “We have never pushed baptism with him,” he said.  “There’s so much about it that he doesn’t understand.”

        Over the next few weeks Johnny would stop by and we would continue our discussion about baptism.  We went from the mechanics of the water, to what one would wear, to the meaning of baptism.  He nodded his head in agreement but I didn’t know how much he comprehended. 

        Finally, Johnny told me one day that he was ready to be baptized.  I explained to him that in our Baptist Church, one would come down to the front during the final hymn so I could share his decision with the church.  He agreed but when the time came, Johnny had disappeared.  I found him later that week and asked if he still wanted to be baptized.  I sensed he was fearful so I tried to reassure him.  As I was rigging up our homemade gas water heater, I wondered if we would have a baptism or not.  

        When it came time for the baptism Sunday morning Johnny was there, but he was scared to death.  I talked to him for a moment.  I really thought he was going to back out. I could hear a hush in the sanctuary.  I knew they were waiting on us. 

        We walked to the steps leading into the water.  I walked down into the water and looked up at him, holding my hand out, inviting him to come.  He hesitated.  It seemed like a long time as he stared at the water, trying to make up his mind. 

        “It’s okay,” I said.  “You will be fine.”

        Slowly, Johnny took a step and then another.  As he entered the pool he let out a yelp and loudly proclaimed, “Whoo boy, this water’s cold!”  It was more nerves than anything else.

        He stood in the water, shaking.  I said.  “Are you ready?”  He nodded his head.  I stated the baptismal formula, pronouncing that Johnny Parker was being baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.   He held his breath and went under the cleansing waters of baptism.

        Just as quickly he emerged, shaking his head like a puppy coming out of a bath, and he looked at his hands as if they had been transformed.  He smiled a big smile and confidently walked out of the pool. 

        There was a transformation that day, but not just with Johnny.  Johnny was a child of God, always had been, before and after the baptism.  But as I stood there before a trembling young man in the cool waters, I recognized not his weakness, but mine.  I was not the one who lifted Johnny out of the water.  No, it wasn’t me, but a power much greater.    

        The congregation was also transformed.  Tears of joy punctuated a celebration of God’s goodness and grace.  We realized that in God’s family all are favored and all are blessed.  And I think that if I had listened closely I would have heard the words, “This is my beloved child, with whom I am well pleased.” 

                                                           

       

No One Loves A Loser, Except Jesus

Tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday and when all the hype and extended pre-game coverage, the incredibly expensive commercials, the extravagant halftime show, the incessant commentary and analysis, and, oh yes, the game are finally over only one team will be the winner, only one team will raise the trophy, only one team will be the champion of all.  The only problem with winning is that you have to have losers.  Everyone loves a winner.  Everyone would just as soon forget a loser. 

      By Monday morning either Payton Manning or Russell Wilson will be lauded as one of the greatest quarterbacks ever, be on the front page of every paper, appear on all the morning talk shows, and make plans to go to Disney World.  The other one will . . ., well, I’m not sure what the loser will do.  No one loves a loser, except Jesus. 

      The words of Jesus often fly in the face of all that we hold to be important. We live in a success driven world.  Students are encouraged, and often pressured to be the top student in their class.  We compete for the best jobs that pay the most money.  We go above and beyond what is expected in order to be successful.  We honor our success by building bigger homes, buying expensive cars, wearing the best clothes, eating in gourmet restaurants, and becoming members of exclusive clubs and organizations.  We want to be a winner, to raise the trophy of success, to be the champion of all.  We have worked hard, sacrificed to get to the top, and established ourselves as outstanding and exceptional individuals.  We are encouraged to enjoy the fruits of our success.  After all, we earned it—we deserve it.  We did it on our own—didn’t we?

      Jesus applauds success as well.  We have all been created with many gifts and great potential.  We honor God when we realize our God-given potential and use our gifts to accomplish great things.  But we didn’t do it on our own—not by a long shot. 

      While Jesus applauds success he isn’t ready for us to raise the trophy and claim victory—not yet.  He reminds us that to whom much is given, much is required.  And he expects us to focus on those who have not made it to the top, the people he focuses on, the people that many would call “losers.”  Rather than lifting up the trophy of success, Jesus wants us to lift up the losers.

      My friend, Gary Gunderson, calls them God’s favorite people.  They are the poor, the powerless, the marginalized, the underdogs, and the ones who are left behind.  Jesus is always lifting these people up, caring for them in a special way, focusing on their needs, urging us to live with less so they can have more.  Jesus loves the losers. 

      While most of you who read this column are not poor and homeless—therefore not a loser—the truth is we all are losers.  We go to great lengths to convince ourselves and others that we are not, but we are.  No matter how hard we try, we are still plagued by insecurities, we still find it hard to love ourselves and others, we still struggle with the dark places in our souls, and we are still destined at the end of all of our striving to return to the dust of the ground.  We are all losers and that is not something to be ashamed of, it is one of the defining elements of our existence. We can’t do it on our own.  And until we recognize it and confess it we will have a hard time receiving the mercy, forgiveness and grace that Jesus offers. 

      When I understand that I’m not a winner, only a loser who has been blessed by God, I can reach out and share my success with those other losers who haven’t been as fortunate.  And if I am faithful and live my life serving and blessing others, I may be fortunate enough to one day hear the words: “Well done, good and faithful servant.”   That is when I can finally raise the trophy because Jesus loves the losers.