Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them [...]]]> I saw her for the last time on such a rare and wonderful autumn day as this. With fall crispness charging the air, our long, lingering stroll around the campus let her enjoy the unique texture of October breeze and sun upon her cheeks.

Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them for the last time. But it’s not ordained for us to know the times or epochs of our lives, to read with full comprehension the great plans indelibly etched upon the scroll of eternity.

I returned home that bright October afternoon to mundane duties far less significant than the one just completed. We retired as usual that evening, around 10:00, only to be jolted awake at 3:00 by the telephone call many parents silently fear deep within their souls.

“Jenny is in cardiac arrest,” the voice dutifully reported. “You can meet the ambulance at the emergency room.” We numbly scrambled to pull ourselves together.

We were there when the ambulance arrived, and a group of medical personnel hovered over Jenny, frantic in their attempts to revive her.

“How long has she been this way?” I asked, dreading the answer. The terse reply came: “Twenty-five minutes.”

“There’s no use continuing,” I acknowledged. “Let her go.” They questioned my decision. “Are you sure?” I was.

Then came a few moments alone with her, the formal documents to sign, the sober trip home, the decisions about what to do first, the long wait until daylight before making the requisite calls, the cleaning and the tentative plans.

Mary shopped for a suitable outfit, one of soft, respectful pink for the daughter who would, after all, need to look lovely for friends coming to see her for one last time. And she did. Mary called me from the funeral home. “I’ve just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.” And she had.

Along with Mary and me, her brother spoke at the funeral. Then we three offered our goodbyes–knowing they were for the last time.

On rare and wonderful autumn days such as this, I sometimes wonder: Is there really a heaven? What will it be like? Will we remember our times together? Will we know each other? Will we be able to take long, lingering strolls and feel the October breeze and sun upon our cheeks?

But in those moments of evaluation, Jesus’ assurances from the Bible spring up within me. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

Thus I seldom recall that particular rare and wonderful autumn day — October 2, 1995 — with any residual sadness. For it was, and still remains, one of the few great watersheds of our lives, defining the terrain and landscape in which we will live out our remaining years. And the last times of that unique October confirm the beliefs we truly call our own.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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—–

There are times [...]]]> I post this 1999 article today in memory of the 15th anniversary of the death of our daughter, Jenny. And though she has drifted away to a far greater extent than mentioned in the article, I have two great assurances: heaven is real, and I will soon be reunited with her–and her mom!

—–

There are times when I really miss our daughter Jenny. In so many ways, our brief time with her, which once seemed so protracted and difficult, is now like a dream. But occasionally something will happen to bring her back to my mind with a remarkable clarity and presence. And in such moments she still lives, and we are together once more in all the pleasantness of childhood.

That happened not long ago when my wife Mary showed me a card that she had made in 1980. With tears in her voice, she handed me the card and said, “See, Jenny really was here; this proves it.” On the card, one large owl and three smaller ones are sitting on a branch. Their bodies are actually our fingerprints embellished with the necessary features to fill out their forms.

The smallest owl is son Barrett’s pinkie at age seven weeks, and Jenny (age eight) is beside him on the branch. No matter how fuzzy her memory becomes, she was with us, and her little owl reverses the clock. Our family unit still faced many years of difficult struggle, but that didn’t matter. Inseparable, we were a happy little band.

But the absence ushered in by Jenny’s death in late 1995 has removed much of the tangible reality of her life. My not being able to physically behold her each day has eroded much of what was once so clear, undeniable, and seemingly unforgettable.

Though she was with us for almost 23 years, there are even some days now in which I actually don’t think of her. In a sense, she, and all the trappings and circumstances of her life, is adrift in my mind. There are those sobering flashbacks, however, when something as simple as the little owl revives her with a voice as fresh as if nothing had ever changed.

In such interludes she is somehow anchored, and time has momentarily paused. Seeing the card was such an occasion, a reminder that death will ultimately affect every human relationship. And no matter how close I have been to family and friends in life, I too will eventually begin a relentless drift away from them. How important it is to let down some “anchors” now — by investing in their lives while I have the chance.

THE SEA OF TIME

What once was near in bygone days,
Relentlessly has slipped away
‘Til what was real (and surely mine)
Is lost upon the sea of time.

Relationships I then held dear
Engaged my heart without the fear
That Death would ever intervene
To plunge the real into a dream.

But, unexpectedly He came
To exercise His prior claim,
Compelling me to loose the line
And launch her on the sea of time.

Occasionally, there’ll be a trace
That brings her fresh before my face –
An anchor in the sea of time –
Reminding me that she was mine.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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The owl card

Article about Jenny

Read the entire article here

Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last [...]]]> Childhood is incredibly fragile and fleeting. And though its passage can be gauged in finite increments of months and years, parents easily identify with the “first times” which punctuate their memories. Some, such as first words and first steps, are rarely forgotten.

Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last times.” The last ride on the merry-go-round and the last story book and the last tuck into bed all seem to make their escapes without any of the fanfare of the “first times.” We don’t even notice their absence until someone says, “When was the last time….”

But all the while, childhood–with its wonder and hope–has been slipping through our fingers. It once seemed to have substance, even an intense presence, but like the morning mist, it dispersed before our eyes. In its place we found something else: obstacles and challenges that we couldn’t see before because of the mist. It was then that a new set of perhaps-not-so-thrilling “first times” emerged, and some of them weren’t much fun.

Parents have told me some painful stories about their children in recent weeks. They simply don’t understand how such magical, enjoyable childhoods could have turned into horrifying nightmares.

The stories vary, or course, but there is a common thread: adult children are making some terrible choices. One has moved out because he doesn’t like being told what to do; he’s joining the Marines. Another has fallen into gross immorality inconsistent with her upbringing. A thirty-year-old can’t keep steady work. Another’s drug use has caused her to abandon her children. And these aren’t the only ones.

Why have such horrendous difficulties crept in when childhood seemed so pleasant? I don’t have any pat answers, but I will share one thing that surfaces far too frequently. Deal with it, and you solve a lot of the problems.

One father told me that his son was doing fine… until he fell in with bad friends. They partied so much that the boy had to drop out of college. Another young man was indignant when his father tried to control the company he was keeping; it was too late for intervention. Friends are so influential that parents and children need to learn how to spot and avoid the bad apples early on.

Though one’s physical companions are extremely important, the issue of “friends” is far broader. It extends to the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the books we read. In such activities, relationships and bonds develop, and bonds are hard to break.

“My best friend,” said tycoon Henry Ford, “is the one who brings out the best in me.” And that’s a good test. If a friendship–physical or otherwise–does not inspire one’s best, perhaps it should be avoided. Otherwise, the morning mist of childhood may suddenly swell into an angry storm from which there is no relief.

THE MORNING MIST

When morning mist is heavy and
It thickly blankets all,
It mutes the harshness of the world,
And problems seem so small.

It’s then that dreams can reach the sky
With future looming bright,
For nothing is impossible
When morning mist is right.

But as the day begins to dawn,
And vapors dissipate,
The challenges we see unveiled
Can cause our hearts to faint.

And though we cannot ever hold
The mist with tightened grip,
`Twill be so sad if when it’s gone
We’ve let its wonder slip.

For childhood is just such a mist
So quickly come to naught
And often taking with it all
The magic that it brought.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, [...]]]> I write this on the eve of Father’s Day–my first as a grandfather and my son’s first as a father. Thus I evaluate fatherhood by my own experience, both failure and success, and offer a few characteristics of the ideal father I wish I had better exhibited:

Fathers go to work when they don’t want to, listen when they need to, and sacrifice when they ought to.

Fathers love their families without responding to unlovely attitudes or actions. And they endeavor to live in such a way that they don’t have to regret their own words and deeds.

Fathers cry tenderly over sick pets, bury them when they die–and comfort their grieving children. And fathers who have suffered the loss of a child or a mate struggle to rebuild normal lives despite the overwhelming emptiness and seeming unfairness.

Fathers laugh at children’s jokes that aren’t funny–and sputter to keep a straight face when children’s serious efforts go humorously awry. They embrace a child’s crude, handmade Valentine as if it were a Rembrandt.

Quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger, father’s discipline in love but never ridicule or embarrass.

Fathers say “I was wrong” more often than “You were wrong.” They easily confess their own mistakes and give their best efforts to straighten them out. Fathers generously sprinkle “I love you” and I’m proud of you” into their conversations.

Fathers readily tear down their own dreams to build up their children’s. And they remain faithful to their flock despite the lure of “greener pastures.”

Fathers learn to do important stuff like toss balls, dash through sprinklers and lie on the driveway to gaze at the stars. They bend low to kiss away hurts and wipe away tears. They weep at graduations and weddings, realizing how quickly their children have grown up and away.

Rather than “stuff,” fathers give better gifts to their children: patience, humility, honor, truth and duty. And they understand that respect must be earned, not demanded.

Fathers know that they may be the only visible earthly example their families will every see of an invisible heavenly Father. And they eventually realize that their greatest battles will be won on their knees, not by their bank accounts.

Fathers grow into the men their mothers dreamed they’d be.

And when results just don’t seem to come and discouragement sets in, I offer this letter from my son. A reminder of how the seeds a father sows early on may unexpectedly bloom in a different season, he graciously overlooks failure but overstates success:

“I considered what I should get you for Father’s Day but couldn’t think of anything that you would really want or need. Then I thought of something I have never given you: the respect and gratitude that you deserve. So let me thank you for all the things I have never said ‘thank you’ for:

“For being the man who took me to the hardware store on Saturday mornings to buy gum. For being the man who never missed one of my ball games, made the most of the practices and even helped coach.

“For being the man who took off work every summer to take me to BMA Camp. For being the man who was on camping trips even when no other father was.

“For being the man who every day before work was on his knees in prayer for me.

“For being the man who is always willing to offer but never forcing wisdom. “For being the man who never said, “I told you so” when I didn’t take the advice I should have.

“For being the man who freely gave me all that you had, even when I didn’t thank you.

“For being the man who is the most constant example of a Christian I have ever known. For being the man who made decisions that Mom or I never had to worry about being right or wrong.

“Thank you, Dad, for being a father who had always gone above and beyond the call of duty and never complained. You are the best role model that I could hope for, and I hope that one day I can be half the man you didn’t have to be.

“Thank you for being my dad.”

Fatherhood is more of a possession to be won than a position bestowed, an honor tempered by its share of setbacks and disappointments, a crown unfit for the fainthearted or unwilling.

Copyright 2007 James McAlister

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Our son, Barrett, had come home unexpectedly, jostling a large sack. Had he been younger, I might have expected him to extract a kitten or other wayward animal.

"What's in the sack?" I suspiciously inquired. "You'll see," came his mysteriously reply.

His [...]]]> Just before midnight, the whistling outside put me on alert. Then the front door swung opened.

Our son, Barrett, had come home unexpectedly, jostling a large sack. Had he been younger, I might have expected him to extract a kitten or other wayward animal.

"What's in the sack?" I suspiciously inquired. "You'll see," came his mysteriously reply.

His hand withdrew a hefty book. Knowing my affinity for Father Brown and Sherlock Holmes, he had purchased a collection of detective stories for me. No special occasion.

"Is Mom asleep? I've got some things for her, too." Sensing the poignancy of the instant, I hastened to awaken her.

For her the sack produced THE LITTLE HOUSE, a special children's picture book. "I remember how you read this to me when I was little, and I wanted to buy it for you." Then out came another picture book. "Remember MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS, Mom? It reminds me of my childhood."

What stirred the slumbering past I know not, but such moments of pleasant remembrance are one of parents' greatest rewards. Seeking a glimpse into those halcyon days, I browsed an old journal this morning, picking random entries from when Barrett was six. And recalling the particular incidents my scribbles represented, I squeezed my eyes close to see them better.

"I took Barrett to the army surplus store in Little Rock. We also went to my office, the Territorial Restoration and McDonald's. He had a good time and thanked me for surprising him. He also told me that he was glad that I didn't have to work on Saturdays. So am I, for these chances will not come our way again."

"Barrett and I went to Zellner's to get some refrigerator boxes. We cut windows and doors into them to make a clubhouse to play in. This took a lot of time, but he is little only once, and the opportunity to do such things will be gone all too soon."

"Yesterday morning we went to buy valentines. He picked out a card and a bookmark as well as some note cards and envelopes. Then we went to Pinnacle Mountain to a watch a presentation on birds of prey, especially eagles."

"Barrett and I went to fly one of his kites. We let out all of our 500 feet of string, and the kite was nearly out of sight. As we rode our bicycles to Gatlin Park, he was singing, 'It's a good day to fly a kite!' I hope he will remember the time I have taken with him."

"Barrett went with me to see Jenny. We played hide-and-seek, had pine cone fights, looked at the Little Dipper, ran, and bought a candy bar. I hope that Barrett remembers our times with Jenny as pleasant."

"Barrett is taking a nap in the tent he bought with his own money. He is so excited."

"We ate out today and then ran through the sprinklers in the front yard. He thought that was great fun!"

"Barrett made such a fine Mother's Day present for Mary. He drew pictures and fixed up a box with a bow. He did it all by himself."

"As Barrett grows, I pray that we will always be good friends. My confidence is in the fact that we reap what we sow, and I have tried to sow the right things into his life."

The trophies of parenthood come when our children return to us in like kind–time for time, laugh for laugh, tear for tear–the costly treasure we labored to invest in them in childhood.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past. —– On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to [...]]]> Regular readers know our daughter Jenny, who died unexpectedly in October 1995. So in honor of Father’s Day, I share this brief essay about her that I prepared for a writing contest.

And to that I add a few journal snippets from Father’s Days past.
—–
On Friday we made another expedition to Deal Cemetery in Ladelle to decorate Jenny’s grave.

I miss Jenny and often feel sadness because I’ll never see her again in this life. She was, after all, one-third of my small flock, and I sometimes feel wronged over what seems to be her untimely death. Instead of being discouraged, however, I must learn to thank God for the 22 memorable years He gave us together.

Blind and profoundly retarded from birth, Jenny could see only with the eyes of her heart. But the future holds a particular hope, one expressed in the epitaph (from the Bible’s book of John) we had inscribed on her tombstone. When we finally stand face to face in heaven, I fully expect her to lovingly repeat those same words back to me.

But this time they will be more than mere symbols carved in cold, lifeless granite. Coming from the lips of one who never spoke a single word in her entire 22 years, I expect them to ring with the warm sweetness of all that heaven holds: “I once was blind, but now I see.” I anticipate that day and the healing it will bring.

And soon after the echoes of joy over newfound sight have died away, I expect–and even hope for–the pleasure of one word thus far denied me despite my desires and prayers to hear it. For with Jenny’s sight will come recognition of an intent face, one perceived but until then unseen. And then will come the one word fathers long to hear: “Daddy!”
—–
(1987) I received many nice presents for Father’s Day: swim suit, shorts and shirt, cap, framed picture that Barrett (age 6) had drawn, book, three tapes of music and some money from Jen. To be loved is a great reward, and I’m grateful.

(1993) I’ve had a wonderful Father’s Day breakfast. Mary and Jen gave me two missionary books to read to Barrett (age 12), and he gave me a knife just like his. I am so blessed.

(1995) I had a wonderful surprise present for Father’s Day–a Super Leatherman Tool. Because of the cost, I wouldn’t have bought one for myself, but Mary and Barrett (age 14) got one for me. And Barrett said in church that I was flexible, spending time with him and Jenny. So much here goes undone, but my time of opportunity with my children is rapidly vanishing.
—–
Times change. Diapers and infant seats quickly give way to jeans and training wheels and cars and college and independence…. and beyond.

But Father’s Day reminds me that the sometimes-rocky transition from breadwinner and trainer to counselor and friend is both necessary and non-optional.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

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Bulletin Insert

–Maudie Nell soaks in the river of sunlight flowing through the kitchen [...]]]> A few weeks ago, my wife's cryptic comment sent me scurrying: "All I want for Christmas is for you to pay attention to what you see and write a little diary of the details." So I tried to oblige–and enclose a few observations herein.

–Maudie Nell soaks in the river of sunlight flowing through the kitchen door. Normally unseen because of their blackness, however, tiny hairs on her back prickle up like corn stalks, individually glistening in the golden rays.

–With morning sun at his back, Brudderman's fur glows like burnished bronze. Looking closer, I see that his splendorous ruff has entrapped a tiny spider web.

–I stand beside the Buffalo River and photograph floating leaves. Colors vary from white to green to gold to red–with infinite degrees of brown in between. But the scarlet leaf in the center stands out like a sun encircled by orbiting planets.

–High on the bank above, a lone white gourd desperately clings to its vine. Having already released their respective grips, its former companions languish among a tangle of dead leaves and vines.

–Anna Baker enjoys a sleepover and holiday video marathon in our living room. How pleasant the noise and laughter, sounds peculiarly absent in recent months, fall upon my ears.

–On power lines at the corner of Hogan and Prince, a bunch of birds huddle to pool their warmth.

–As I crest the hill near Shady Valley, a distant snowy mountain top greets me. But there's no mountain, only layered clouds in clever disguise. I wish for my camera.

–Maudie Nell has developed an endearing pattern in the last month or so, a behavior activated by the sound of the recliner's foot rest. When I extend the foot rest in the mornings to read my Bible, she sidles near my right foot until I say, "Come on up, girl." Then she hops to a comfortable position on my left side, her paws often obscuring the text. I scratch her ears and tell her what a good kitty she is.

–I scrutinize the picture of Barrett (age five) and me on the refrigerator, marveling at our respective youthful appearances. But what impresses me is his resemblance to Jenny in the way he tilts his head to look up at me. I must have held Jenny in that same position 10,000 times, her face near mine as if she could actually see. I find myself in a more pleasant time when we were a foursome, and laughs outnumbered tears.

–In another picture eight years later, Wiggie and Peach lie together in Barrett's lap as he studies. They loved him intensely and were content just to be with him.

–Wispy clouds drift on the western horizon, set ablaze by the setting sun.

Our lives are a series of snapshots framed in ordinary events–but infinitely enriched with details only God lets us see.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

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In his single-digit years, our son sharpened the secret art of escape virtually nightly. Feigning invisibility, he clambered without fanfare to the back of our station wagon to squeeze into the [...]]]> Though escape is a game we learn as children, secret desires to disappear unnoticed–and to surface into a more agreeable situation–intensify in proportion to stress.

In his single-digit years, our son sharpened the secret art of escape virtually nightly. Feigning invisibility, he clambered without fanfare to the back of our station wagon to squeeze into the tiniest available cranny. And we, waiting until dead calm replaced the scuffling required to effect absolute disappearance, pretended indifference.

Ultimately, a frantic search for the missing boy ensued, punctuated with exaggerated intonations concerning his inexplicable evaporation. "Have you seen Barrett, Mom? I can't find him anywhere!" "No, Dad, he must not be in the car!" Then Mom lowered her voice for assumed secrecy–and a turn of the tables. "He's not here. Let's make our escape."

At that pronouncement of devious intent, the missing boy unfailingly sprang up, full of boisterous giggles. "You can't leave without me! I was here all the time!" His grand deception–and another foiled escape–consistently beset us with roars of laughter.

But along the road to grown-up life, we occasionally flirt with the seductive phantom of escape, fantasizing how a change might set aright the wrongs of a tilted world. Albert Einstein once identified the consummate escapists. "One of the strongest motives that lead men to art and science is escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one's own ever-shifting desires." Ordinary people escape, too.

For just an hour this past weekend, Lake Beaverfork beckoned us to flee to her, and we succumbed. There, lulled by her lapping, lapping, gently slapping waves, our souls soon sufficiently quieted to absorb the chirps of robins skritching for worms along the shore. Songbird serenades filled the intervals between silent swoops from ground to treetop and back.

Children's laughs wafted across the watery expanse, drowned from time to time by raucous roars of jet skis dangerously careening in crisscrossing arcs.

After rumbling into the parking lot on their Harley, a couple strolled hand in hand to lose themselves in their own flavor of escape on the isolated dock. And perhaps in flight from interfering friends, a student in the nearby pavilion furiously flipped pages and scribbled in her notebook.

Tempered by the unexpectedly cool but arid lake breezes drifting through our open windows, the mosaic of sights and sounds infused a particularly satisfying feel to the moment. And as Alice once stepped through the looking glass into an altered world, the book we read aloud flung open inviting portals to environs devoid of ragged edges and frazzled emotions.

Before departing, we prayed, thanking God for the basic, satisfying simplicities of His provision: the trees, birds, water, sounds–even the struggles motivating our escape. Thus refreshed by having shed tired selves for a brief hour, we went on about our former business.

Escapes for just a season last, but God's provisions never pass.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

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