A Working Man's Hands: Tribute from Emily

I so enjoyed all of the eulogies that I asked my siblings if I could share theirs, too. This one was written by Dad's youngest child, my sister Emily Diane.

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Strong, steadfast, faithful, hardworking, dependable, provider, protector, man of integrity, God-fearing. These are just a few of Dad's many virtues.

You might be wondering why Dad is not dressed traditionally in a suit and tie. Well, that's just not who he was. Dad was a hardworking man. He rarely ever wore suits. 

Dad loved the Texas Rangers. He literally cried tears of joy when they won the World Series. Afterwards, I bought him a World Series Champions T-shirt. He was so looking forward to wearing it to a Rangers game this season with Rick, but was called to his heavenly home before he had the chance to wear it. So what could be more fitting than for him to wear it into his eternal rest?

With Son Rick and Grandson Sean

Family was everything to Dad. He was happiest when surrounded by us. Well that, along with watching Newsmax, according to Mom, for eleven hours a day. 

I can see him now, sitting in his old easy chair in the living room, his whole face lighting up upon seeing us enter the room. We were always welcomed with a warm smile, hug, and kiss on the cheek.

With My Son Knox in the Easy Chair

As a little girl, I remember Daddy as a big, strong man with calloused hands; a carpenter with working man's hands. Deep down though, he was a big teddy bear. And as he grew in years, so did his tenderness.

One of my favorite early childhood memories is of him making pancakes for the family. He was always sure to make Sarah and I "Doll pancakes" as he liked to call them. These were tiny drops of pancake batter that dripped onto the griddle, no bigger than the size of a dime or nickel. We would snack on these while we eagerly awaited our pancakes. 

Mom, Dad, Me, Sarah - 1975

Another fond memory I have is as a 6 year-old little girl on Dad's 50th birthday. I made him a homemade birthday card and gifted him with a couple of my Barbie dolls. With a chuckle and genuine gratitude, he pulled me onto his lap and gave me the biggest hug. I'm pretty sure he treasured that gift more than any other he received that year.

And of course I can't forget how when Amy, Sarah, and I were growing up, we were woken up each morning by the sound of Dad's jolly voice, "Get up squirrels, I mean girls!," which always brought a smile to our face.

Dad was goofy and had a great sense of humor. He had the best laugh. A contagious laughter that would spread across the room. 

A favorite memory from recent years is of him telling us about a time when he had made himself a hamburger. He grabbed the mustard from the refrigerator, squeezed it onto his burger, and took a big, juicy bite. "What in the world?!" he exclaimed as he looked down and saw the butterscotch syrup on the counter, which he had grabbed by mistake. "Oh well," he said, and ate it anyway. He got so tickled telling us about it, and the room just burst into laughter.

Dad was a fierce protector. Years before I was born, when Melody, Monica, and Rick were small children, and Mom and Dad lived in California, they were coming home one night, driving through a sketchy part of LA. They came across a chain gang blocking the road and heading straight toward them. Without giving it a second thought, Dad hit the gas and plowed right through them. Being a man of integrity, though, he drove straight to the police station to report what he had done. They said, "Sir, you did the right thing. They would have surely killed you and your family." Dad was a hero.

Monica, Mom, Rick, Melody

I have many more stories and could go on and on about how wonderful Dad was, but it is only fair to give my brother and sisters a chance to share their love as well.

As long as I live, I will share Dad's legacy. And until we meet again, Daddy, I love you. Forever, your Baby Girl.

Tribute from a Daddy's Girl

I have always been a Daddy's girl. During one of our conversations last week, Dad reminded me of his ritual of lying down on the floor next to the heat register for a nap after work and how, as a toddler, I'd lie down right next to him and go to sleep.

1972

Though I can't remember this, I'm told that I loved him so much that he never needed to spank me when I was naughty. All he had to do was frown at me and I would burst into tears. 

There was so much to love about Dad. 

He's Especially Fond of My Mama

A couple of Sundays ago, I raced to get ready for church in time, as usual, because I had slept in a little longer than I should have. Surveying the dresses in my closet, my eyes fell on a blue one that I hadn't worn in a year or two. I almost passed it over due to the lack of sleeves; I tend to get cold in the air conditioning, and I had no idea where my one pretty sweater might be. I felt almost compelled to wear the dress, though, so I pulled it off its hanger and stooped to retrieve the heeled sandals I usually wear with it.

Wonder of wonders, I was on track for an on-time departure when I remembered the beaded necklace in two shades of blue that goes perfectly with this dress. There was no time to look for it unless I wanted to be late for church. I hesitated at the door to the garage. Although I knew God didn't care one bit about my dress nor my perfectly matched jewelry, I again felt an odd compulsion. I finally sprinted back to the closet to rifle through the battered jewelry box on the shelf. 

The first thing I saw when I flipped open the top was my mother's wedding ring set, which she'd given to me for safekeeping while she was in the hospital with a broken hip many months ago. Oh, Mom's ring! I thought. She's been wanting that. 

I slipped it on my finger and resolved to give it to her that very afternoon. I found the beaded necklace in the third drawer and draped it over my neck triumphantly. There was no time to glance in the mirror, but I smiled at the recollection of how beautiful the beads looked against the blue floral fabric. 

Mom's smile was even broader when I handed over the ring a few hours later. "I'm sorry I kept it so long," I said sheepishly. "I kept forgetting that I had it--even though you asked me for it several times. How long has it been? Nearly a year?"

"Nearly two years," she said. "It was the February before last." 

Guilt pierced my heart. What a terribly long time to go without her ring! 

Later, when I hugged her goodbye, Mom told me again how happy she was to have her ring back. "I told God just a few days ago that I really wanted my ring," she said. "I told Him I didn't want to bother my daughter about it again."

"You were praying about it?" I asked. Before she could answer, I said, "You know you could have asked me. I know that I'm horribly forgetful. I wouldn't have been offended." 

"I wasn't really praying," she said. "I just mentioned it to Him." 

"Wow, Mom! He loves you so much," I said, and then I told her the story of wanting to wear the dress, and then feeling compelled to wear the necklace. 

Her smile was so radiant that she reminded me of a teenager in love for the first time. Yes, God is especially fond of my mother. I love the creative ways that he works... even through my vanity! 

Mom Holding a Treasure Even More Precious than Her Rings
Great-Grandson Beckham

Another Sweet Treasure - Penny Jayne

My First Spanish Sacred Echo

It was hard to get out of bed yesterday after a four-day weekend that I packed entirely too full of cooking and cleaning and driving all over creation. Still, I managed to move quickly enough for a short quiet time before departing for my weekly office day.

Sweet Riggy, My Faithful Quiet-Time Buddy

The entry in my Jesus Listens devotional encouraged me, as always. I especially enjoyed a beloved verse in Isaiah 41, which felt new because I was reading in Spanish. I always read the Bible in Spanish so that I can avoid the complacency that comes with familiarity, and also so that I can practice my pronunciation. 

"Do not be afraid," I read. "Don't be dis... couraged? For I am with you. I am your God. I will... strengthen you. I will sustain you with my right hand." 

Take a Walk with Me - Eighteen Years of Wonderful Memories

This past Friday, my baby girl turned 18. The night before that inconceivable event, I sat down to write about it, but as I combed through years of blog stories looking for pictures, I took a turn down memory lane and spent the evening reading about Allyson's life. I hope you'll take a walk with me down through the years.

The story actually begins about 21 years ago, after Bill and I decided we wanted to start a family. The 19 months it took us to conceive felt interminable. It occurs to me now what a blink in time that was compared with the dizzying passage of time these last 18 years. 

We were on a Carribean cruise with Ethan when I finally learned I was pregnant--after I'd already filled the prescription for a fertility drug that I would never need to take. 

At this point, my suspected pregnancy was a fragile, secret hope

Excerpt from my journal, 10/7/05:

I slept fitfully last night, waiting for the light, waiting to take my test. I got up around 7:30 and crept to the bathroom. I set the test stick flat on the lavatory and watched the fluid spread across the window. The reference line appeared immediately, but there was no test line at first. My stomach sank. [This experience had become far too familiar.]

But then I saw a second line, very faint, begin to materialize. I strained to see it, and yes, it got darker and darker. There definitely were two lines, though the second was lighter. I sat and smiled at myself in the tiny mirror. I didn't cry.

I climbed back in bed and snuggled up to Bill. I was too excited to fall back asleep, but I lay there for another hour enjoying my secret....

Of course, what I wanted most was a healthy baby, but I yearned for a daughter. 

The Best Miserable Birthday

Months ahead of my birthday last month, I told Allyson and Ethan that all I wanted this year was a family camping trip, our first in six years. I had actually reserved a campsite twice in the fall, but both times I had to cancel due to rain in the forecast. This time, I reserved a site with a covered shelter and handicap access so that my sister Amy could go with us, and I was determined not to cancel no matter what. Since forgetfulness runs in our family, I reminded them many times over the ensuing months.

In the days before the campout, the weather forecast grew more and more ominous, but I doggedly held onto our plans. The rain wasn't scheduled to begin until Saturday, so I reasoned that we'd have one good night and could wait out the rain in the covered shelter playing games. 

The celebration began on my actual birthday, a Thursday. Allyson and I drove to my parents' house, where I met Amy and our sister Melody, with whom she lives currently. We enjoyed a delicious meal and our favorite dessert, a concoction made of Butterfinger candy bars, vanilla pudding, ice cream, and Cool Whip. 

Allyson gave me two delightfully practical gifts, a table lamp for my room and a comfortable workout shirt to wear to the gym that I joined recently. She also gave me my favorite healthy candy bar. Best of all, instead of a card, she gave me a full-page handwritten letter that assured me all the love I've poured into her has been received.

Mom and my sisters gave me sweet cards and gifts, too. 

I spent the rest of that evening and the next morning doing what I always do before trips: preparing lots of food and packing my little Kia to the gills. Ethan and his wife Sumer drove out to my house around noon to play with their cat Riggy, whom I've been fostering, and to load up whatever wouldn't fit into my car. This time I had Amy's wheelchair and several other essential items, so packing had been even more of a challenge. 

Ethan, Sumer, and Allyson went on ahead while I packed up the last of the food. Amy and I left about an hour and a half after our planned departure, which is pretty typical. We arrived late in the afternoon to find that Ethan and Allyson had set up their tents, and Allyson was relaxing in her hammock, which she'd strung between two trees. 

The Campsite

The site was amazing! The rectangular covered shelter nestled among lush trees, so close to the lake that you could hear the water lapping against the shore. Just behind and below the shelter was a collection of giant rocks that formed a scenic overlook. I smiled as I pictured how Ethan would have clambered over the rocks if we'd reserved this site on camping trips decades before. 

If You Look Closely, You Can See the Lake

Good News!

The radiologist called me today and let me know that Monday's biopsy was benign. He said the quality of the samples was excellent, and he is "confident that it is not cancer." 

The site has been marked and will be followed closely on future mammograms.

Thank the Lord! Thank you, everyone, for your love and prayers. 

My Long Lost Brother

A week or two ago, I took leftover spaghetti sauce to work for lunch. I had no noodles left because I usually only make enough for a single meal; the gluten-free noodles don't hold up very well in the refrigerator. Briefly, I contemplated taking the dry noodles and a small pot to cook them in on the full-sized stove in the break room. I'd never seen anyone cooking anything on that stove, only reheating meals in the five microwave ovens. To my knowledge, I'm the only one who uses the toaster/convection oven (because I don't trust microwave radiation).

I decided the stove was probably there for potluck lunches, and if anyone saw me cooking on it, they'd think I was weird. Had I known everyone better, I wouldn't have cared what they thought. Indeed, at my previous office job, I had occasionally cooked my dinner in a slow cooker under my desk. My coworkers had laughed at my eccentricity and ribbed me mercilessly, but I didn't mind. No one was laughing when the tempting aromas wafted through our quad of cubes and into the surrounding ones. One after another, my coworkers commented on how amazing it smelled. "Yep!" I agreed smugly. "Nope," I replied when they asked for a taste.

After chuckling over those fond memories, I decided I'd better make my noodles on my own stove while I cooked oatmeal for my breakfast. For most of my four years at this job, I've been fully remote, and now I only go to the office on Mondays and Fridays. Therefore, very few people in the office know anything about me, let alone about all of my quirks. I don't know why it should seem weird to cook at work, but I'm too conventional to rock the boat. Today, however, I learned that some people dare to defy cooking conventions. 

Blessing in Their Hands

The breast biopsy that I wrote about in my last post had to be postponed due to a problem with insurance approval. I didn't find out about it until nearly 5:00 last Monday, on the night before the scheduled procedure. I spent Tuesday morning on the phone with the doctor's office and the hospital trying to cut through the red tape. The hospital scheduler tried from her end as well, but we had to admit defeat about 45 minutes before my appointment time. 

At first, the scheduler said I'd have to wait until December 21 for the next available appointment, which put my total waiting time at 7 weeks from the date of my repeat mammogram. While we were on the phone, though, an opening came up for yesterday, December 4. 

I arrived at the hospital at 11:58, two whole minutes early, only to find a sign on the door stating that the staff were off for lunch until 12:45. Mystified, I sat down in the hospital lobby and laboriously logged in to the patient portal on my ailing phone. It turns out that I'd read the instructions incorrectly, and I was actually supposed to arrive at 12:45. At first I was aggravated with myself, but then I decided to go buy some Tylenol, which I would need after the procedure. 

Then I spent a relaxing 20 minutes in the car listening to an audiobook, only to realize that I'd gotten confused again, and now I was late!

I arrived at the desk, breathless and apologetic, at 12:52. The receptionist was very gracious, but I felt pretty frazzled. In the waiting room, I settled myself with some deep breathing and silent prayer. 

Safe and Secure

If you've been reading long, you know that I struggle with worrying. I like to think I've made some progress with that over the years, but maybe not. 

If you are a fellow worrier, you understand that worrying itself can engender more worrying. For example, during both of my pregnancies, I worried more about worrying than about the actual object of my worries. I'd read that the mother's emotional state can affect the temperament of the growing baby, so I tried my very hardest not to worry about anything. But of course that was virtually impossible, so every time I caught myself worrying, I would scold myself and launch into even more worrying about worrying. 

I'm sure I'm not the only one to ever worry about worrying, but I wonder if anyone else has taken worrying to an even higher (lower?) level. Have you ever worried about... not worrying? 

Eternal Beauty

Recently I was reflecting on how dry I have felt spiritually, wondering why I don't seem to hear God's voice as much as I did in the past. It must be because because I'm always so busy with day-to-day responsibilities that I don't have much time to be still, let alone think about anything eternal.

This morning, God reminded me that He still speaks. 

After sleeping in until nearly nine, I fed the pets--four of them now; I'll have to tell you about that another day. I poured my sister Amy a bowl of cereal, put in a load of laundry, and walked across the park to meditate on my scripture memory cards. By now it was nearly ten, and it was shockingly hot. I hadn't even made it out of the cul-de-sac before the sun beating on my back nearly made me rethink my decision. The house was a wreck, and there was plenty I could be doing in the air conditioning, but I pressed on. 

When I reached the big circle in the middle of the park, I hesitated in the shade on the path. I looked to my right, where I'd planned to go. That way leads to my favorite part of the park, where the path ends in a little loop overhung with giant trees. I'd had a lovely time studying my scriptures at a picnic table there the week before. Surveying the path, I realized there were zero trees shading the path as far as I could see.

To my left, the other picnic table where I've often meditated on my scriptures was sitting in full sun. That would not be an option. Then I gazed across the soccer field to the playground, half full of energetic children. Next to that was the basketball court, where a few teenagers were shooting baskets. The picnic tables over there were in full shade, but I craved silence. I sighed, poised to return home. 

No! I wanted to study my scriptures, and I wanted to do it surrounded by green trees and grass and blue skies, not dirty laundry. As soon as I set foot on the big circular sidewalk leading to the playground, the sun beat down on me mercilessly. The soccer field was empty at this hour, so I made a sudden left and cut across the grass.

Sweat was just beginning to trickle down my back when I reached the shade next to the playground. I settled onto one of the picnic table benches and pulled out a stack of cards. Immediately, a little red spider crawled onto my hand. I crushed it without a thought, then felt bad. Keeping my eyes on the little business cards where I have copied perhaps 20 precious memory passages that God has given me over the last couple of decades, I tried to imagine that I was alone.

I whispered verse after verse to myself, marveling that I hardly needed to glance at the cards even though I often go months without pulling them out to refresh my memory. The familiar, beloved words filled my mind and heart as the voices of children and teenagers receded out of my consciousness. A cool breeze lifted my hair, and I smiled. "Thank you," I whispered.

One thing that I couldn't block out was the parade of spiders that crawled over my hands, my legs, my phone, and the little black bag where I keep the scripture cards. I carefully knocked each one away. The only other thing that I smashed was a fire ant that bit my calf. 

After about 20 minutes, I'd had all of the spiders I could take, so I stacked my cards and stowed them in the bag, inspecting for wayward critters before I fastened the Velcro. Considering my options for returning home, I decided to walk away from the big circle and over the other bridge, hoping there might be more shade on that path. 

As I crossed the bridge, I noticed two hand-painted plaques leaning against the low concrete wall, each decorated with random embellishments such as angels and rainbows. "Add a painted stone," the first said. The second said, "To see how long I can get." What on earth was that supposed to mean?

Then my eyes moved lower, to a line of painted stones that extended all the way down the wall and partway down the path. There were humble colored rocks in every color, along with elaborately decorated stones with googly eyes and glitter. How wonderful, I thought. I don't know why, but that crooked line of painted stones really moved me. One person, probably a child, had made a sweet gesture and invited others to do the same... and they had answered the call. 

I looked back and forth down the line of stones and took it all into my heart, a smile stretching across my face, the hot sun momentarily forgotten.

As I cut across the Frisbee golf course under the shade of two giant trees, I opened my mouth and let the joy bubble out. "Thank you for putting beauty in the heart of man," I whispered. A Bible verse tickled the back of my mind, just out of reach. Beauty in the heart of man.... Or was it eternity in the heart of man? Maybe it was both, I decided. God set the beauty of eternity in the heart of man, so that we could look up from the darkness around us and the tedium of everyday life and take pleasure in all the little joys around us, so that we could find beauty and make beauty, and we could do it together. 

On the short walk home, I thanked God for the painted rocks, the shade, the breeze, the scriptures, and even for the labor unions who gifted us with weekends. Back at the house, I measured out 12 grams of coffee beans and poured them in my little hand grinder, mixing in some vanilla flavored chicory. I only drink one cup of coffee a week, which is one cup more than my doctor wants me to have. That makes it extra special. I let the coffee steep for four minutes in the French press and then pressed the plunger down.

Turning my back on the dirty dishes, I carried the coffee to my room and plunked down in my favorite easy chair. I read my Jesus Calling devotional, which never gets old even though I'm now on my third year of daily readings. Next, I wrote three pages of increasingly messy cursive in my gratitude journal; I've been making myself write in cursive for the last several weeks because I don't like to think that cursive is a dying art, and also because I've read that it's good for the brain. In any case, I don't like my sloppy writing, but it does get easier the more I do it. 

After all that gratitude, my chores were calling to me, but then I remembered that I'd been unable to complete an entry in my latest Write the Word journal a couple of days before because my pen had run out of ink. My work could wait a few more minutes, I decided. I flipped to the page marked with a ribbon and then wrinkled my forehead in confusion. The date of the entry was May 8, 2021. Oh, this was the wrong journal. It was the first of my three Write the Word journals, a gift from my boss a couple of years ago. 

Since the book was in my hands, I decided to read an old entry. I love looking back on old journal entries, like stepping back in time. I riffled through the pages, wondering where I should read. I finally settled on the second entry, from May 5, 2021. My eyes widened when I read the verse I had copied in neat, crisp print. You can probably guess what verse it was, but I was flabbergasted!

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men, yet they cannot fathom the work that God has done from beginning to end.

I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and do good while they live, and also that every man should eat and drink and find satisfaction in all his labor—this is the gift of God. (Ecclesiastes 3:11-13) 

Below the passage, I had written, "How can God make everything beautiful? I know He does it in His time, in its time. It takes time to build beauty, and in time that beauty becomes visible.... I love it that God thinks the best thing we can do is rejoice. He wants us to have joy and do good, and to enjoy doing good. He wants us to eat and drink and enjoy the fruit of our labor. That feeling of 'job well done' is God's gift to us." 

I left that other journal entry unfinished so I could revel in this sacred echo. I'd been right. The passage was about both eternity and beauty. Also, it showed me that God had enjoyed hearing my list of everyday joys just a few minutes before.

I set the journal back in the bin tenderly and set about my weekend chores with a light heart. Oh yes! God still speaks to me. But only when I take the time to listen.

More beauty in my day:

Allyson's Last Homecoming Dance

Best Friends