Proverbs 1:8 Pay close attention, friend, to what your father tells you; never forget what you learned at your mother's knee. Wear their counsel like flowers in your hair, like rings on your fingers.
We all grew up with this familiar children’s poem:
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Well, don’t believe everything you read. I was born on a hot Sunday afternoon in October, 1955. “Sunday’s Child” doesn’t apply to me at all. When we arrived home from the hospital, my grandmother stayed at the house to help my mother. I was such a good baby, grandma left after two days. My mother claims my grandmother slammed the back door on her way out and I woke up screaming and stayed that way. I remained the child who constantly baffled my mother. From infancy on I never slept more than three hours at a stretch. I was into everything. By the time I was three, mother finally quit getting up at two, three or four in the morning to check out the source of the noise. She’d either find me riding on the rocking horse or assembling something in the dark. I was never the huggy-kissy-feely daughter. The dog was more receptive to being held and cosseted than I was. We never formed that mother-daughter bond my younger sister shared with her. I didn’t require “nurturing” so I never experienced those attributes that made my mother truly special to the world.
I knew she was talented because those talents manifested themselves in me, but I took them for granted. I knew she was kind and gentle, yet I never stood still long enough to admire those qualities, much less learn from them. Harsh words were never on her tongue, even when life dealt her cruel blows. If anyone needed anything - she was there. She cut and styled the neighbors’ hair. She served her church in every capacity possible. She was always tending to someone else’s needs and always placed herself last. She was a genuine nurturer. I breezed through life right past her and was blind to all of this until I experienced motherhood on my own. Yet, I still failed to appreciate her as a mother. I neglected the opportunities to love and enjoy this woman who represented the embodiment of God’s grace. I did not see all that was good and wonderful and spiritual about her until I began to see her fade away before my very eyes.
Now it is time for me to be the nurturer. It is time for the child to become the parent. Mom’s diagnosis of Alzheimer’s has brought my plans in life to a screeching halt. The disease is slowly altering the woman I wish I had taken the time to get to know better. Instead of stamping my feet and crying, “This isn’t fair.” I sat down in despair and prayed a very selfish prayer. At the end of that prayer, God placed on me a peace that passes understanding. I never fully understood that phrase until now. There really is no understanding some of the things we are given to deal with. There is only God’s peace that He, alone, can give you when you place the obstacles of life in His hands.
Our guest preacher one Sunday asked what we thought God looked like. Being me, the first image that entered my mind was a good looking, aging Charlton Heston with a salt and pepper beard and flowing hair. Then I envisioned a magnificent sunset with intense, radiant colors that wash over you and bathe you in warmth. However, as I sat and wrote this piece, I realized my true image of God was mounted on the wall above me in my office. Not a masterful painting with bold colors, but a faded print of a pair of outstretched hands. For me, God is represented by those hands stretched out as if to say, “Come. Place your burden here. I will take that burden, along with all your other burdens you may be holding onto. And see, there is still room for me to hold you.”
So I have placed myself in those hands, trying to live each day with some measure of grace, knowing that I will ungracefully fail because I am human. God knows this. It is why he gave me the ability to write poetry to better describe how I feel. It is why he gave me music to be beautiful with or to vent my frustrations on while pounding with all my might on the keyboard. It is why he gave me a sense of humor to mask the pain as I witness my mother slowly become someone I do not know, slipping through the grasp I never had on her.
Don't live with regrets. Take the time to take hold of those you love. Fight for them. If your family is falling apart, stop and ask why it happened and back up the truck and start the journey over. If your spouse does something that goes on the Thou Shalt Not list, make sure it is truly a Thou Shalt Not list item and not something that might go on the Thou Maybe Ought Not But I Can Still Love You list. Don't be afraid to step forward and address issues or tell someone you love them. I failed to do that twice in my life. Once, just prior to my father's death I had the overwhelming urge to hug him and tell him I loved him and didn't. Now my second opportunity is passing me by. I spent a lot of money buying beautiful cards for my mother that said, "I love you." but I can't recall when I ever said it out loud. It will be the first thing I do when I walk in the door this evening.
The Man I Only Thought I Knew
1 Samuel 2:7 (New International Version)
7 The LORD sends poverty and wealth; he humbles and he exalts.
This is a concept I did NOT understand as a Youth. At All.
When I was young, my father was a high school history teacher in our small town of Bridge City, Texas. But he wasn’t just an educator. He was also a mentor to many of the troubled teens who were shipped over from Port Arthur. When expulsion from Port Arthur ISD was their only prospect, they were packed off to Bridge City for men like my father to mold into human beings. He enjoyed teaching. He enjoyed young people. He even enjoyed driving the noisy school bus.
However, in 1966 he decided to leave his position as teacher and went to work for Firestone, which would give him the money to invest in his education for his Master’s degree in Elementary Education. He paid for most of his educational expenses up front so he wouldn’t have to worry about it through the ensuing year or the next. For all his intelligence, my dad was not a smart guy about some things. He also decided this would be a good year to tear off one end of the house to do an addition to ease our squalid little hovel-like living conditions….those were my only words to describe how we lived.
Within less than a year, I heard the word “strike” being discussed at the dinner table. Clueless as to what it meant, I was baffled by the conflict it seemed to present. Then it happened. There was no money. As months of this strike dragged on and dad continued to drive to Lake Charles to McNeese College, I noticed dad didn’t come home until late into the night. I was unaware that he was selling Lustre Craft pots door to door after college each night for us to survive.
Suddenly, the next disaster hit.
In the Fall of 1967, my mother fell ill and her local doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong. A few months later, she collapsed and nearly died. It was discovered that she was a severe diabetic and it had gone undetected and untreated for far too long. After her collapse and near death, mom’s return home left her with the inability to lift anything heavier than the clothes she put on. This put me, the oldest, in the position to oversee a brother two years younger and a sister seven years younger. Mother could no longer drive to pick me up from school after junior high marching band practice. While my friends rode in air conditioned cars, I was forced to walk home. I carried a French horn that, with the ancient wooden case, weighed more than my 67 whopping pounds. Once home, I did whatever chores needed to be done in a blazing hot, miserable, un-air conditioned house. There was no time to watch television - no problem there because WE DIDN’T HAVE ONE.
I was totally conscious of the fact that we were virtually poverty stricken. We weren’t just low income, we were flat broke due to the comedy of errors…my words again….that transpired before mother got sick. And all this was my FATHER’S FAULT.
We virtually did without Christmas that year. I wanted to ask out loud, “Why couldn’t dad go back to work anywhere else?” The strike lasted for 19 months. It was freezing cold that winter, and all we had was a wall of plastic on the north end of the house flapping in the wind from dad’s inept attempt at home remodeling. Why couldn’t he have nailed up some sort of wood? Oh, yeah, wood cost money and dad had already spent it on his education.
Easter 1969 rolled around. I eyed a cute pair of white pumps at the local dry goods store. (Sigh, I have shown my age. Note to self to put a footnote to explain what a dry goods store is to this generation.) All the girls bought their shoes at Nobles, and I yearned to be just like all the rest. The price tag of $16.00 was beyond our income. My mother tried to explain this to me. I didn’t like the answer I got, but took it as I heard mother silently weeping at the kitchen sink when I walked away. My resentment of my dad deepened. My mother should have never needed to cry over my desire to own a pair of $16 shoes.
Not long after Easter, my father brought home the children of a former student. The young mother could not cope with them, one of whom was still in diapers. She asked dad to take them in until she got a job in another town and got on her feet. He did. Add two more bodies to our tiny house and more work for my mother to do. My mother earned her wings and stars in those years. I don’t know how we survived. Mother had to be much stronger than her illness would allow her to be. The mound of diapers to be washed morphed into baskets of training pants to be dealt with. Two years passed and I was older, but no wiser.
To escape, I lived in the band hall. I stayed in my bedroom pounding on an old upright piano. I rode my bicycle all over town to clean houses and do ironing for my aunt and her ‘wealthier than we were’ neighbors. Anger and resentment seethed in my young, ignorant body. I wedged a space between my mother and myself. I was closer to my friends than I was to my family. I hated what my home life was like and vowed I would make my own way in life and everything would be different. Instead of clothes from the local retailer I was the girl wearing home-made outfits. Sewing was another talent I received from my mother, but failed to realize its wealth at the time. By 8th grade I was making most of my own wardrobe.. and I was the brunt of many jokes in the looks-popularity-fashion world of cruel school-age kids. I was the outsider and that ‘person known as Cheryl Earles’ needed die an unacknowledged death in my own heart. I even erased my image in my school yearbooks. I buried myself in novels with perfect Victorian settings, full of elegance and beauty. (I failed to see that air conditioning was not in that lifestyle, either.) I created a sense of independence and self-reliance that would take me through my adult years. I honed my musical talents and discovered that I could write music and poetry. I perfected a life of order and precision in my mind that would make me the business woman I would come to be in the future. Most of all, I created a hardness in my young, stupid heart and, lastly, my parents seemed oblivious to my miserable plight.
Time rolled on. I became an adult and a mother myself. They say time heals all wounds, but they don’t mention the scars. What happens to them? I now know. They remain pinned to you as badges of courage or cowardice, honor or shame - but they remain part of you nonetheless. The years of anger and resentment faded and I came to know my parents as my friends. I blinded myself to the years of junior high and high school. They were dreadful memories of a homely girl with freckles.
Through these years, dad had long since received his Masters and had returned to teaching on the elementary school level at E.E. Sims Elementary. Around 1982 my father and I opened a weekend antique shop on the side. We came to be shopping buddies and good friends over the next four years. On Saturday, April 12, 1986 I was working the booth with dad at the flea market. When it was time to close up shop, he was arranging furniture with his back turned to me. I had this impulsive urge to hug him. This took me totally aback because I have never been the huggy-kissy-feely person in the family. As was typical for me, I resisted. But that moment of hesitation I have come to bitterly regret.
Two days later, on the night of April 14, 1986, I received the call that dad had a heart attack and they were taking him to Orange Memorial Hospital. I looked at my husband, and with a calmness I cannot believe I had, I told him not to speed. I knew my dad was gone. My world changed in an instant. Once again, I closed off my heart. I was the strong one who helped mother make funeral arrangements. I even played the piano at the funeral service without shedding a tear, and, from the piano bench, I took a moment to glance at the church. The church could seat over 600 and it was packed. The isles were full. People were gathered outside the doors - all for a man I only thought I knew. The church was full of people who knew him wearing other labels: teacher, mentor, counselor, deacon of the church, bus driver who listened to their stories, the bus driver who could shift a bus so smoothly the cheerleaders could put their make-up on in the bus, and the man on the playground the children with no love at home gravitated to and clung to for affection. My own memories washed over me. They mixed good and bad and clouded over the hazy years of my painful youth. Dad was many things, but one silent group of mourners caught my attention. There was a solemn row of police officers in full dress uniform standing shoulder to shoulder at the very back of the sanctuary. The mystery would not be revealed to me until my class reunion many years later.
We buried my father in Oklahoma. In the twenty-plus years that followed, I didn’t even go back to see the headstone. I closed one of the doors of my life. I shed tears only once when he died. My next set of tears were of remorse and sorrow at the realization that I did not know enough about him to know what a fine man he was.
Years passed. As I was attending my 30-year class reunion, in the midst of all the laughter, the noise and my sheer delight to discover that Cheerleader Bottled Blond Barbie was hit by the Gravity and Twinkie Time Machine, I learned one of my life’s most valuable lessons.
The older brother of a classmate was on duty as security for the evening of that reunion. He recognized me and introduced himself as Officer R.M. [initialed because I have not secured permission to use his name] In our conversation, R.M. was quick to tell me he knew my father and was proud to have been in possession of our city’s best-kept secret. I voiced my curiosity and he went on to unfold a tale that astonished me.
Officer R.M. was one of those kids from Port Arthur everyone wrote off. He met my dad on the wrong end of a paddle one day in high school. After that ‘discussion’ was over, my father offered him the chance to be on a committee for the senior trip to Carlsbad Caverns. R.M. was astounded. He said his life did an about-face that day. R.M. graduated from Bridge City High School in 1963. After college, he went to the police academy and returned to our home town and settled down. On Christmas Eve in 1967, the police received a call that there was a man in the poorest [and I mean the poorest] neighborhood in town who appeared to be sneaking from house to house. This was the type of neighborhood that was no stranger to gunfire. They went on the call, and, sure enough, they saw a figure lurking in the shadows. They hit the lights. The culprit froze in the high beams of the law. R.M. and his partner were stunned at whom they had cornered - their former high school history teacher - my father. Upon questioning him, the officers learned that this man was not going door to door stealing from the poor at Christmas time. He was leaving packages and food at the houses of children he knew had nothing for Christmas. He had been doing this for years prior to being caught that night. When his own children would be getting very little for Christmas, my father spent the rest of his money to ensure that these children would have at least a small token of something as a gift to put under their tree and food for their table. Dad swore the officers to secrecy and, from that year on, these two police officers guarded my father on his mission. R.M. also informed me that this wasn’t a Christmas-only event. My father secretly supplied shoes at the beginning of school when children wouldn’t play on the playground because their big brother’s shoes had blistered their feet raw, school supplies throughout the year, household supplies and toiletries and, most of all, clothing when children showed up at school wearing dirty, ragged clothes too small or too large for them. As duty partners changed, other officers joined in the ranks of the guardians of Mr. Earles’ missions.
At that class reunion in 2008, time rolled back to the memory of a row of polished officers who stood at the back of the church in April of 1986 quietly expressing their grief at the passing of a man they admired and served with pride. Years washed away and my memory of a pair of $16 shoes came rushing back. Even my own mother did not know why we didn’t have the money to buy them. Yet, there were children in our little town who received a pair of socks for the first time or shoes that wouldn’t hurt their feet were found on their doorstep. After a sense of total shame bathed me, I lifted my head with the second flow of tears to fill my eyes since dad’s loss. They were cleansing tears. They were tears of forgiveness for both my father and myself.
I learned a tremendous lesson that day. God truly sends poverty and wealth; and, indeed, he humbles and he exalts. I was humbled. My father was exalted and remains so today at the Maker’s side. He might be singing bass in the choir, or playing the piano somewhere, but rest assured, the children of heaven will be gathered around his gentle soul, just as the children of E.E. Sims Elementary did.
In memory of my father, W. D. Earles
7 The LORD sends poverty and wealth; he humbles and he exalts.
This is a concept I did NOT understand as a Youth. At All.
When I was young, my father was a high school history teacher in our small town of Bridge City, Texas. But he wasn’t just an educator. He was also a mentor to many of the troubled teens who were shipped over from Port Arthur. When expulsion from Port Arthur ISD was their only prospect, they were packed off to Bridge City for men like my father to mold into human beings. He enjoyed teaching. He enjoyed young people. He even enjoyed driving the noisy school bus.
However, in 1966 he decided to leave his position as teacher and went to work for Firestone, which would give him the money to invest in his education for his Master’s degree in Elementary Education. He paid for most of his educational expenses up front so he wouldn’t have to worry about it through the ensuing year or the next. For all his intelligence, my dad was not a smart guy about some things. He also decided this would be a good year to tear off one end of the house to do an addition to ease our squalid little hovel-like living conditions….those were my only words to describe how we lived.
Within less than a year, I heard the word “strike” being discussed at the dinner table. Clueless as to what it meant, I was baffled by the conflict it seemed to present. Then it happened. There was no money. As months of this strike dragged on and dad continued to drive to Lake Charles to McNeese College, I noticed dad didn’t come home until late into the night. I was unaware that he was selling Lustre Craft pots door to door after college each night for us to survive.
Suddenly, the next disaster hit.
In the Fall of 1967, my mother fell ill and her local doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong. A few months later, she collapsed and nearly died. It was discovered that she was a severe diabetic and it had gone undetected and untreated for far too long. After her collapse and near death, mom’s return home left her with the inability to lift anything heavier than the clothes she put on. This put me, the oldest, in the position to oversee a brother two years younger and a sister seven years younger. Mother could no longer drive to pick me up from school after junior high marching band practice. While my friends rode in air conditioned cars, I was forced to walk home. I carried a French horn that, with the ancient wooden case, weighed more than my 67 whopping pounds. Once home, I did whatever chores needed to be done in a blazing hot, miserable, un-air conditioned house. There was no time to watch television - no problem there because WE DIDN’T HAVE ONE.
I was totally conscious of the fact that we were virtually poverty stricken. We weren’t just low income, we were flat broke due to the comedy of errors…my words again….that transpired before mother got sick. And all this was my FATHER’S FAULT.
We virtually did without Christmas that year. I wanted to ask out loud, “Why couldn’t dad go back to work anywhere else?” The strike lasted for 19 months. It was freezing cold that winter, and all we had was a wall of plastic on the north end of the house flapping in the wind from dad’s inept attempt at home remodeling. Why couldn’t he have nailed up some sort of wood? Oh, yeah, wood cost money and dad had already spent it on his education.
Easter 1969 rolled around. I eyed a cute pair of white pumps at the local dry goods store. (Sigh, I have shown my age. Note to self to put a footnote to explain what a dry goods store is to this generation.) All the girls bought their shoes at Nobles, and I yearned to be just like all the rest. The price tag of $16.00 was beyond our income. My mother tried to explain this to me. I didn’t like the answer I got, but took it as I heard mother silently weeping at the kitchen sink when I walked away. My resentment of my dad deepened. My mother should have never needed to cry over my desire to own a pair of $16 shoes.
Not long after Easter, my father brought home the children of a former student. The young mother could not cope with them, one of whom was still in diapers. She asked dad to take them in until she got a job in another town and got on her feet. He did. Add two more bodies to our tiny house and more work for my mother to do. My mother earned her wings and stars in those years. I don’t know how we survived. Mother had to be much stronger than her illness would allow her to be. The mound of diapers to be washed morphed into baskets of training pants to be dealt with. Two years passed and I was older, but no wiser.
To escape, I lived in the band hall. I stayed in my bedroom pounding on an old upright piano. I rode my bicycle all over town to clean houses and do ironing for my aunt and her ‘wealthier than we were’ neighbors. Anger and resentment seethed in my young, ignorant body. I wedged a space between my mother and myself. I was closer to my friends than I was to my family. I hated what my home life was like and vowed I would make my own way in life and everything would be different. Instead of clothes from the local retailer I was the girl wearing home-made outfits. Sewing was another talent I received from my mother, but failed to realize its wealth at the time. By 8th grade I was making most of my own wardrobe.. and I was the brunt of many jokes in the looks-popularity-fashion world of cruel school-age kids. I was the outsider and that ‘person known as Cheryl Earles’ needed die an unacknowledged death in my own heart. I even erased my image in my school yearbooks. I buried myself in novels with perfect Victorian settings, full of elegance and beauty. (I failed to see that air conditioning was not in that lifestyle, either.) I created a sense of independence and self-reliance that would take me through my adult years. I honed my musical talents and discovered that I could write music and poetry. I perfected a life of order and precision in my mind that would make me the business woman I would come to be in the future. Most of all, I created a hardness in my young, stupid heart and, lastly, my parents seemed oblivious to my miserable plight.
Time rolled on. I became an adult and a mother myself. They say time heals all wounds, but they don’t mention the scars. What happens to them? I now know. They remain pinned to you as badges of courage or cowardice, honor or shame - but they remain part of you nonetheless. The years of anger and resentment faded and I came to know my parents as my friends. I blinded myself to the years of junior high and high school. They were dreadful memories of a homely girl with freckles.
Through these years, dad had long since received his Masters and had returned to teaching on the elementary school level at E.E. Sims Elementary. Around 1982 my father and I opened a weekend antique shop on the side. We came to be shopping buddies and good friends over the next four years. On Saturday, April 12, 1986 I was working the booth with dad at the flea market. When it was time to close up shop, he was arranging furniture with his back turned to me. I had this impulsive urge to hug him. This took me totally aback because I have never been the huggy-kissy-feely person in the family. As was typical for me, I resisted. But that moment of hesitation I have come to bitterly regret.
Two days later, on the night of April 14, 1986, I received the call that dad had a heart attack and they were taking him to Orange Memorial Hospital. I looked at my husband, and with a calmness I cannot believe I had, I told him not to speed. I knew my dad was gone. My world changed in an instant. Once again, I closed off my heart. I was the strong one who helped mother make funeral arrangements. I even played the piano at the funeral service without shedding a tear, and, from the piano bench, I took a moment to glance at the church. The church could seat over 600 and it was packed. The isles were full. People were gathered outside the doors - all for a man I only thought I knew. The church was full of people who knew him wearing other labels: teacher, mentor, counselor, deacon of the church, bus driver who listened to their stories, the bus driver who could shift a bus so smoothly the cheerleaders could put their make-up on in the bus, and the man on the playground the children with no love at home gravitated to and clung to for affection. My own memories washed over me. They mixed good and bad and clouded over the hazy years of my painful youth. Dad was many things, but one silent group of mourners caught my attention. There was a solemn row of police officers in full dress uniform standing shoulder to shoulder at the very back of the sanctuary. The mystery would not be revealed to me until my class reunion many years later.
We buried my father in Oklahoma. In the twenty-plus years that followed, I didn’t even go back to see the headstone. I closed one of the doors of my life. I shed tears only once when he died. My next set of tears were of remorse and sorrow at the realization that I did not know enough about him to know what a fine man he was.
Years passed. As I was attending my 30-year class reunion, in the midst of all the laughter, the noise and my sheer delight to discover that Cheerleader Bottled Blond Barbie was hit by the Gravity and Twinkie Time Machine, I learned one of my life’s most valuable lessons.
The older brother of a classmate was on duty as security for the evening of that reunion. He recognized me and introduced himself as Officer R.M. [initialed because I have not secured permission to use his name] In our conversation, R.M. was quick to tell me he knew my father and was proud to have been in possession of our city’s best-kept secret. I voiced my curiosity and he went on to unfold a tale that astonished me.
Officer R.M. was one of those kids from Port Arthur everyone wrote off. He met my dad on the wrong end of a paddle one day in high school. After that ‘discussion’ was over, my father offered him the chance to be on a committee for the senior trip to Carlsbad Caverns. R.M. was astounded. He said his life did an about-face that day. R.M. graduated from Bridge City High School in 1963. After college, he went to the police academy and returned to our home town and settled down. On Christmas Eve in 1967, the police received a call that there was a man in the poorest [and I mean the poorest] neighborhood in town who appeared to be sneaking from house to house. This was the type of neighborhood that was no stranger to gunfire. They went on the call, and, sure enough, they saw a figure lurking in the shadows. They hit the lights. The culprit froze in the high beams of the law. R.M. and his partner were stunned at whom they had cornered - their former high school history teacher - my father. Upon questioning him, the officers learned that this man was not going door to door stealing from the poor at Christmas time. He was leaving packages and food at the houses of children he knew had nothing for Christmas. He had been doing this for years prior to being caught that night. When his own children would be getting very little for Christmas, my father spent the rest of his money to ensure that these children would have at least a small token of something as a gift to put under their tree and food for their table. Dad swore the officers to secrecy and, from that year on, these two police officers guarded my father on his mission. R.M. also informed me that this wasn’t a Christmas-only event. My father secretly supplied shoes at the beginning of school when children wouldn’t play on the playground because their big brother’s shoes had blistered their feet raw, school supplies throughout the year, household supplies and toiletries and, most of all, clothing when children showed up at school wearing dirty, ragged clothes too small or too large for them. As duty partners changed, other officers joined in the ranks of the guardians of Mr. Earles’ missions.
At that class reunion in 2008, time rolled back to the memory of a row of polished officers who stood at the back of the church in April of 1986 quietly expressing their grief at the passing of a man they admired and served with pride. Years washed away and my memory of a pair of $16 shoes came rushing back. Even my own mother did not know why we didn’t have the money to buy them. Yet, there were children in our little town who received a pair of socks for the first time or shoes that wouldn’t hurt their feet were found on their doorstep. After a sense of total shame bathed me, I lifted my head with the second flow of tears to fill my eyes since dad’s loss. They were cleansing tears. They were tears of forgiveness for both my father and myself.
I learned a tremendous lesson that day. God truly sends poverty and wealth; and, indeed, he humbles and he exalts. I was humbled. My father was exalted and remains so today at the Maker’s side. He might be singing bass in the choir, or playing the piano somewhere, but rest assured, the children of heaven will be gathered around his gentle soul, just as the children of E.E. Sims Elementary did.
In memory of my father, W. D. Earles
The Watercolor
As the hues of the watercolor diminishfrom bold shades to whispers of pale tint,
the woman I know slips slowly away.
Oft time she looks without seeing, hears without understanding
and waivers on the brink of no longer being part of this world.
Her finger is carefully placed upon the printed page,
purposefully touching each word to no avail.
At the end of the line
they are merely a collection of images that,
yet again, mean nothing.
She is frightened of the monster ravaging her mind
and looks to me for an answer.
I have no words,
for I cannot utter the name of her nemesis
in fear that she will hear it in a moment of clarity
and realize the dreadful fate placed before her.
Nor can I address it aloud
because it resounds like a gavel
imposing an unspeakable sentence
we do not wish to hear pronounced.
Myself? I am imprisoned with her
living my days trying not to weep for the loss of an artist,
a seamstress,
a nurturer of all creatures great and small,
a mother.
Feigning strength,
I console her with words of silken lies,
because words of truth would be as cruel as her destiny.
Helpless, I shall continue to watch her fade away,
like a canvas left hanging in the noonday sun
until the image is consumed by its rays;
and I silently remain keeper of the knowledge
that black darkness will soon step in
where there once was color and light.
watercolor art by my mother, Mary Earles,
diagnosed with Alzheimer’s 2007
diagnosed with Alzheimer’s 2007
Touching Others In Ways Unknown
Galatians 5:22
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…
All he did was stand on the side of the road - a simple enough thing to do. He didn’t part the waters. He didn’t heal the sick. He didn’t pound on someone’s door and preach the gospel to them. Nonetheless, he impacted the life of someone in a way he could not have fathomed. He merely stood still and touched the soul of a stranger, and that touch rippled out to wash over the hearts and lives of many others.
On an ordinary day, an extraordinary moment transpired. Scores of duties demanding our attention fell away. All the great things we thought we accomplished were quickly overshadowed. The tasks at hand became unimportant when we heard the story of how one of our very own left his Christian stamp on another human being. The story unfolded as the office assistant relayed the details of a phone call she received.
The caller was a local business operator inquiring about a young man who everyone in the community saw walking about town on a daily basis. This young man stopped by his establishment on that hot July day and asked for permission to sit and cool off. He first introduced himself as a member of our church. His name, Steve Jones, came second to the church so dear to his heart. Steve was dressed in a full suit and tie and was carrying a United States flag. As the businessman brought Steve a glass of water, Steve went on to explain that he was waiting for the funeral procession of a fallen soldier from a nearby town to travel north on the interstate. He wanted to stand and salute as the procession passed by, but the heat was so intense he needed a few moments of relief. Steve rested a short spell, but hurried back to his post on the roadside in the direct sunlight of midday. He stood there - quiet, solemn, still, patient, reverent - for the better part of two hours. The businessman stood in the shop windows watching and wondering if he should call Steve back in to the comfort of air conditioning. All he knew about Steve was his name and the fact that he belonged to League City United Methodist Church of League City, Texas. He was so moved by the steadfast convictions of this young man that he picked up the phone, and, with a lump in his throat, made the call to the church office. The gentleman told of how Steve's unwavering resolution to give honor to one he did not know, despite the unbearable heat, stirred his heart and he simply had to tell someone. Thus the story began its journey, its mission, its purpose of proving that God’s movement among us happens in the most unique ways. Steve's natural order of living his life as a Christian and a representative of his church became a testament of faith to this business man, who passed his impression to the church office assistant, who then relayed the story to me. As soon as I heard them, the words traveled from my ears to my heart and flowed out of my hands onto my keyboard to be shared with everyone.
One never knows the thumbprint we leave on the lives of others as we walk through our daily routines. As for myself, I find that I am constantly moved by the actions of this fine young man. Steve’s devotion to God and to his church is apparent in his every word and step. His sense of humor is a never ending joy. The fact that he is unashamed to stop, close his eyes and say, “Thank you, Jesus.” for the least little thing, whether it be in public or in private, keeps me humbly reminded of how I should strive to be. He loves to hear stories of good deeds, reports of restored health for friends and loved ones, and he feels genuine pain and angst when learning of loss, illness or hardship. Steve takes absolute delight in giving, and yet he is amazed when he is the recipient of gifts. His list of friends includes the names of famous baseball athletes and television stars, and yet he thinks nothing of his ties to such worldly greatness. Rather than promoting his personal connection to celebrities, he takes pride in telling how these persons of importance give their time to worthy causes for children dealing with illness - something close to Steve's own heart as a survivor of cancer and a stroke at a very young age. Steve’s honesty and candor are his shield against the harsh realities of our world. His trust and love of his fellow man make up his sword which cuts through the barriers of life that I could not imagine facing. Steve is the kind of person who inspires good thoughts and works of us. He prompts us to reflect on our own lives. But Steve would be the last person to lay claim to his title of disciple. If Steve Jones had lived in Christ's time, Jesus would have reached for his hand and said, “Truly, you are an example of going forth in faith. ”
I will be enternally grateful to God for the gift of Steve Jones to this world. I hope his story leads readers to look around them to find the 'Steves' in their midsts. These friends are jewels God has sprinkled upon the earth for us to cherish. While they don't always shine as bright as other, more perfect, gem stones, and they may not be cut to the precise specifications we often expect, their value is far beyond measure.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness…
All he did was stand on the side of the road - a simple enough thing to do. He didn’t part the waters. He didn’t heal the sick. He didn’t pound on someone’s door and preach the gospel to them. Nonetheless, he impacted the life of someone in a way he could not have fathomed. He merely stood still and touched the soul of a stranger, and that touch rippled out to wash over the hearts and lives of many others.
On an ordinary day, an extraordinary moment transpired. Scores of duties demanding our attention fell away. All the great things we thought we accomplished were quickly overshadowed. The tasks at hand became unimportant when we heard the story of how one of our very own left his Christian stamp on another human being. The story unfolded as the office assistant relayed the details of a phone call she received.
The caller was a local business operator inquiring about a young man who everyone in the community saw walking about town on a daily basis. This young man stopped by his establishment on that hot July day and asked for permission to sit and cool off. He first introduced himself as a member of our church. His name, Steve Jones, came second to the church so dear to his heart. Steve was dressed in a full suit and tie and was carrying a United States flag. As the businessman brought Steve a glass of water, Steve went on to explain that he was waiting for the funeral procession of a fallen soldier from a nearby town to travel north on the interstate. He wanted to stand and salute as the procession passed by, but the heat was so intense he needed a few moments of relief. Steve rested a short spell, but hurried back to his post on the roadside in the direct sunlight of midday. He stood there - quiet, solemn, still, patient, reverent - for the better part of two hours. The businessman stood in the shop windows watching and wondering if he should call Steve back in to the comfort of air conditioning. All he knew about Steve was his name and the fact that he belonged to League City United Methodist Church of League City, Texas. He was so moved by the steadfast convictions of this young man that he picked up the phone, and, with a lump in his throat, made the call to the church office. The gentleman told of how Steve's unwavering resolution to give honor to one he did not know, despite the unbearable heat, stirred his heart and he simply had to tell someone. Thus the story began its journey, its mission, its purpose of proving that God’s movement among us happens in the most unique ways. Steve's natural order of living his life as a Christian and a representative of his church became a testament of faith to this business man, who passed his impression to the church office assistant, who then relayed the story to me. As soon as I heard them, the words traveled from my ears to my heart and flowed out of my hands onto my keyboard to be shared with everyone.
One never knows the thumbprint we leave on the lives of others as we walk through our daily routines. As for myself, I find that I am constantly moved by the actions of this fine young man. Steve’s devotion to God and to his church is apparent in his every word and step. His sense of humor is a never ending joy. The fact that he is unashamed to stop, close his eyes and say, “Thank you, Jesus.” for the least little thing, whether it be in public or in private, keeps me humbly reminded of how I should strive to be. He loves to hear stories of good deeds, reports of restored health for friends and loved ones, and he feels genuine pain and angst when learning of loss, illness or hardship. Steve takes absolute delight in giving, and yet he is amazed when he is the recipient of gifts. His list of friends includes the names of famous baseball athletes and television stars, and yet he thinks nothing of his ties to such worldly greatness. Rather than promoting his personal connection to celebrities, he takes pride in telling how these persons of importance give their time to worthy causes for children dealing with illness - something close to Steve's own heart as a survivor of cancer and a stroke at a very young age. Steve’s honesty and candor are his shield against the harsh realities of our world. His trust and love of his fellow man make up his sword which cuts through the barriers of life that I could not imagine facing. Steve is the kind of person who inspires good thoughts and works of us. He prompts us to reflect on our own lives. But Steve would be the last person to lay claim to his title of disciple. If Steve Jones had lived in Christ's time, Jesus would have reached for his hand and said, “Truly, you are an example of going forth in faith. ”
I will be enternally grateful to God for the gift of Steve Jones to this world. I hope his story leads readers to look around them to find the 'Steves' in their midsts. These friends are jewels God has sprinkled upon the earth for us to cherish. While they don't always shine as bright as other, more perfect, gem stones, and they may not be cut to the precise specifications we often expect, their value is far beyond measure.
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