Threads of Feeling

        On a dreary winter’s day in 1767, a sad and desperate mother by the name of Sarah Bender painfully made her way to an impressive building in the London suburb of Bloomsbury.  She was holding her baby boy Charles.  Sarah had come to the agonizing conclusion that Charles would be better off in the Foundling Hospital than at home with her. 

        She understood what would happen.  She would hand over her baby anonymously. Neither her name nor the baby’s name would be recorded.  In a single moment, his past would be erased, his history would be wiped out, a new name, and a new identity would begin.

        But one fact could not be erased; one reality could never be altered.  Sarah Bender would always be the baby’s mother.  He would always be her child.  You cannot erase DNA—you cannot substitute who you were created to be.  And there would be a connection—one small link, one mark of identification that would be preserved.

        A few weeks ago Joyce and I had the privilege of visiting Williamsburg to plan for our 17^th Annual Bible Study Field Trip this May.  While Joyce was attending a workshop, I was enjoying the museums of Williamsburg.  I love museums.  I could spend days at the different Smithsonian Museums in Washington.  The Williamsburg museum is exceptional.  They have an amazing collection of early American paintings, furniture, and artifacts.  But as I browsed through the museum that morning, I was not prepared for a traveling exhibit that was on display.  With the exception of the Holocaust museums in Jerusalem and Washington, no museum exhibit has affected me emotionally as much as this exhibit titled “Threads of Feeling.” 

        As soon as Joyce got out of the workshop I said, “There is something that you must see.”

        The Foundling Hospital of London existed from 1741 to 1760 and received over 16,000 babies.  While one might think most of these babies were illegitimate or given up for reasons of convenience, that was simply not true.  The great majority of these babies came from mothers who loved their child, but due to poverty, unemployment, disease, death, or other reasons simply could not provide for them.  To give up their child was agonizing for most of these mothers, but it was also a sacrificial act of love.  Because the mothers recognized that in many cases the only chance their baby had for a better life, the only chance their baby had for survival, was to give them up and leave them at the Foundling Hospital. 

        But the decision was not irrevocable. 

        While the nameless mothers gave away their babies, who would be given a new name, the mothers, and only the mothers, always had the option of returning to reclaim their child.  And since the process was anonymous, there had to be a way, a system, a plan for identification.  And so the hospital requested that when the mothers left the babies, that they pin some kind of identifying token to the child, some type of matching material evidence that in the event their circumstances improved they could be reunited.

        Many of the mothers ignored the request.  They left their babies and walked away, never to return.  But over 5,000 mothers, mothers who loved their babies, who were in anguish as they walked away from the hospital, left a material token of identification in the hope that one day they could see their child again and claim him or her as her own. 

        The majority of these identifying tokens were pieces of fabric, all different types of fabric; calico, flannel, gingham and satin, many in the form of ribbons.  The hospital promised that “great care would be taken for the preservation” of the tokens and the hospital was true to its word, for these tokens now comprise the “Threads of Feeling” exhibit that are on display at the Museum in Williamsburg.

        As Joyce and I walked through the exhibit, and those of you going to Williamsburg will also see this, I was filled with emotion.  For every token, every fabric represented a desperate mother who loved her child and lived with the hope that one day they would be reunited.

        Although they were forbidden to give a name, many found ways of smuggling that information past the admitting clerk.  Some wrote the name in a hidden place on the fabric, others stitched initials, some so shaky they are impossible to decipher.  Others stuck to the rules, but came up with elaborate patterns to ensure that no one could ever mistake their child with another.  One cut her child’s shirt in half; another deposited one sleeve with the baby and kept the other.  Other mothers employed a language of color and symbol to express their complicated feelings.  There are buds, flowers, acorns, birds and butterflies.  Buds and acorns and flowers hinted at a beautiful life still to come, birds and butterflies implied that they were giving up their child to set them free from its present grim circumstances.  And then there were the hearts—hearts in every form, every fabric, every shape—hearts of love, hearts of longing, hearts of hope. 

        The few mothers who did return to reclaim their children, brought the other half of the fabric with them so that it could be matched with the fabric that the hospital had on file.  And if the pieces matched, then there was no doubt as to the identity of this child, and mother and child were reunited. 

        The Threads of Hope is a poignant and powerful display of the love of a mother for her child, and a sad and tragic reminder of the circumstances of life that often force the separation of a mother from her child.  But more than anything else, the Threads of Feeling contain symbols of hope, that one day, my circumstances will be better, one day my child will blossom and live, one day life will be full of joy and gladness and we will be together again.

        When God created the heavens and the earth, he took a tremendous risk.  Rather than create a programmed and carefully scripted world that would operate like seamless computer program, rather than create the perfect world that would be perfect only because there was no other option, God took the greatest risk of all infinity, and he created humanity “in his own image.” 

        This Scripture that Connie read for us this morning is described by theologian Helmut Thielicke as the “Great Risk of Creation.”   For to be created in the Image of God, means that in many ways we are like God, most especially in our ability to think and reason and make decisions on our own. 

        We have creative potential even as God has.  We have the potential to grow and develop, to live and love, to offer redemption and reconciliation, to enrich community and bless the lives of others through our gifts and service.  We also have the potential to withdraw, to retreat, to build selfish walls around our existence, to oppress, to mistreat, and to inflict harm on others. 

        When our loving God carried us, like a mother carrying her infant in her arms, and when he left us at the door of creation, not knowing what the outcome would be, it was an agonizing and heart-wrenching decision.  But just as these mothers knew that this was on the only chance their child had at a better and fulfilling life, God knew this was the only chance humanity had to truly discover love and joy, and know life only as it was created to be. 

        After God left us at the door of creation, things started to decline.   We became more interested in what we wanted than what God wanted for us.  We selfishly ignored the boundaries that God had established, foolishly believing that that we could create our own paradise that we could find joy and happiness in ways that God never intended.

        And so we strayed away from God.  We forgot who we were created to be and most tragically, we no longer remembered our names, that we are children of God.  We established a new life and a new identity apart from God, and when it came crashing down we blamed others, subjected and oppressed those who were weaker to try to establish our own kingdoms that are self-serving.

        But imbedded deep within us, is a token of identification that was left by our loving God—a mark, a complex and hidden pattern of identity---the image of God.

        No matter what we have done, no matter how far away we have strayed, no matter how self-serving and hurtful our lives have been, we all contain the image of God.  We belong to God, we are his, and we never discover joy and love and fulfillment in life, until we are reunited with him. 

        In the first chapter of Romans Paul speaks of God’s invisible nature, the pattern of his eternal power and deity that is clearly perceived in creation—God’s threads of feeling.  It is only when we discover this token of identification imbedded deep within us that we can discover who we are and who we were created to be.  “True Freedom,” said Saint Augustine, “Is not found in moving away from that image but only in living it out.”

        Almost a decade after Sarah Bender left her baby boy in the arms of a nurse at the Foundling Hospital and walked away, there was a loud knock on the door.   The clerk opened the door to find a mother standing there holding an extraordinary piece of elaborate patchwork, made up of bits of printed fabric.  There was a heart embroidered with red thread.  They took the patchwork and matched to the other identical half that had been carefully filed ten years before.  Then they went and found a boy, a handsome young boy who was named Benjamin, but while he never knew it, his birth name was Charles and they walked with him to the front door where his mother, Sarah opened her arms and welcomed her son back home. 

        Generations and generations after God left us at the front door of creation, there was a loud clasp of thunder and the earth shook as a man took his last dying breath in a terrifying crucifixion outside the walls of Jerusalem.  And three days later the earth shook again, and the stone at the door of the tomb rolled away as what had been the darkest and most desperate of situations was transformed into light and life.  And emerging from the tomb, the risen Lord stood holding an elaborate and elegant patchwork of love, the threads of feeling proclaimed by the prophets, preserved by the scribes, and hoped for by all humanity.  It was the perfect match to the DNA within all of us known as the Image of God---for we belong to God, we may have strayed away, we may have tarnished that image, we may have rebelled against our creative nature, but now we know, there is no doubt, of who we are, and who we belong to, and what we are created to be—We are children of God, we are created in His Image to love, and serve, all of his family. 

       

       

       

       

Epiphany Lights--What Happened?

        The good news was that it did not rain on Monday night, January 6, the day of Epiphany, when we celebrated our Epiphany Lights!  The bad news was that the wind was blowing and it was the coldest night in a quarter of a century.  A few hearty souls, around 10 children in all, braved the icy elements and came to see the lights. 

        The temperature had plummeted all afternoon.  When the first children arrived shortly after 5:00 pm it was already in the 20s.  I had planned to build a big fire in my fire-pit and let the children roast marshmallows to go along with their hot chocolate and cookies, but the wind rendered a fire impossible. I set up a table next to the garage to shield it from the wind.  We did have hot chocolate.  We had enough cookies for 50 children! 

        To make matters worse, around 6:00 p.m. half of my lights went out.  I don’t know if it was the wind, or if the ground was still wet from the rain, but for the first time a circuit blew and the lights went out. 

        By the time I turned off the remaining lights shortly before 7:00 p.m., the temperature was below 20 and still dropping.  It bottomed out at 5 degrees early on Tuesday morning. 

        The next morning I took the rest of cookies to the Children’s Center so all the children could enjoy them.  And I read a book to my granddaughter’s class.  As the children laughed and smiled and eagerly shared their wonder and excitement during the reading, I realized that the Epiphany lights never go out.  They are burning brightly in the hearts of our children. And every light stands for Jesus!

Having An Epiphany About Lights!

        I confess, I love Christmas lights.  And even though my daughter has called me Clark Griswold, I will not confess to going overboard with my annual Christmas light display.  Why?  Because as I tell the children at church, “Every light stands for Jesus.” The more Christmas lights the better because every light proclaims the coming of Jesus who is the true light conquering the darkness of our world.  Did I tell you that I love Christmas lights!

        I start preparing the lights right after Thanksgiving and it takes several days to hang the balls in the trees, stake the deer on the ground, and strategically place every Christmas tree, star, and snowflake.  Then comes the most challenging part, at least to me, running drop cords to all these lights without blowing every electrical circuit in the house!

        Why do I spend so much time putting up all these lights?  My motivation is seeing the awe and wonder on the faces of my grandchildren and all the other children who visit the lights each year. One year a little girl, with the muti-colored lights reflecting in her eyes, could only say, “Wow!  This is like a fairy tale.”  When I see the joy and excitement that the lights bring to the children, it makes it all worthwhile.

        We schedule a night when we invite all the church kids to come to our house and enjoy the lights.  We have Christmas cookies, hot chocolate, hot cider, and this year we decided to have a bonfire.  We fine tuned all the lights, replacing blown bulbs and fuses, placed the candles in the windows, the gifts under the tree, and we set the date for December 15—but sadly, it rained. 

        So we postponed the lights until the Sunday night before Christmas.  As the weekend approached, however, rain was again in the Sunday forecast so we moved it to Monday night—but alas, it rained both days.  So I told the kids we would have a post-Christmas light display on the Sunday night after Christmas, but, you guessed it—more rain. 

        It was at this point that I had, shall we say, an epiphany!  Why not have the lights the night of January 6, the day of Epiphany!  Most people are so tired after the Christmas rush that they forget about Epiphany, which is also called Old Christmas.  Eastern Orthodox Christians actually celebrate Christ’s birth on this day while those of us in the Western Church celebrate the coming of the Magi who followed a star to find the baby Jesus.  The observance of Epiphany takes place with a Festival of Lights, so what would be a better time to celebrate the lights that on this night!

        Everybody loves sweet little baby Jesus lying in the manger on a silent night surrounded by animals, shepherds, and angels.  But not everyone stays with Jesus long enough to experience a true epiphany.  This sweet little baby was the incarnate Word, the King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the very presence of God on this earth.  He was the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.  The Gospel writer John describes him as the true light who enlightens every person, and gives us the right to become the very children of God!  But not everyone sees the light, at least not right away.

        It is one thing to celebrate the birth of Jesus; it is another thing to commit oneself to follow him in life.  Singing Silent Night is the easy part.  Taking up your cross to follow him is the challenge.  Only when one has a true epiphany of the real meaning and power of the Gospel does one really see the light. 

        I realize that most folks have taken down all their Christmas decorations and unplugged their lights, but not me—not yet.  I’m going to have one more great night to celebrate the lights.  We will have hot chocolate and cookies and all the children from the church can hopefully come and join us.  The lights are still burning brightly, but they are no longer Christmas lights—they are Epiphany lights.  Every light stands for Jesus, the Light of the World.  Just pray that it doesn’t rain!

A Letter To Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace Kirkendall

Here is the letter that I wrote to Ella Grace and Kate Elizabeth Kirkendall.  I read this at their Daddy's funeral on December 27.  I will give copies to Holly to give to the girls when they get older.  Several people have asked for a copy of the letter.  Here is the letter as I read it at the service.

December 27, 2013

Dear Kate Elizabeth and Ella Grace,

        One day you will read this letter and you will read about one of the most remarkable, courageous and influential men I have ever known; your Daddy.  You were only 3 when your Daddy died, he was only 40.  I know you probably have some memories of him and you have grown up seeing pictures and hearing many people talk about him.  Let me tell you how I knew your Dad.

        I first met your Daddy when he was only 16 years old and a sophomore in high school.  I had moved to Lexington as the new minister at First Baptist Church and Chad was in the same class as our oldest son.  He always had the greatest smile and seemed so happy.  I remember when he graduated from high school in 1992 and went to Chapel Hill to the University of North Carolina.

        When your Daddy went into business, he quickly became known as someone people could depend on.  He had such a great personality and was always positive and optimistic.  When you needed him, he would be right there.  We had an emergency one day when the kitchen sink overflowed and the next day the floor started to buckle.  I called your Daddy and in no time he was there, setting up fans under the house and in the kitchen.  He saved our kitchen floor, and when I asked him how much I owed him, he wouldn’t let me pay him.  “All I did was set up a few fans,” he said.  “And I wasn’t going to be using them anyway.”  Your Daddy was a man of integrity who was honest, dependable, and trustworthy.  Everyone loved your Dad. 

        He was a faithful Christian and his dedication and kindness led to him being elected as one of the youngest deacons in our church.  The way he lived his life was an example for everyone to follow.

        Everybody in town was excited when your Daddy and Mommy found each other and announced that they would be married.  We all believed that it was a match made in heaven, and I really think it was.  They were such a happy couple and we all wanted them to live happily ever after, but as you know, real life doesn’t always have happy endings.

        On a beautiful Saturday morning, April 28, 2007, your Grandfather died suddenly.  Your Daddy loved his Daddy and they were very close.  I had to call your Daddy and tell him the terrible news.  He was devastated, but knew he had to be strong and brave for your Grandmother.  He quickly came to comfort your Grandmother.  While your Daddy was heartbroken, he told me that he knew his Daddy was in heaven and one day he would see him again.

        I’ve never known your Daddy to be a public speaker, but he stood up at your Grandfather’s funeral and gave a moving and heartfelt tribute.  So did your Aunt Kristi.  Everyone was deeply moved.

        The sadness over your Grandfather’s sudden death was later tempered by the news that your Mommy and Daddy were having a baby.  Everyone was so excited over this good news!  I remember people saying that if anyone deserved a precious little baby, it was Chad and Holly.  Your Daddy worked so hard to get the nursery ready.  On July 29, 2009, your Mommy went to the hospital to give birth to your little brother, Matthew.  But something went terribly wrong and Matthew did not live.  Your parents were devastated.

        The funeral for little Matthew was one of the saddest gatherings I have ever seen.  Everyone’s heart was broken.  There were many, many tears.  Your Daddy had a very hard time dealing with Matthew’s death.  For the first time, I thought his smile might go away.  But it did not.  Because your Daddy had a remarkable faith that was deep and strong, he worked through his grief.  He knew that Matthew was in heaven, and that somehow, in ways we could not understand, God had a bigger plan and purpose.

        We were all praying that God would bless your parents with another baby.  Not only were our prayers answered, but God provided a double blessing when you girls were born on September 29, 2010.  Your Daddy was so proud and so happy.  His smile was brighter than ever before.  He had two precious baby girls and he loved you so very much.  On Mother’s Day, 2011, your Daddy and Mommy dedicated you to God.  Never has a Father been any prouder of his children as he and your Mom stood holding you with a great, big smile.

        Your Daddy had already been through so much sadness and tragedy that I couldn’t believe that there would ever be any more.  But there are so many things in life over which we have no control.  I saw him at the church one day late in 2012 and noticed he was limping.  “What happened to you?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” your Daddy responded.  “I don’t know what I have done.”

Your Daddy had not done anything.  Little did he, his doctors, or anyone else know that a deadly cancer had attacked his body.  It wasn’t until later that it was diagnosed and when it was, he started a long and courageous battle against the disease, finding the best doctors and treatment that were available, and all the time believing that God would work through the doctors to heal his body.  We all believed he would be healed.  We prayed and prayed.  Through social media thousands of people learned about your Daddy and prayed for him. We all wore blue ribbons and had prayer vigils when he had surgery at Duke Hospital in May.  His story inspired people he never even met and brought people in our town together in a marvelous way.  Your Daddy’s friends came together and provided remarkable support and love for him and your mom.  In all my years of ministry I don’t think I have ever seen such an amazing outpouring of love and support from an entire community.

  Your Daddy’s life, his courageous fight against cancer, and his unquenchable faith touched and inspired thousands of people.  Your Mommy was right there with him the whole time.  She was so strong and brave.  When I would tell your Daddy how many lives he was touching and people he was inspiring, he would smile and say he was thankful that God was using him.  But there were two lives that he was most concerned about, and that was you, his two girls.  This is what I want you to tell you about your Daddy:

Your Daddy’s faith in God, his courage in suffering, his powerful spirit will always be there for you as a witness and an example in times of trouble.  I hope and pray you will never have to go through the hard times that your parents went through, but we never know what life will bring.  But always remember that when trouble comes, when you find yourself in a painful situation, when there is suffering and heartache, you can work through it, you can overcome it, you can emerge victorious because your Daddy did.  He never gave up, he never lost hope, he never quit believing that God had a bigger plan and purpose for his suffering.  I know that God used your Daddy’s faith to inspire other people, and I also know that God will use his example to guide and inspire you throughout the rest of your life.  If ever you find yourself in a situation in which you are simply overwhelmed and feel like giving up, remember your Daddy and know that you can find that same strength, the same faith, and the same courage that he had.

Ella and Kate, the most important thing I want to know is this:  Your Daddy will always be with you.

How do I know this?  Because your Daddy loved you than you can ever imagine.  And love is eternal.  The Bible tells us that love never ends.  Death can destroy a lot of things, but it cannot take away love.  The power of love is greater than sickness, suffering, disease, pain, and death.  Your Daddy’s love will always be with you.

Whenever you accomplish something great in life, your Daddy will be with you, his smile and his love will surround you.  When you graduate from high school and college, your Daddy will be right there with you, smiling with pride over all you have achieved.  One great day, when you find the right person for your life and it is time to walk down the aisle of the church to exchange your wedding vows, your Daddy will be walking right beside with the biggest smile as he shares in your joy. 

And one day, many, many years from now hopefully, when death does come as it comes for all of us, do not be afraid, because your Daddy will be standing right there with Jesus to welcome you home.

A few weeks before he died, your Daddy told me that he was not afraid of death, but he didn’t want to leave his family.  And then he said, “I don’t want my girls to forget me.”

I assured your Daddy that it would never happen and that is one reason I wrote you this letter.  I wanted you to hear my story of one of the most courageous and faithful men I have ever known in all my years of ministry.  He loved God.  He was a faithful friend.  He loved his family.  He loved your Mommy. And he loved his baby girls.  I will never forget him.  I’m a better person because of him.  Your life will always be enriched, empowered, and inspired because he will always be with you. 

Sincerely with love,

 

Ray N. Howell III

 

       

My Friend Chad

        My friend Chad Kirkendall fought the good fight.  If ever anyone fought the good fight it was Chad.  He was strong, courageous and faithful against impossible odds.  His entire life was an inspiration, his optimistic spirit was contagious, and his unquenchable faith was a powerful witness to all. 

        I first met Chad when he was in high school.  He always had that winsome personality and that charming smile, even as a teenager.  I remember the excitement when Chad and Holly were engaged and we planned their wedding.  It was a unique time of joy and happiness for all of us.

        Then came that terrible Saturday when I had to call Chad and tell him the news over the phone that no one should ever have to hear that way.  His father had died suddenly of a massive heart attack.  Joyce and I had gone to the house to tell Becky.  Kristi and Dave were on the church retreat down at Caswell.  Chad didn’t deserve to hear the news that way, but at that moment I reasoned his mother needed him more.  We didn’t feel that we could leave Becky, so I called Chad to not only tell him of the tragedy of his father’s death, but that his mother needed her son.  In just a few minutes he was there. 

        I remember how, even then, he handled that devastating news with such dignity, courage, and grace. 

        Bobby was gone, but the sadness that Chad and all the family felt was soon tempered by the joyful news that Holly was expecting.  Chad would soon be a daddy and they were having a baby boy!

        We left to go to Belize that summer on the youth mission trip knowing that the baby would probably be born while we were gone.  I remember Chad’s joyous grin as he relished in the excitement and anticipation of his son’s birth.  I remember saying something to Chad like, “You’ll be a daddy by the time we get back.”

        He was.  But once again there was tragedy.

        Matthew was born but there were immediate complications.  Shortly after his birth he died.  Chad and Holly were devastated.  It should not have happened.  Especially not to this deserving couple.  They had recently experienced one tragedy, now another.  He had lost his father.  Now he lost his son.

        I arrived home in time for the funeral.  It was one of the saddest gatherings I could ever recall.  Little Matthew’s casket was so small, yet the grief was so large.  A very big crowd of mourners, everyone with broken hearts, stood by—everyone wanting to do more than was humanly possible.  Everyone was united in a common grief. 

        I remember going to see Chad and Holly shortly after the funeral.  As a minister, I deal with sadness and crisis on a daily basis, but rarely had I ever experienced anything as heartbreaking as this.  Chad and Holly were thrown into a deep, dark pit of grief.  The pain was agonizing. There was a void, a gap, never to be filled.

        Chad’s effervescent smile didn’t disappear completely, but it was mighty dim.  Slowly, gradually, and painfully, he started to recover.  Matthew would always be a part of Chad’s life, in a much larger way that any of us could imagine at the time, but we could see Chad and Holly emerging from the valley of darkness and slowly returning to the light. 

        There is always a light that shines in the darkness.  There is always hope on the horizon of despair.  One day we heard the exciting news that Holly was expecting again!

        Chad and Holly were blessed again with the gift of life, only this time it was a double blessing!  After the tragedy at Matthew’s birth, there were many, many prayers as Holly approached her delivery date.  God answered those prayers in a wonderful way when Ella Grace and Kate Elizabeth were born.  Everyone who knew Chad and Holly rejoiced.  Yes, God is good . . .

        And then . . .

        The first time I realized something was wrong with Chad was late last year when I saw him at the church.  He was limping and I asked him what was wrong.  He didn’t know.  I never thought it would be anything serious.

        I saw Chad again early in the year.  His limp was much more pronounced and Chad was very frustrated that the doctors could not figure out what was going on.  He was going the next week to have some more tests run.  Surely, there is an explanation.  Surely, this is something that can be resolved. 

        There was an explanation . . . .

        Most of you know the rest of the story.  The news kept going from bad to worse.  Chad never got a break.  Sunday morning Chad died at the Hinkle Hospice House.  Life isn’t fair and if anyone has experienced this truth, it has been Chad.

        Throughout this entire ordeal I have witnessed the most remarkable and courageous journey of faith.  Chad never gave up, never lost his faith, never lost hope.  Even in the end when it was apparent that physical healing would not take place, Chad believed that God had a bigger plan.  Chad is one of the strongest, most courageous men I have ever known.

        Chad’s journey has been an inspiration to thousands of people.  He has touched people in ways that we will never know.  Through social media, his story has been told across the nation.  God has used Chad in a powerful way.

        I don’t pretend to understand why good people like Chad suffer.  Several people asked me if my last article about hoping in the “not-yet” was about Chad.  It wasn’t directly, but I certainly had him in mind.  (The article is below this one)

        Last week I had a visit with Chad.  I said, “Chad, I don’t have any answers.  I don’t even know the right questions.  But something tells me that a thousand years from now it will not matter.  We will all be together and we will all understand.”

        Chad smiled—that amazing smile.

        On Sunday morning Chad smiled as never before when we walked into the arms of Jesus, and his daddy, and his son . . .

       

ADVENT: HOPING IN THE "NOT-YET"

        The emaciated body of my friend was difficult to see.  He sat in a recliner but was not comfortable.  There were gaping holes in his hair as the chemotherapy was taking its toll.  The radiation had left burn marks on his skin.  He was a relatively young man with a family.  He was athletic, strong and active; always healthy—until this—until this cancer had ravaged his body and was hammering away against his soul. 

        “There is one thing I don’t understand, preacher,” he said with a pained and weary expression on his face.  I waited a moment.  He was in deep thought.  The silence was pregnant with the somber fact we both knew he was in his last days. 

        “I’m on prayer lists all over this country.  People I don’t even know are praying for me.  I’ve always tried to be a good Christian.  I have lived my life doing the right thing.  So many people are praying for me—and I’m not getting any better.  I just don’t understand.” 

        As an old preacher who has been around for a long time, I don’t understand it either.  A few weeks after my friend shared this with me, he was dead.  Some people would say he didn’t have enough faith.  (That’s baloney!)   Others might say that it wasn’t God’s will for him to live.  (Really!)  Some well meaning people even said God needed him more than we did.  (What kind of God would do this?)  But people of the deepest faith acknowledged that our finite understanding will not allow us to comprehend this great mystery.  We simply do not know why. 

        Many of you will listen to the words of the prophet Isaiah in the morning as you worship on the Second Sunday of Advent.  You will hear how animals who are natural enemies will lie down together and a small child will play with them.  Last Sunday we heard about the day when swords would be beaten into plowshares and nations would not lift up swords against other nations, neither would they learn war any more. 

        The season of Advent poses a big dilemma for us that in many ways relates to my friend’s situation.  During Advent we hear these Old Testament prophecies of the coming one who will defeat the powers of evil, reign triumphantly over his people and establish peace and harmony in our troubled world.  He will be the “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace.” 

        Well, he came.  Christ was born.  The Son of God came and lived and preached about the Kingdom of God.  But 2,000 years later we continue to be plagued by wars and the forces of evil.  There is much suffering and pain.  People continue to die of cancer even though they are on prayer lists all over the country.  How do we reconcile this dilemma?

        The coming of Christ was the beginning of hope.  His advent propelled us into a world of promise which is understood in terms of expectation.  Yes, our world is full of pain and suffering and death, but it is also full of hope and promise and life because of Christ.  As people of hope we are constantly drawn toward the future as we walk on that narrow ridge between the disappearing “now” and the ever newly appearing “not-yet.”  Paul wrote that if we hope for what we do “not-yet” have, we wait for it patiently. 

        Every Sunday of Advent we light a candle to signify the light that shines in our darkness.  No matter how desperate the situation, no matter how dark the night, there is always light, there is always hope.  We look to the “not-yet” of fulfillment, healing, love, and peace. 

        I didn’t have an answer for my friend that day.  All I could tell him was that even though I don’t understand, I do know that this is not the end.  There is more, there is always more.  Cancer, sickness, suffering and death are never the final answers.  There is more that we will experience one day, but “not-yet.”  Simply knowing this makes life better.  Our hope of the ‘not-yet’ in the future transforms life today and gives us reason to keep on believing.  No, I didn’t have an answer for him that day—but he has the answer now!

 

                                               

       

November 22, 1963

   

          I can see the image in my mind as clearly as HD television.  Mr. Gilbert, our principal, standing at the door of Miss Price’s 4^th grade class with a somber look on his face.  We knew something was wrong. 

          “The president has been shot,” he told us.  That was it.  We didn’t know anything more.  I’m not sure what happened next, but it was only a short time before Mr. Gilbert was back with the stunning news, “The president is dead.”

          We were taken into the school auditorium where the school’s only television was showing images of Walter Cronkite reporting in his shirtsleeves.  School was soon dismissed, although I don’t remember an announcement.  I do remember walking home. 

          In my memory, which has been filtered by a half-century of age, a car stopped and the driver said something to me.  My mind has reconstructed the memory to a mysterious woman asking me if I knew about the president. 

Last weekend we made a visit to Alabama to visit my mother.  We celebrated her birthday on Saturday and it was good to be with her and see everyone in the family.  I took two of my children by the old school building that has since been converted into an Arts Center, and showed them where my 4^th grade class was located.  There were numerous specials on television about the Kennedy assassination.  We were talking about the assassination one night and I asked mother how she heard the news.

          “I heard the terrible news on television,” she said. “I needed to go to the store and knew that you children would be coming home soon, so I was driving to town when I saw you walking down the street.  I stopped and told you that I would be back home in a few minutes.”

          So that mysterious woman who had become a stranger in my mind was actually my mother!  Funny how the mind plays tricks on us.

          But in a way it was telling.  As a child, my mind was not preconditioned by political bias.  JFK was not very popular in Alabama, primarily because of his stand on Civil Rights.  But I wasn’t old enough to be political and my parents didn’t discuss politics with us.  I was inspired by Kennedy.  We tried to imitate his Boston accent.  (Alabama boys speaking with a Boston accent!)

          His words, “Ask not what your country can do for you, . . .” resonated with me and stirred me as did Martin Luther King’s lofty rhetoric.  My world was shattered on November 22, 1963.  All the adults had their own political bias, as I do now, but 50 years ago I was innocent—until that fateful day.

          The next summer my grandmother took me to Washington, DC.  We rode the train, visited the monuments and memorials, saw the Declaration of Independence and spent hours in the Smithsonian.  We went to see John Sparkman, the Alabama Senator from our hometown.  We toured the White House. 

          My grandmother told me she would buy me a souvenir.  I looked and looked but finally settled on a small bust of JFK.  I know it must have cost more that my grandmother had planned to spend.  And I still remember the shop owner giving me a lecture on the fact that “this is not a toy.  You don’t play with it.  If you drop it, it will break.”

          He probably didn’t think I would get home with it.  Maybe my grandmother didn’t either, but I did.  In fact, it’s in my office today.  And when I look at it, I remember November 22, 1963.  That was the day my world changed, and our nation has never been the same.

A First Class Veteran In Pain

He sits in a wheelchair at Lexington Health Care due to both legs being amputated. "Are you in pain?" I ask. He nods his head yes.

Junior Anderson has known pain before. In 1944, near Naples, Italy, he was shot in the left leg while dragging a wounded soldier to safety. Risking his life for his fallen comrade and for the cause of freedom, he was rewarded with three bronze stars, a purple heart, the Victory Medal, Good Conduct Medal and several campaign medals. Then he came home.

The decorated war veteran who was wounded in action, who was willing to lay down his life for our freedom, came home as a second-class citizen. You see, Staff Sgt. Junior Anderson, who was a part of the 370th Infantry (Combat Team) of the U.S. Army during World War II, is a Buffalo Soldier. He is one of only two Buffalo Soldiers who survive in North Carolina. Buffalo Soldiers served our nation from 1866 to 1951. It was a name given to African-American cavalrymen by Native Americans.

Anderson came home to a society where black citizens were not treated as equals, regardless of their military service or sacrifice. It was the same society I grew up in where my friends Herman and James were not allowed to walk down Main Street simply because they were black. Even so, James went to Vietnam where he served his nation with valor and courage like Anderson. He was every bit a first-class soldier. I stayed home and went to college. James could not afford to go to college, so he went to Vietnam and was killed. His body came home where he was still a second-class citizen, even in death.

Anderson came home a wounded warrior. His fight, however, was far from over. He has been fighting another battle in recent years as he has suffered two strokes, survived colon cancer and endured three different amputations due to gangrene. His wife, Peggy, shared with me that the struggle is more than physical. She has encountered one obstacle after another as she tries to get him the treatment he needs through the VA Hospital. She dreams of bringing her husband home, but at this point their house cannot accommodate a wheelchair. That situation can be corrected.

The Banks Miller American Legion Post 255 recently honored Anderson. You may have seen the inspiring article in The Dispatch on Oct. 9. There are also some grateful citizens who are working with Lexington Housing CDC to make the necessary renovations to their house so he can return home. Please contact the agency if you would like to help a war hero come home.

Words are not adequate to express our gratitude to Anderson. Valiant in war, victimized at home, and now suffering from numerous illnesses, yes, he has known pain. On this recent Veterans Day weekend, we will try to say thank you. Thank you to Staff Sgt. Anderson; thank you to all the courageous men and women who served faithfully and risked their lives for freedom. And thank you to my friend, James, and all who never came home. "Greater love has no man than this, that one lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13.

If ever there was a first-class citizen, it is Junior Anderson who sits in his wheelchair at Lexington Health Care. I shook his hand and said, "Thank you Mr. Anderson. Thank you for your service to our country. Thank you for all you have done to make me free." He meekly lowered his head and nodded it affirmatively. I saw the tears in his eyes. I'm not sure if he saw the tears in mine.

 

 

The Original Marion North Carolina

          Here’s a story I bet you didn’t know.  It has to do with Marion, North Carolina.  No, not that Marion.  I’m talking about the original Marion that almost became the County Seat of Davidson County. 

          On November 22, 1822, Joseph Spurgeon introduced a bill in the North Carolina Senate to divide Rowan County.  The official Act establishing a separate and distinct county by the name of Davidson was formally ratified by the General Assembly on December 9, 1822.

          The citizens of Lexington assumed that their town would be named the new County Seat.  Lexington was the oldest and only established town in the new county.  A provisional court was often held in Lexington and the townspeople were confident that only the formalities needed to be addressed before Lexington became Davidson County’s Seat of Government, but the good people of Lexington were about to be disappointed.

          The General Assembly wanted new County Seats to be located as near as possible to the geographic center of the county.  A survey was made and it was determined that the geographic center of Davidson County was located on the farm of Martin Owens, in present day Holly Grove.  On April 17, 1823, the county purchased 108 acres from Mr. Owens for the sum of $300.  The land was laid off in lots and an auction was held.  Many lots were sold in the new County Seat which had already been given a name.  Frances Marion was a Revolutionary War hero known as the “Swamp Fox.”  The new County Seat of Davidson County would be named Marion, North Carolina.

          The people of Lexington were not happy with this unexpected turn of events.  One of Lexington’s leading citizens, Dr. William R. Holt, decided to do something about it.  The town’s first physician, an 1817 University of North Carolina graduate, had moved to Lexington in 1920.  Dr. Holt, a close friend of John Motley Morehead, was an influential and persuasive man.  His beautiful 1834 Greek Revival home, “The Homestead,” remains an active and charming residence to this day.

 

He took the matter to court arguing that the results of the survey were in error.  On October 30, 1823, the Court of Pleas and Quarter Sessions ordered that the survey maps and papers be turned over to Dr. Holt “in order that he may have the center of Davidson County ascertained, certified and delivered” to the General Assembly by no less than, “The President of the University,” the Rev. Dr. Joseph Caldwell. 

A former professor of mathematics, Dr. Caldwell was President of the University of North Carolina from 1804 to 1833.  He was widely known in the Carolinas for his expertise as the “Astronomical Advisor” for the running of the boundary between North and South Carolina and Georgia in 1807.  An “Astronomical Advisor” was an expert in establishing boundaries. He was the most qualified man in the state to settle the Davidson County Seat controversy.

A former student of Dr. Caldwell, Dr. Holt persuaded him to disqualify the original survey.  We are not sure how Dr. Holt did it, but his friendship with his old professor certainly helped!   He could not, however, convince his aging old friend that Lexington was the geographic center of the new county, primarily because it was not.

          Dr. Caldwell was not unsympathetic to the needs of one of his former star pupils.  He stated that as long as the Courthouse was within five miles of the center of the county, there should be no problem.  He went on to argue that the County Seat should be placed in an established town so that the county folk upon visiting the town might return home “with improved feelings, minds enlarged, information increased, their various business in courts and stores finished to their minds, and their publick (sic) spirit, gratified and excited by the scene of general activity and prosperity.”

          Unfortunately for Lexington, the people who had purchased lots in the new town of Marion were not persuaded by the enlightened Chapel Hill rhetoric.  They demanded another survey which was done, but the results favored neither side.

It was finally decided that an election would determine the location of Davidson County’s Seat of Government.  Representatives from the new county needed to be elected for the State Legislature and the “hot button” issue quickly became the location of the County Seat.  A vote for Alexander Caldcleugh for State Senate would be a vote for Lexington.  A vote for I. Smith would be a vote for Marion.  In the State House, Jesse Hargrave of Lexington was running against William Bodenhamer who was an advocate for Marion.  Caldcleugh won his election by four votes (409 to 405) and Hargrave was victorious by two votes (649-647).    The men still faced a fight in Raleigh, but they were successful in establishing Lexington as the County Seat of Davidson County. 

The land that had been sold in Marion was purchased back by the county.  Davidson County later used the land that was once part of Martin Owens’ farm to build the County Home.  Today, the Davidson County Schools Administrative Offices are located on this property.  Close by you will find the only reminder of what almost became Marion, North Carolina, a street named Marion Drive.

When McDowell County in the western part of the state was formed in 1843, a similar controversy arose between those who wanted the new County Seat to be in the established town of Buck Creek and those who wanted to create a new town at the county’s geographic center.  In this case, a new town was created and on March 14, 1844, there was finally a County Seat named Marion.  It’s located in the geographic center of McDowell County.

But aren’t you glad Lexington became the County Seat of Davidson County.  After all, Marion just wouldn’t do. They didn’t know how to barbecue!