I clearly recall having been discouraged and thinking about her death when without [...]]]> The unexpected death of Jenny, our firstborn and only daughter, ushered in a period of difficult adjustment for me and my family. And though I certainly believed in heaven, an unusual and instantaneous experience transformed my abstract conceptof heaven into a settled reality.

I clearly recall having been discouraged and thinking about her death when without warning my mind’s eye was opened, and I saw–truly saw that heaven was indescribably real and that all was well with Jenny and would be with me.

This may seem odd and far-fetched, but it is certainly not unique. Of his writing of the “Hallelujah Chorus” in Messiah, George Frederick Handel would say, “I thought I saw all Heaven before me, and the great God Himself.”

Out of those moments of enlightenment soon came this poem, a picture of the glories of heaven as described in Revelation 4 and 5:

HE WHO IS WORTHY AT LAST

I was discouraged when cares held my heart;
Troubles rolled in like the sea.
Cries to the Father that they might depart
Inclined His ear to my plea.
When through the Spirit enlightenment came —
A door to heaven for me —
Glorious splendor demanded surrender,
Compelling my heart to its knees.

Throned upon emerald, pavilioned in light,
Covenant rainbow arrayed;
Lightning and thunder acclaiming His might,
Holy, the Ancient of Days!
“Thou who art worthy of honor and pow’r,
Riches and blessing and praise,
For by Thy pleasure in limitless measure
Creation Thy glory displays!”

When none was worthy to open the book —
Sealed from eternity past —
Millions of angels their silence forsook,
Filling the heavens so vast:
“Weep not; behold Him! The Lamb that was slain
Now has the book in his grasp!
The Root of David, for ages awaited,
It’s He who is worthy at last!”

(Refrain)
Blessing and pow’r and glory to the Lamb.
Forever and ever, bowing to the Lamb.
He redeemed us to God
By the cross, the crown, the blood.
Blessing and pow’r and glory to the Lamb.

(Based on Revelation 4 & 5)

Copyright 1997 James McAlister

Not long afterwards I gave these words to young Zack Stanton, 14 years old at the time, who set them to music. Today Zack, now an accomplished composer and conductor, is on track to receive his Doctor of Musical Arts in Music Composition at the University of Texas at Austin in May 2012. And though he describes his youthful efforts at composition as “green,” I never tire of hearing “He Who Is Worthy At Last” and would love to see it published and used to encourage others.

Zack has given permission for me to post a copy of his original musical score along with a printer-friendly version of the words. As with other items on this web site, usage by individuals and churches is permitted, but other usages require written permission.

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Musical score

Zack Stanton website

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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

—–

My dad had two fears: the nursing home and a long-winded speaker at his funeral. He avoided the first; the jury still debates the second.

The call from his apartment [...]]]> I post this article today in memory of my dad, a World War II veteran who was proud of his service. He died in December 2005.

—–

My dad had two fears: the nursing home and a long-winded speaker at his funeral. He avoided the first; the jury still debates the second.

The call from his apartment building came unexpectedly on Thursday morning. “Your dad has passed out and has no blood pressure.” But when I got there minutes later, he had revived. Flat on his back in the floor, he joked with the paramedics hovering over him.

For a 93-year-old, he did well in the hospital, and we had expected to take him home after a brief stay. But all his systems shut down suddenly on Friday evening, “old and worn out” as he often told us.

Looking back, I realize that he had frequently exhibited a peculiar sense of timing at critical points of life, this one being no exception. Four years ago, for example, he decided that he needed to give up a house for a retirement apartment. Afterward, his health improved enough to extricate himself from all his medications.

Then just a month later he concluded that he needed to quit driving. In picking up the truck keys as he had asked, I was also removing his last grip on independence. But it was time.

He called me the Sunday before his death, worrying that the arrangements for his funeral wouldn’t be handled properly. I assured him otherwise but promised that my sister, Sara, and I would get all loose ends tied up that week. That satisfied him.

Then came the hospital trip on Thursday.

Perfectly alert but seemingly a bit tired, he began asking “Where is Sara?” around noon on Friday. Each time–there were probably a dozen–I explained that she was on her way. When he acknowledged her arrival, I went home to rest. Within a couple of hours, though, he was gone.

Sara, Mary, Barrett and I sat with him in the hospital room for two hours awaiting the arrival of the funeral director. We reminisced and laid plans: I would be the dreaded long-winded speaker.

Beyond that, I wrestled with a peculiar revelation. For from my birth 60 years before until that moment, there had always been someone older in my line of ancestry. But the years had gradually, relentlessly taken all except my dad. And in the instant of his death, I moved to the head of the line.

While he was at the head of the line, Daddy frequently apologized for living so long and for being so much trouble. At such times I assured him, “It’s no trouble. You’re doing the very best that you can.” “Thanks for saying that,” he’d invariably reply.

Don’t those at the head of the line want to be loved and accepted, valued and honored by those lined up behind them? Don’t they want their contributions and sacrifices acknowledged and appreciated? Indeed. I see that more clearly today from my new vantage point.

Though he never spoke to us about World War II for a full 55 years, “The War” was on his mind constantly for the last five. As he lay on his bed, the people, places, difficulties, and distresses of that great struggle marched through his mind with greater intensity than today’s news. He recently confessed, “The War just won’t turn me loose.”

The War finally released him on December 9, 2005. But I wonder this: what will have hold of me until I eventually relinquish my unenviable place at the head of the line? A worthy cause, I pray.

THE HEAD OF THE LINE

The line I’m in that’s been so slow
Moved up one step today;
My turn’s not far away.
On to the front I surely go.
Once far — but now so near –
I see the head from here,
Brought closer with each death, I know.

Copyright 2005 James McAlister

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Bulletin Insert

Following is a summarization of the tribute delivered [...]]]> From my own experience, the loss of a child is one of the most difficult experiences we ever face in life. The pain and darkness are indescribably intense, and there are no easy answers to comfort the hurting heart. Can there be any hope in such a situation?

Following is a summarization of the tribute delivered by Karen Gottsponer at the memorial service for her infant daughter, Rebekah Joy Gottsponer, who passed away on October 13, 2009. In it you will see great hope expressed even in the midst of overwhelming sorrow. I trust this will be a help to others who might find themselves in similar circumstances.

—–

Dale and I and our family want to thank you all for being here to support us during this time.

We are thankful for the time that God gave us with Rebekah Joy. I was so blessed to have had the privilege of carrying her for almost 37 weeks and blessed that the kids and Dale had an opportunity to place their hands over my belly and pray over her these past few months. Today is about honoring her and giving glory to God for her sweet little life.

As we have been ministered to this week by so many, we have come across numerous verses that have touched our hearts and have spoken life into our weary souls. Looking back, we realize that God in His tender mercy was drawing us toward Him and preparing us for what we would be facing.

As the reality of Rebekah’s passing began to seek in, I spent time in the hospital bathroom crying out to God to fill my hurting heart as only He could. I didn’t know if I could face another moment without my sweet baby girl. I felt that our hopes were lost, our dreams unfulfilled and our plans unfinished. But God whispered in my heart that this was not true. If this is what we believed we could not make it another day but would just crumble into a heap of despair.

Our hopes are not lost because we know we will see Rebekah’s sweet little face one day!

Because of Rebekah’s passing, our faith is being tested as never before. Do we believe everything we say we believe? It’s so easy to pray and praise God when our world is right. However, what will we do when things don’t go as planned? We now know we must cling to His word because He is really all we have. I was reminded of these verses: “These two things cannot change: God cannot lie when He makes a promise, and He cannot lie when He makes an oath. These things encourage us who came to God for safety. They give us strength to hold on to the hope we have been given. We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, sure and strong.” (Hebrews 6:18-19 NCV).

As women came in our hospital room with stories of their own losses, Dale and I realized that we too could “rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep” (Roman 12:15 NAS) because we had “been there” and felt that same grief.

And even though I have a baby book at home left uncompleted, God has reminded me that Rebekah’s sweet days were ordained in His book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:13-16).

We are scared of the “firsts” that are coming. The first time we are asked how many children we have. The first day Dale goes back to work. The first time we go back to church without Rebekah. The first time I am asked by someone who doesn’t know our loss, “How is your newborn?” Though these unknowns frighten us, God “will lead the blind by ways they have not known.” (Isaiah 42:16).

Dale and I had thought a lot about the tone we wanted this memorial service to take. Do we celebrate? Do we grieve? Do we mourn? We eventually decided that we wanted friends to see that we do indeed grieve for our little baby—so deeply from a place in our hearts we never knew existed.

But we also wanted them to see that we grieve with hope: hope of seeing sweet little Rebekah’s face again because we are in Christ. (1 Thes. 4:13-18). We can honestly say we can praise God through this storm. These past few days, His word seems sweeter, His grace ever present, His love surrounding.

We have been blessed in so many ways this past week: To know for sure the cause of little Rebekah’s death. To have a wonderful doctor who cared for me throughout my pregnancy and prayed and cried with us at the end. To have friends that immediately rallied around us and cried and prayed with us. To have a dear hospital staff member to take care of Rebekah when were not able and to minister to our weary hearts. To have friends that cared for our children, taxied them around, played Monopoly with them, took them out for shakes. To have children who helped run the household, cleaned bathrooms, greeted guests. To have family members who came with love and coworkers and neighbors who called, provided meals, shed tears, wrote words. And much more.

Thank you all from the bottom of our hearts. Thank you for walking down this path with us the first few days as we stumbled along. Though we know we have to walk alone now, we are reassured we aren’t really alone, for God is with us every step. And we know He will also bring people along our paths when we need them to help us in this journey.

May God show you how much each of you means to us. Thank you, and God bless you.

Copyright 2009 Karen Gottsponer — www. gottjoy.blogspot.com

THE HOPE

I weep for you my little one,
My heart is full of whys:
Why snatched from me so suddenly?
No answer satisfies.

I’ll never fully comprehend
The darkness in my soul,
But from my pain—and dawning bright—
A wonder now unfolds:

That God could take my deepest hurt
And from its depth extract
A hope in Him, a confidence,
A love that knows no lack.

Not even death with all its sting
Could ever steal from me
The wondrous hope we’ll meet again
And share eternity!

In Memory Of:
Rebekah Joy Gottsponer
October 13, 2009

Copyright 2009 James McAlister — www.james-mc.com

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Unlike [...]]]> After 30 months of agonizing preparation, countless prayers and the support of many who stood by me and helped me, I am now in a new house. I am thrilled for the fresh start in a place untainted by difficult memories, many brought on by the death of my mate and companion of 40 years.

Unlike the last move we made together in 2002, this one has brought me joy and thanks to God despite the fact that I’m now alone. The contrast between the two situations is so stark that I repost the following article written at that time as a reminder that hard times don’t last forever.

—–

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”

Washington Irving’s timeless thoughts bestow significance on a year succinctly characterized by a single word: tears.

Grueling and punishing, these past 12 months have slowly ground down both my enthusiasm and confidence. And like bogeymen lurking in the shadows, tears have flung themselves upon me at inopportune times.

Tears when our son moved out, a dramatic severing of the bonds of childhood with our last living offspring.

Tears upon leaving my employer–and the acquaintances–of 32 years. Another long-term kinship terminated to follow a shorter path.

Tears over relocating from our home of 20 years. Apart from physical complications, tearing ourselves out of intimate, familiar surroundings repeatedly inflicted emotional trauma. For there childhoods grew up and away, there the messenger of death called for our daughter, there gentle animal companions loved us and suffered and died.

Tears when gremlins of health conspired to plague us. Tears when the winds of favorable circumstances and relationships blew contrary. Tears when wrong prevailed–without rectification. Tears when dreams died but bitter disappointment flourished.

I don’t deny the power of tears. They have oft driven me to that secret place where one goes when there seems nowhere else to turn: to prayer. “When a man is at his wits’ end,” confides Oswald Chambers, “it is not a cowardly thing to pray….”

But though cowardly moments wilt my resolve, a Bible verse (Luke 18:1) blossoms with healing insight. “Now He [Jesus] was telling them a parable to show that at all times they ought to pray and not to lose heart.” When tears have bid heart to flee, prayer has shut the door.

For a brief interlude, tears have quitted. But knowing neither calendar nor clock, they will knock again in the night. And when they do, may their silent but compelling sincerity gain the ear of God alone who hears and answers prayer. For by our tears, He somehow waters the tiny seeds of hope growing deep within our hearts.

May that be sufficient and satisfy.

TO HIM ALONE WHO ANSWERS PRAYER

‘Tis God’s desire that we should pray and not lose heart
But cry to Him continually and have a part
In giving wings unto His plans from day to day
For bringing comfort to His own without delay.

For who can move the heart of Him who has the pow’r
To intervene and stay the loss of darkest hour?
‘Tis not the soul that’s never sunk into despair–
But ’tis the one whose only hope is answered prayer.

He prays the best who has the most to gain or lose
Through circumstances that he might not ever choose.
And by his tears to God alone who answers prayer,
The seeds of hope within his heart are watered there.

(Based on Luke 18:1-8)

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

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—–

We stood side-by-side, my son and I, gazing at the small photograph on [...]]]> I am posting this older article today both in memory and in honor of Allen Etheridge and Paul Harrison, two of my high school classmates (Crossett High School Class of 1963) who gave their lives in Vietnam. May God bless their families today.

—–

We stood side-by-side, my son and I, gazing at the small photograph on a tombstone. My son finally broke our silence: “Dad, he’s so young!” Yes, I thought, the very same age as you. And because of him — and so many of his companions — we had the privilege of even being there together.

He’s ever youthful in that picture, an 18-year-old soldier keeping a mute, timeless vigil over his own grave. Though we were alone that day, I’ve seen a woman there before, his mother perhaps. And the continual presence of flowers tells me that there is someone who can’t forget … and shouldn’t.

His life came and went so quickly. He was barely old enough to drive when he died for his country. For him it’s over, but not for his parents. They’re the ones who will visit his grave and pose the endless questions in their minds.

What would life have held had he lived? Would he have married and had children? How would he have handled joys and tears, success and failure? Would he have achieved prominence or obscurity, wealth or poverty?

And perhaps the most difficult question of all: Why my son?

Certainly he was spared the difficult trials that come so close on the heels of youth: struggling with jobs and families, making mistakes with mates and children, feeling the hurt of rejection from family and friends, seeing health ebb away.

In one sense, he’s forever held captive in the bloom of youth. Standing at attention in uniform, his picture reflects confidence, hope and courage. His is a warrior, strong and fit for battle. And that’s how he’ll be remembered.

The news that a child has been taken by death brings a numbing knot in the pit of the stomach. Can such a loss ever be soothed?

In November 1864, Abraham Lincoln faced that challenge. He wrote to console Mrs. Lydia Bixby, a widow who was believed to have lost five sons in the Civil War. “I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”

The young man in the photograph is a hero. When duty compelled him to forsake all for the cause of freedom, he obeyed. In his death, someone else’s son has perhaps spared me of the awful burden of loss that his family still carries. I am indebted, both to him and to them for that immeasurable sacrifice. And I thank God for him in the same breath that I ask God for a successful future for my son.

How ironic that death and life would be entwined in such a way. How tragic that we could ever forget what a great debt we owe for the freedoms we often so lightly esteem.

MIGHT-HAVE-BEENS

Some think that war’s a faceless game
And never feel the awful cost
Of blood that’s spilled in freedom’s name
Which mounts as mothers’ sons are lost.

I’ve seen a grave one mother tends,
Her inner battles not yet won,
Still clinging to the might-have-beens
That were not buried with her son.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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When they arrived at the garden, however, astonishment gripped their hearts. The stone had already been set [...]]]> A stone presented a formidable problem that first resurrection morning. Massive and threatening, it blocked the entrance to Jesus’ tomb for the women needing to anoint His body. “Who will move it for us?” they puzzled–but found no answer.

When they arrived at the garden, however, astonishment gripped their hearts. The stone had already been set aside, allowing them to enter the tomb. But the dead Jesus they expected to find was not there! Risen, an angel told them, just as He had said.

That great stone of worry, the deepest of concerns in the early morning hours, had been rolled away for their benefit, not His. And on the inside of the empty tomb they discovered not the worst of their expectations, but the best. Though Jesus had promised to rise from the dead, they hadn’t believed… until the stone was moved. Then gripped by both fear and joy, they raced to tell others.

This was not the first stone to conceal a great work of God from those who desperately needed deliverance and relief. It had happened before at the tomb of Lazarus. Because of that stone, the family couldn’t see in, nor did they want to. After four days of death, putrefaction and stench on the other side of the stone surely awaited them. Or so they thought.

But Jesus had promised, “Your brother will live again.” Still, they hadn’t believed… until He moved the stone. Then Lazarus, dead just moments before, walked out of his dark tomb into a bright new life.

The glimpse of resurrection and life eternal foreshadowed with Lazarus was secured when Jesus Himself passed from death into life; not even an immovable stone could hold Him there.

Stones persist today and gain their power in the same way as they did in the time of Jesus: our reluctance and refusal to believe what He has said. For me, ominous stones of fear, confusion, doubt, bitterness and a host of their companions have repeatedly entombed my future and outlook in darkness and blinding hopelessness.

But He still moves stones, and for every one that has gained ascendency there’s a life-giving promise begging me for belief and obedience. Am I anxious? He promises peace that passes understanding. (Phil. 4:6-7). Am I confused? He promises wisdom. (James 1:5).

The empty tomb of Jesus on that first resurrection morning paints this picture of truth: a stone is powerless in the face of promise. And on the other side of the stone we will discover not the worst of expectations, but the best. He lives, and so shall we–for time and eternity.

HE STILL MOVES STONES

Both Death and Darkness ruled the day
Around the tomb where Laz’rus lay.
Cried Jesus in authority,
“Remove the stone and set him free!”

Have stony trials progressively
Extinguished hopes of victory?
Embrace His word triumphantly:
He’ll move those stones and set you free.

Have stones of fear, confusion, doubt
Destroyed your faith and burned you out?
Then look to Him expectantly:
He’ll move those stones and set you free.

Are your dreams blocked or gone astray
By stones of hindrance in the way?
His Spirit will bring clarity:
He’ll move those stones and set you free.

(Refrain)
He still moves stones, so give Him glory!
He still moves stones to change your story!
What e’er your trial or loss or need
If there’s a stone, He wants you freed.

Copyright 2009 James McAlister

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Bulletin Insert

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

DREAMS

Late at night they skitter Through my mind on velvet paws. Silent, it seems, to elude my grasp, But I sense them crouching in the shadows— Waiting to pounce.

They often seek, I think, Some occasion to linger And boldly whisper hints Of “incredible” and “impossible”: Of what might [...]]]> On the healing of both body and soul. This is the poem mentioned in the message:

DREAMS

Late at night they skitter
Through my mind on velvet paws.
Silent, it seems, to elude my grasp,
But I sense them crouching in the shadows—
Waiting to pounce.

They often seek, I think,
Some occasion to linger
And boldly whisper hints
Of “incredible” and “impossible”:
Of what might be, should Strength
And Circumstance both smile on me with favor.

Then if Morning shoos them off
With stern persuasions of “Not today,”
Nighttime faithfully beckons them to whisper once again,
“But there is yet tomorrow.”

Copyright 2007 James McAlister  Listen here

In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response [...]]]> “Now you know that Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company, don’t you? They have gum and candy machines, so we’ll need to take our money.” Thus spoke the young man to his tiny three-day-old son–and our first grandchild.

In bygone years, whenever I’d yell, “Let’s go to the lumber company,” Barrett’s response was predictable. Rustling, scuffling and scratching sounds would emanate from his room, and he’d eventually emerge with a pocket of loose change. Though we tried to moderate his sugar intake, trips to the lumber company fell under a different dispensation. When men go to the lumber company together, ordinary rules of conduct are temporarily set aside.

Regrettably, the day inevitably came–somewhere between ages 10 and 12, I believe–that he no longer wanted to go with me. Instead of telling me outright, however, he complained to Mary. “Why does Dad keep talking about the lumber company? I really don’t want to go.”

Mary broke the news to me as gently as she could, initiating me into a new phase of fatherhood. I passed into another phase this past Friday as I heard Barrett tenderly introduce his new son, Jackson Barrett, to the once-familiar but long-dormant lumber company mantra.

He shared another revelation as well. “Brandi and I were wondering last night how our parents could have kept loving us even when we talked back. Now we understand that you were remembering this.” And as if I didn’t understand already, he held up little Jackson so I could see his face. But what he doesn’t yet realize is that countless other precious memories spawned over the next few years will eventually swell into a tsunami.

Jackson Barrett entered the world with a unique heritage few babies enjoy: to be brought into the light by the same skilled hands that had delivered his father. I well remember that anxious evening 26 years ago when Dr. Orman Simmons sat on the end of Mary’s hospital bed just prior to Barrett’s birth. Though terribly busy, he spent an hour comforting and encouraging, providing assurances that this new baby would not suffer with brain damage as his sister older Jenny had. He said, “You have prayed for me, haven’t you? You’d better.”

But a more compelling thought grips me today. Teaching is not so much what we say, but how we live out the ordinary moments of our brief times with our children. And in time the day comes when they begin to replay the tapes of episodes, both good and bad, we may have considered insignificant.

Saturday morning is when we go to the lumber company. And I trust that before many years expire, we three men, pockets stuffed with loose change, will journey to one together. The older two will watch with wonder as the little one excitedly plunks his coins into the slot, tugs at the lever–and gapes as goodies clatter down the chute. And we’ll have witnessed the rebirth of heritage.

MY CHILDREN

I watch the golden grains of sand
Now sifting slowly through my hand:
They are my times with my children.

And as they each fall into place,
Upon the ground their patterns trace,
I see the lives of my children.

Thus one by one they mold and make
The shape and course young lives will take
In my few days with my children.

Eventually the grains are gone
And leave behind a haunting song:
Have I been true to my children?

So while I hold them in my hand,
Those precious golden grains of sand,
I’ll give my all for my children.

(James McAlister © 2000)

Copyright 2006 James McAlister

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