All That I Am Today
(A ministry for THIS moment)
"Offering everything we are to the Lord."
writing by South Dakota author BJ Reese
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Welcome to my most personal collection!
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Every time I look back over my life, I see the wonderful, intricate patterns that God has woven out of the things that have happened along the way. The images of those memories stretch out behind me like a marvelous, complex tapestry. Come along with me as I take a trip down memory lane and review the stories tied to those images.
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If you would like to comment on one of the stories you read here, there is an email form at the bottom of the page for you to do so. I look forward to hearing from you!
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As with everything I write, I lift these stories up . . .
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A playful pup spends a season of his life with my family . . .​
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LUCKY
3-1-2021​
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In August, 1984, we moved our family into an old farmhouse in the northern Poconos in Pennsylvania. A couple of months after we moved in, we were visited by the man from whom we’d bought the house. He had a collie/boxer-mix puppy with him. “I thought the kids would like a puppy,” he said. “He’s about 12 weeks old, and there’s no charge.” His thinking was every kid ought to have a puppy - it's good for them.
After some discussion, we agreed to let the kids keep the puppy. It didn’t take them long to decide on a name. They would call him Lucky. Because Lucky was still so young, we decided to let him stay on the screen porch over the winter. It would afford him better protection from the weather than he’d get from a doghouse out in the open. We could move him to a doghouse in the Spring.
He seemed to do well on the screen porch and learned to rest quietly there at night. Well . . . at least until after the first snowfall came, anyway. That was the end of quiet nights. We got a few inches of fluffy, moist snow in early December. It was perfect for snowballs, and for snowman building. Our son, Tony, who was eight at the time, wasted no time taking advantage of that fact. He got all bundled up and headed outside to build the winter’s first snowman. For a location, he chose a fairly level spot in the front yard – one that happened to be perfectly visible from the screen porch. When he’d finished, his snowman stood about three and a half feet tall and had sticks for arms. He was positioned approximately 20 feet away from the screen porch.
By now, Lucky was somewhere between five and six months old, and was a bit taller than when he’d arrived. He could easily see outside through the screens on the porch, and had watched Tony build his creation. He seemed fine with the whole process, so none of us gave it any thought that night at bedtime. Unfortunately, puppies don’t have anything that resembles common sense as we know it . . . so watching the snowman arise out of the snow didn’t really click. He apparently didn’t make the connection that this was a thing Tony had built.
The bedroom my husband and I shared was upstairs – directly above the screen porch. Many times, that night, I was awakened to the sound of Lucky growling and, occasionally, barking. He continued to do so all night long. Since I was usually the first one up every morning, I went to investigate the problem. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were no people outside anywhere, as far as I could see. Following Lucky’s gaze, I began to get a vague idea what his problem was. The direction he was facing, as he continued to growl, led my eyes straight
to . . . Tony’s snowman!
“Are you kidding me?” I said, incredulously, to the dog. “You WATCHED Tony build that just yesterday! Now you’re upset about it being there!? You’re a dork!” With that, I patted the dog’s head and went back into the house. By that time, Frank was up and had joined me downstairs. “Did ya’ figure out what his problem is?” he asked.
“Yup,” I said with an exasperated sigh. When I told him what I’d discovered, he muttered something about it being unbelievable, and headed toward the screen porch. We had decided that the best approach was to allow Lucky to go investigate for himself. So, once we got out to the porch, we opened the outer door. Lucky didn’t move. He stood there in the doorway, staring toward that snowman, and growled. But he would NOT go outside.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” Frank exclaimed. After several attempts to coax Lucky outside to inspect the snowman, he grabbed the puppy’s collar. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
Virtually dragging the scared, reluctant puppy, he led him up to the snowman. I couldn’t help but feel for Lucky, watching him try desperately to halt the advance on this mysterious “creature” that had invaded our front yard. Frank was determined, though. We were hoping that Lucky would be able to relax once he’d seen for himself that it wasn’t a threat of any kind. It took a few minutes to get him there – Lucky was strong and muscular – but it worked like a charm. After he had sniffed the snowman thoroughly, he did finally calm down. We suffered no more sleepless nights because of his “snowman watch”. What a relief!
By spring, Lucky was nearly full grown. He stood five feet tall on his hind legs and weighed in at a dense, muscular 90 pounds. Whenever the family was out in the yard, we’d let him off his chain to run free. He always enjoyed that opportunity, and ran circles around all of us. This happened every time he was let loose. Every time, that is, until he discovered the vole . . .
One day, in the back yard, Lucky’s hyperactive circle-running came to an abrupt halt. He stood crouched down in an attack posture, barking . . . at the grass. At least that was what it looked like at first glance. After watching for few minutes, we saw what he was barking at. A flap of grass, about four inches in diameter, was rising up a few inches. Then, it would drop suddenly back down until it was flush with the ground again. This happened repeatedly, while Lucky stood there, poised to pounce on whatever was peeking out from under that flap of grass.
We watched for several more minutes, laughing helplessly at Lucky’s antics. Eventually, his determination was rewarded: he captured his prize. It was a small, grey vole – a tiny creature that resembles a mole except that it has a long tail like a mouse does. With the defenseless creature in his mouth, Lucky shook his head back and forth rapidly. Suddenly, he let go, and the vole went flying 15 feet or more across the yard. Lucky ran after it, like any dog does when playing ‘fetch’. Retrieving his prize, he repeated the show. This went on for nearly 20 minutes while we watched, nearly hysterical with laughter by now.
Another time, when we were outside and Lucky was loose, he caught sight of a large, black trash bag, blowing along the road behind our house. Empty, the bag had been caught by the wind and was floating around on the unpredictable air currents the wind was creating. Barking fiercely, Lucky would approach the bag, looking like he was going to grab it. Then, the bag would make a sudden change of direction and Lucky would lurch backward, out of its way. This went on for quite a while, until the wind finally lifted the bag aloft and carried it out of sight.
Eventually, during one of Lucky’s back yard excursions, he ran off to pursue some unknown adventure . . . and we never saw him again. For the several months that he had been a part of our family, he was a fun, playful companion for the kids. And, he managed to entertain all of us often with his energetic antics. The kids missed him terribly for quite a while after he ran off. Honestly, we all missed him, but one thing was certain. We all cherished our memories of him.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A young man's poem leaves an indelible mark on my soul . . .​
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WORDS PAINT PICTURES
2-1-2021​
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Anyone who knows me knows that, for me, the written word paints pictures. Whenever I read a book, a movie plays in my head. Sometimes, the effect has been so strong, I’ve been sure I saw the movie – and no movie was ever made. I once had an experience that really illustrated how the written word can evoke specific, vivid images.
In the early 1970s, I was visiting some friends who were stationed on the same base as my husband and I. Their daughters were very involved in the youth group at their church. During our visit, one of the girls showed me a magazine they got at church.
Inside were poems and little stories, submitted by kids from all over the country. One of the poems impacted me so strongly, I copied it down – along with the name, city, and state of its author. Later, I designed a poster upon which to paint the words to that poem, complete with a picture that seemed perfectly suited to the 41 words the author had written.
After sketching the outlines, I carefully colored the picture, using chalk pastels. Then, with a paint brush and model car enamel, I lettered the poster. Because the poem reminded me of my older brother, I made two posters and sent one of them to him. He had hit a rough patch in his life and this poem spoke to his situation in a profound way. Years later, he contacted me about that poster. He wanted permission to use it in the newsletter of an organization with which he was involved. I was stunned.
“Geez, bro! Normally, I would say ‘yes’ in a heartbeat, but I didn’t write the poem. I only designed the picture.”
“Oh,” he said softly. I could hear the disappointment in his voice. This apparently meant a lot to him. I decided I had to try.
“I’ll tell ya’ what. Give me some time to see if I can track down the author and ask for permission. No promises, but I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Okay, thanks!” he said excitedly.
That week, I called the information operator in the town mentioned with the author’s name. There were three families with that last name. The first one I tried was the right family, and I spoke to the boy’s mother. After confirming I had the right person, I told her why I was calling. She told me he was away at college but could have him call me back when he came home over the weekend.
“That would be wonderful!” I told her. “Thank you SO much!”
The following weekend, the young man did call me (I’ll call him Jess). After I told Jess what I wanted, he readily gave me permission for Jim to use it for his project. He wondered if there’d be any money paid for it, and I told him I didn’t think so. He seemed to understand, and we began chatting about his poem. He told me it had been an English assignment, back when he was in the eighth grade. “We were shown a painting and told to write a poem about it.”
Fascinated by the fact that the words were written about a picture, I couldn’t resist asking a question: “I’m curious: what was the painting of?” He began to describe a picture of a man sitting all alone in a jail cell. He sat on a chair on one side of the cell, with his chin resting on his fists; his elbows on his knees. Across from the chair was a cot. On the back wall of the cell, a small, barred window overlooked the outside of the building.
“Was the view into the cell from inside, or outside, of the bars on the door to the cell?” I asked him.
“Inside”, he said in a puzzled voice. “Why? What picture did you put on your poster?” Breathless by the sheer amazement I felt, I answered him. “A man, sitting all alone in a jail cell. He’s sitting on a chair, on one side of the cell, with his chin resting on his fists; his elbows on his knees. The chair is across from a cot. On the back wall is a small, barred window overlooking the outside of the building. The view is drawn from inside the bars on the jail cell door.”
It was Jess’s turn to be amazed. We spent several minutes marveling at how the words he had written evoked such a crystal clear, specific image of the picture he had been looking at when he wrote them. I was absolutely spellbound.
That conversation took place over 30 years ago, and I have never gotten over the sense of wonder I felt after talking to Jess. Every time I retell this story, I get goosebumps. That extraordinary experience taught me a valuable lesson.
Never, ever think – for even one minute – that the words you write don’t matter. Never assume that they won’t have an impact or make an impression. Whether it’s a text message or phone call, an email or a social media post, a story or a poem, or even an actual letter, the result is the same. Words have impact. Guard them well.
Whether they’ve been typed or spoken, those words are out there forever. You can never withdraw them or take them back. They cannot be UN-said. Always think carefully before you send those words on their way. Maybe
re-read them before you hit “send” or “post”. Think twice before you speak. Otherwise, you might be surprised
(or even shocked) to learn what image your words have painted in someone’s mind.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A treasured family Christmas ornament finds new life after it is destroyed . . .
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REINCARNATING ELVIS
~ Conclusion ~
1-2-21
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Tony and Trina arrived within 15 minutes. I had managed to pull myself together a little bit by then. However, as soon as my son walked through the front door, I came unraveled all over again. I ran into Tony’s arms and began sobbing as hard as ever. He held me and let me cry for a while, but I could almost feel the puzzled expression on his face. After a few minutes, the confusion in his voice confirmed my suspicions. “Mom, what happened? What’s the matter?”
Hearing the genuine concern in his voice, I stepped back and began sniffling out the story . . . how I’d had my heart set on this memorial tree, and how important to it this one ornament was. . . “. . . and now it’s broke!” I finished, collapsing into a fresh onslaught of tears.
“Mom! It’s okay!” he said, trying to calm me.
“But . . . I was . . . so . . . careful when I packed it!” I protested. “It went from Spokane to New York; from New York to Pennsylvania; from Pennsylvania to here . . . all without a problem. I moved it EIGHT BLOCKS and . . . THIS! It doesn’t make any sense!”
“I know, Mom. But it’s okay. Sometimes, these things just happen. It’s okay, Mom. We’re right here . . .”
Through my sniffles, I finally began to calm down again. We all sat down at the kitchen table, and I offered the kids some coffee. While we drank it, I looked at Tony’s friend. Up to this point, I hadn’t really even greeted her properly. “I’m sorry, Trina. This isn’t a very good first impression to leave you with,” I said, relying on an old coping mechanism – humor – to deal with the absurdity of this situation.
“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled sincerely. “I totally understand.”
“Really?!”
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“Sure! It sounds like your mom and her friend were very close. This ornament seems to represent their friendship. Now they’re gone. Having the ornament break is like the last straw.”
I couldn’t believe it! She had just met me, and she’d nailed the problem dead-on! “Exactly!” I exclaimed. “It’s like facing another death.”
Trina nodded her understanding. I relaxed quite a bit, and the three of us settled into easy conversation. We joked and laughed a lot about the crazy woman who’d had a hysterical, full-blown panic attack over a broken Christmas ornament. Somewhere in the discussion, between fits of laughter, the kids noticed a small, covered container I was holding.
“What’s in there?” Trina asked.
Sheepishly, I opened the lid and gently pulled back the tissue paper inside, revealing the remains of the shattered ornament. “I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away,” I blushed.
Trina reached over and pulled the container closer to her. Looking at the pieces inside, she said, “Don’t worry about it. I don’t blame you a bit. I wouldn’t want to throw it out, either.”
She fell silent for a few moments, carefully studying the tiny pieces of colored glass. Suddenly, her face lit up. “Say! Maybe you don’t have to throw it away!”
“But,” I objected, “what’s the point? It’s ruined. We can’t possibly fix it.”
“No,” she agreed. “But we could make a mosaic out of it.”
“Huh?” I was really lost now. I had never learned anything about the art of mosaics.
“We get a mirror – one with a pretty frame. And we glue the pieces onto the mirror. We make a picture out of them!”
I smiled with delight. “That’s a great idea!” I reached over and gave her a big hug. “Thank you!”
We tucked the tissue back into the container and closed the lid. Satisfied with this clever plan to recycle my broken ornament, I set the container aside and enjoyed the remainder of the kids’ visit.
A few weeks after Christmas, Trina knocked on my door. In her hand was a bag. I poured some coffee and we sat down. Then, she opened the bag. Inside was a rectangular mirror with a beautiful frame around it. “For our project,” she said simply, with a broad smile stretching across her face.
The next weekend, she and Tony showed up after dinner. They were carrying glue and glitter, and were wearing big smiles. “You ready?” Trina asked cheerfully.
“For what?” I puzzled.
“To create a masterpiece!”
For the next several hours, we sat around my kitchen table and watched as Trina did her magic. On a small, square piece of paper, I had drawn a little sketch of what the ornament had looked like when it was whole. From that, Trina devised a layout on the mirror, in the basic shape it had originally had. We talked. We laughed – a lot – at the absurdity of this project (we’re all pretty sure the fumes from the glitter glue contributed to our silly moods).
At one point, I uttered a brief commentary on how ridiculous the situation was. “This is as bad as Elvis! They wouldn’t let HIM die, either!”
We all laughed at that thought as Trina continued working. Painstakingly picking up one tiny piece of glass at a time with a pair of tweezers, she carefully placed each one on the mirror. Some were too large, so she smashed them with a tack hammer. The sketch I had made served as a guide for where each color should go. Soon, the colorful, abstract shape was completed. We painted the rest of the mirror with red glitter glue, and sat back to admire the new creation. I was very pleased.
Trina picked up the small sketch and grabbed a pencil. She began writing something at the bottom of the sketch. All the while, a wide, playful smile danced across her face. When she had finished, she handed me the piece of paper . . .
“Here lies Elvis
Xmas, 2002
Merry Xmas, Mom
In memory of Mom’s mom
and Blanche
Love, Trina”
Touched by the sentiment, I reached to her for a hug. “Thanks, honey. I love it!”
Immediately, I found a place for it on a living room wall. Finally, I had a memorial to my mother and her friend. A few months later, I found a photo of Mama and Blanche together. It had been taken a couple years before Mama moved back east. I tucked it into the bottom left corner of the mirror, where it has remained ever since.
Today, that mirror has a permanent place on my living room wall. It hangs there all year, with other photos and items that remind me of departed loved ones. Trina's generous act of love and creativity is one I will never forget. Oh! And Trina’s little note on that sketch of the ornament? It is taped to the back of the mirror, and covered with clear tape to protect it. It serves as a reminder of her loving gesture. It is one of the many events in my life that has shown me how boundless God’s Love truly is.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A treasured family Christmas ornament finds new life after it is destroyed . . .
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REINCARNATING ELVIS
~ Part 1 ~
12 -1-20
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The deaths of both my husband and my mother, in 1999, had an expected effect on my interest in holidays. By 2002, I had finally reached a point where it was a little easier to accept the losses we had endured. For the first time since 1998, I was looking forward to preparing for the Holidays!
When the time came to begin my Christmas decorating, I had decided to do a memorial Christmas tree. I wanted a tree filled with ornaments that reminded us of the loved ones who were no longer with us. We had recently learned that there was a new name on that list: a phone conversation with an old friend back home had brought the news. My mother’s best friend, Blanche, had gone Home to the Lord in early November. For me, that cemented the whole idea of how to do the tree that year. I needed to honor the memories of these three precious people.
Among the ornaments I wanted to be sure and include was one that Blanche had given my mother when I was a child. It was a colorful glass ornament. Oddly shaped and decorated with a face painted on it, it sort of resembled a stretched clown face. It had hung on our tree every single year since Mama had received it. I wanted to make sure the funny looking clown was there this year. When I brought the box of decorations upstairs, he was one of the first ones I looked for.
I was decorating our new house for its very first Christmas. The goofy little clown-type ornament had traveled some 5,000 miles since it first left Spokane with my mother’s things, and had survived every single one of those miles without a scratch. More than anything, I wanted him to have a place of honor on this very special Christmas tree. In my heart, he would honor the friendship between my mother and Blanche: a friendship that had survived over 34 years.
By the Christmas of 2001, our new house was already under construction. When we took our decorations down after the Holidays, we knew we’d be moving before the next Christmas came along. I took special care packing everything when the tree came down. The goofy looking little clown was wrapped in double layers of tissue paper, and lovingly wrapped in a small, bubble wrap bag. Tucking it carefully into a cushioned hollow in the box of decorations, I was sure it would travel well. Especially since the new house was only eight blocks away! I was sure the journey to our new home wouldn’t bother it a bit.
Now, here it was: November, 2002. Time to unpack the boxes and choose just the right ornaments to memorialize our departed loved ones. Ornaments that would remind us of all the fun, love, and laughter we had shared with them over the years. The funny looking clown was an absolute must. Gently, I made my way down into the large box into which he’d been so carefully tucked.
Each item I came across caused memories to come flooding back. Those that held the strongest connection to Mama and Frank were put into a pile designated for THIS tree. In order to honor them and Blanche, I was determined that it be just right. Tenderly setting aside each thing, I finally came to the hollow where I had so carefully placed the funny looking clown.
As I gingerly lifted the cushioned package, my heart sank. My ears were greeted by the distinctive sound of pieces of broken glass clinking together. Devastated – terrified – I continued to lift the package. The contents shifted in my hands, as though there were far more than one item inside.
“No! Please, God! Don’t let it be,” I prayed as the knot in my stomach grew larger.
Fearing the very worst, I cautiously, gently opened the package. As I lifted aside the last layer of tissue paper, my worst fears stared up at me. I gazed down at the little package in horrified, heart-broken disbelief. The cherished little ornament was broken into dozens of tiny pieces! How!? I wondered. I’d been SO careful with it! I was absolutely devastated . . . I felt every bit as crushed as the little ornament was.
Crumpling to the floor in defeat, I began sobbing uncontrollably. Here, cradled in my hands, was a harsh reminder of how much we had lost. Not only were these three treasured people forever absent from my life, but I was also now being robbed of even the simplest reminder of two of them! It all seemed so horribly unfair. I could bear no more. After a few minutes, I decided I needed to talk to someone. This most-recent blow was far too painful for me to endure alone. I just didn’t have the strength.
My oldest son Tony had gone out with some friends he had made here, and I knew their phone number. I decided to call their house and see if, by chance, he was there. Much to my relief, he was. As soon as I heard his voice, the tears began again. I couldn’t hold them back.
“Can you come over?” I sobbed into the phone. I’m sure my words were barely understandable.
“Sure,” he said in a very concerned tone. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing serious,” I answered, hoping to allay any fears of a real emergency. “I just need someone to talk to. I’ll explain when you get here.”
“Okay. I’ll be right over. Is it okay if Trina comes with me?” Trina was the young lady he had been dating recently. They were becoming very good friends.
“Sure. Just, please, hurry.” I hadn’t met Trina yet, but I didn’t care about appearances right then. I wanted company, and comfort, and I wanted it NOW!
“We’ll be right over, Mom.”
“Okay, thanks,” I choked out the words and hung up. The tears had resumed with a vengeance. As much from relief as from sorrow. “Thank you, Father.” I whispered the prayer through my tears. The Lord had led me to just the right phone call, and had helped me find someone who would come and help me face this most recent disappointment.
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(. . . to be continued . . .)
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A holiday celebration ends in near disaster . . .
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FIRE!
11-1-20
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Being in the military often keeps a young family far away from home for years at a time. My first husband and I were no different: his first Coast Guard duty station was in Maryland, all the way across the country from our hometown of Spokane, Washington. Fortunately, military leave gives you 30 days off every year. All you had to do was save up enough money, and you could take a decent vacation.
In the summer of 1979, Steve and I had finally saved enough to take our three year old son, Tony, home for a visit. The three of us hadn’t been back there since Tony was just a few months old. We had the trip timed so we would be there by the fourth of July. It had been years since we’d been able to spend a holiday with our families, and we were excited.
For me, the excitement grew bigger once we had arrived there. My family had planned a family reunion for July 4th. It was to be held at my mother’s house. What fun! I couldn’t remember the last time I had been with all three of my siblings at the same time. THIS was going to be an awesome celebration!
When the big day came, Steve spent most of the morning and afternoon at his parents’ house, helping his dad with a project. Meanwhile, I had a glorious day with Mom, my brothers, and their wives. My sister would arrive later, after our uncle left (A long story for another time). By the time we fired up the grill, everyone was there. Steve had arrived, our sister was there, even her four grown kids and their families were there. It was wonderful.
After dinner, we set off some fireworks and helped the little ones play with some sparklers. Once they’d been settled down for the night, several of us engaged in a rousing game of lawn darts in Mom’s back yard. The flood light on the side of the garage allowed us to play until well after dark.
When my oldest niece, Tina, headed home, she invited us all to come and see the house she and her husband had purchased. My son and my younger brother’s son were both fast asleep on Mama’s couch. She said we could leave them there while we went to Tina’s.
“Go. Have fun. They’ll be fine,” she assured us cheerfully.
Thanking her, we headed out the door. Tina’s house was all the way across town, and it took about 15 minutes to get there. We had no sooner finished “the tour” and gotten settled when Tina’s phone rang. After she answered, she got a very puzzled look on her face. In a moment, we found out why.
Handing the phone to Steve, she said, “It’s for you – a little girl.” Now, we all looked puzzled. Thinking something may have gone wrong at his parents’ house, I ventured, “Maybe your sister?”
Steve took the phone. “Hello? What?! Oh, sh**! We’re on our way!” With that, he hung up and looked at me, stunned. “That was your mom’s neighbor girl. She said your mom’s house is on fire.”
A flurry of hurried good-byes saw all of us out the door and into our cars. In a moment or two, we were rushing through the streets of the South Hill, headed for downtown. Speeding through the night, we barely gave a thought to the dangers of how fast we were driving. All anyone could think about was what we would see when we rounded that last corner. We arrived at Mama’s house in record time.
However, we were puzzled by what we saw. When we had turned the last corner, three blocks down the road from Mama’s house, we saw no evidence of fire trucks, flashing lights, or any sort of trouble at all. After we parked in front of the house, we eased out of the cars. We saw no flames, smelled no smoke. Our curiosity and confusion grew by the second.
“What the ---?”
Seeing no sign of trouble out front, we headed around to the back of the house. We found Mama in the patio, sitting with her neighbors. She was clearly shaken, but seemed alright. Once we had determined that, we asked what had happened.
Shortly after we had left for Tina’s, Mama said there was a knock at the door. Not wanting the noise to wake up the boys, she answered quickly. Two teenage boys stood there – boys she had never seen before. “Ma’am, we’re sorry to tell you this,” they began carefully, “but your garage is on fire.”
Next, they asked if Mama had keys to any of the three cars that were parked in the driveway. Their concern was well warranted: the natural gas meter was right next to the driveway. If the fire spread to the cars, it could quickly become catastrophic. Mama’s panic was rising rapidly.
“No. They belong to my kids, and I don’t drive – so there was no sense in leaving the keys.”
“That’s alright,” one of the boys said. “We’ll work around that. Where is your garden hose?” Numbly, Mama pointed to where the outside faucet was.
The other boy looked at her seriously, as though he had just thought of something important. “Is there anything flammable or valuable in the garage?” he asked her.
“Just the lawn mower and the gas can for it,” Mama replied. Before she could plead with them not to enter the garage or put themselves in danger, the boys were en route to the garage. One of them hosed down the other, getting him good and wet. Then, he began to douse the burning roof and front face with the hose, while the other boy disappeared into the garage. When he emerged, he had retrieved the lawn mower and the gas can. He set them down on the far side of the yard, as far as he could from the garage.
By the time the fire department arrived, the fire was almost completely out. Concerned, they asked Mama if she had put out the flames. “No,” she said curiously. “There were two boys ---” Looking toward the alley near the garage, her curiosity grew. Those two boys were no where to be seen. The firemen hadn’t seen them when they arrived. They were gone. They had quietly slipped away, into the night, as soon as the fire department arrived.
Those two brave boys had kept the fire from spreading out of control. They had made sure it didn’t spread to gas tanks, or gas cans, or to the natural gas main on the side of the house. They had protected Mama, her house and garage, and had kept our boys from being hurt. We never learned who they were, nor got the chance to thank them. No one else saw them.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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An exciting, week-long adventure for two 12-year-old girls . . .
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Teen Fair
10-1-20
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Summer, 1966 . . . I had just finished sixth grade, and was a few months shy of my 13th birthday. My friend, Cindy, was exactly three months younger than I. Cindy and I were close. So close, in fact, we began telling people we were twin cousins (largely influenced, no doubt, by the Patty Duke show). We were the same height and roughly the same build. Our hair was nearly the same color and we often had it cut into the same style. We often wore matching clothing, when we could find them in the local thrift stores. All these similarities made us feel that much closer, and we spent a lot of time together.
That summer after sixth grade, our mothers allowed us a little more freedom to go off by ourselves. As we enjoyed our newfound independence, we heard about an exciting new event. The local rock and roll radio station began promoting “The First Annual KJRB All American Teen Fair”. This was to be a week-long event, heralding young America’s most popular music of the day (I could be wrong about how long it was, but I think it was a whole week).
Local and regional bands would be there every day, and some big names were also scheduled to perform. Among them were Bryan Hyland, and Eric Burden & the Animals. The idea of hearing them perform “House of the Rising Sun” live was almost too much.
Excitedly, Cindy and I told our mothers about the Teen Fair, and begged for permission to go. The cost was, as I recall, $20.00 for a pass that would get you into the entire event . . . and we would earn the money ourselves. In 1966, we got 35 cents an hour for babysitting (50 cents after midnight) and about a dollar for mowing a lawn. Raising $20.00 would mean a LOT of babysitting and lawn mowing but, to us, it would be well worth it. Our mothers agreed, and we were beside ourselves. The Animals?! For REAL!? WOW!
Finally, the big day came. Cindy and I each had our pass for the week’s festivities. Every day we were there, we walked through the corridors like we’d done it a thousand times. We stopped and listened to every band. It seemed as though nearly every one of them was playing a version of the Rolling Stones’ song, “Satisfaction”. I’m sure we heard at least a dozen versions of it that week.
If we bought any souvenirs of that first Teen Fair, I have no recollection of what they were. I do remember stopping to get an autograph from one of the bands. I know we had seats in the main auditorium when the headliners performed. Bryan Hyland was great. The Animals were a huge hit when they sang “House of the Rising Sun.” Well, judging by all the screaming, they must’ve been – though we didn’t hear a word. Thrilled to be there, we just watched the band and smiled.
That first Teen Fair was the biggest thing that had ever happened to Cindy and me. We felt so grown up, and so important, I’m not sure our feet touched the ground the rest of that summer. For us, it heralded the dawn of a new era . . . we were (almost) teenagers.
I’ve long since lost touch with Cindy, but that summer has left a lasting impression on me. My heart smiles every time I think of it. To this day, there is a special place in my heart for the music of that era. Every time I hear it, I am filled with the warmth, joy, and carefree energy of my youth.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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An unexpected "Treasure Hunt" for my brother-in-law . . .
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Diving For Pearlies
9-14-20
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When I was growing up, my mom didn’t drive. We got around town by bus, or by walking. So, when we had a chance for a ‘getaway’ by car, it was a real treat. One such special occasion came during the summer of 1968. I was about 14 years old, and had just finished junior high.
My sister, Barb, and her husband, Skip, invited us to join them on their 4th of July outing. They were going for a picnic up at the Pend Oreille River, in Northern Idaho, with their four kids. My brother and I were thrilled when Mama said we would go.
The campground had lots of room for us to run around and play. There was also a swimming area sectioned off from the rest of the river. Marked off by ropes and a wooden dock, it provided a safe place to swim and play in the water. I’d already been in several times to swim, and was relaxing on the dock.
Skip had taken their youngest, Nita, into the water to play. She was only seven and didn’t yet know how to swim. After a while, Skip called to me, using the nickname he’d always used for me.
“Jonnie . . . come here.”
By age 14, I had learned to be skeptical and cautious whenever my brother-in-law called for me. He had a mischievous sense of humor and was a notorious tease. I didn’t want to get caught up in his latest caper. So, I hesitated when he called me this time.
“Why?” I asked him apprehensively, staying right where I was.
“Come here,” he repeated a little more firmly.
“Why?” I repeated. “What do you want?”
“Will you just come HERE?” he said in a frustrated, impatient tone.
Finally, I relented and eased myself into the water. Approaching Skip cautiously, I stopped over 10 feet away from him. “What do you want?” I repeated cautiously.
Holding my niece in his arms, he asked, “Can you open your eyes under water?”
Knowing what a scamp Skip was, this question REALLY made me suspicious. “Why?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “Can you open your eyes under water or not?”
“Yes . . . but . . . why?” I ventured nervously.
Finally, he let the cat out of the bag. Gesturing straight down, he said, “My upper plate is down here, under my right foot. Go get it for me, will you?”
Apparently, Skip had been playing his usual game with Nita – making funny faces while sticking his dentures halfway out of his mouth. They must’ve fallen out while they were playing. Since he was holding her, he couldn’t retrieve them. He had placed his foot on them, to make sure they stayed there, and called me for help.
Relieved that I wasn’t about to be the brunt of one of Skip’s jokes, I gladly complied with his request. For all the years since, this has been one of my strongest memories of Skip . . . and a favorite story to share at family gatherings.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
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A road sign makes its escape and, despite the potential danger, becomes the centerpiece of a funny memory.
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The Wayward Road Sign
8-1-2020
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Our family lived in New York City from October, 1982 to August, 1984. Technically, we lived on Governor’s Island (GI). Located in New York Harbor, halfway between Manhattan and Liberty Island, GI was a Coast Guard base for the Third Coast Guard District. During the summer of 1983, my mother came for a visit and my husband convinced her to move in with us permanently.
For most of the summer, we would take short day-trips on Saturdays, visiting nearby attractions and parks. Mama and our three young sons really enjoyed these ‘Special Saturdays’ and the quality time it allowed us to share as a family. On one of those Saturdays, we were returning home from our latest adventure, by way of the Lincoln Tunnel. Mama was riding in the front seat, and I was in back with the kids.
Since Manhattan is an island, you must either cross a bridge or go through a tunnel in order to re-enter the city, and there is a toll to pay. Once inside the tunnel, you must have your headlights on. You are required to maintain a steady speed, and you must stay in your lane until you exit the tunnel. These rules help ensure safety inside the tunnels. As you might expect, all sounds are magnified inside the tunnels, and there is tremendous echo.
On this particular day, there were only a couple of other vehicles ahead of us as we entered the tunnel. A few car-lengths in front of us was a white car, and a pickup truck in front of him. The pickup was loaded with road signs. Just after we entered the tunnel, one of the road signs flew up out of the pickup bed and began floating on the air currents within the tunnel.
The sign ended up on the floor of the tunnel, allowing the little white car to pass over it without incident. As it came up from underneath that car, Frank immediately realized what was about to happen. The sign was floating at an angle that would - at our present rate of travel - put it right through our windshield. Always able to think quickly in emergent situations, Frank instinctively knew the proper action to take in order to protect us all from harm.
Suddenly, and without any word of warning to the rest of us, he stomped on the gas pedal to gain an increase in speed. Closing the gap between us and the white car, he was able to change how and where the wayward, floating road sign would make contact with our car. As soon as Frank stomped on the gas pedal, it startled Mama. She let out a little yelp, followed by a gasp.
Just then, that road sign collided with the front bumper of the car, causing it to slam sharply down onto the floor of the tunnel. The action created a loud, thunderous “SLAP!!!”, which echoed vibrantly off of the tunnel walls. Mama screamed, and ducked her head toward her lap, throwing her arms over her head in a protective motion.
Without skipping a beat, Frank glanced in her direction with a mischievous grin on his face. “It’s okay, Mom! I killed him outright!” he shouted playfully, as he began laughing.
Mama let out an exasperated sigh as she lifted her head. Realizing we were okay, she looked over at Frank with a scolding twinkle in her eye. “Very funny, Frank,” she said sarcastically. “VEERRRYYY funny!” Then she, too, began to laugh.
By that time, all of us were laughing at Frank’s playful comment. From that day on, this episode sprang to our memories every time we passed through one of the tunnels that led in and out of the city. It became one of our favorite memories of our time in New York.
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To His Glory . . . BJ
This month, I share the story of my favorite Voice Mail message ever . . .
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". . . Admiral . . ."
7-1-2020
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In 1983, I was pregnant with my third child. Because all of my deliveries had been by C-Section, this would be my last pregnancy. I was married to my second husband, who was thrilled that we were expecting. Frank always treated me with great respect, and made me feel loved and appreciated. In turn, I showed my respect for him by tying never to call him while he was at work. He was the Master Chief in charge of the Assist/Mat Team for the Third Coast Guard District, on Governor’s Island, New York. He supervised a team of 26 specialized technicians who rendered aid with special repairs to the boats and ships in our Coast Guard district.
During my sixth month of pregnancy, there was a day when I broke my usual rule and called Frank during the work day. I don’t remember the reason for the call . . . probably because of the response I got when I called. From that day on, the response took Front Row, Center, in my memory.
One of the men on the Team answered the phone. When I asked for Frank, the man told me he was doing a demonstration back in the garage, in preparation for a major engine repair they were getting ready to help with aboard one of the ships. I politely asked the young man to call Frank to the phone, as it was important. He asked me to hold, and he went back to the garage. (The rest of this I learned later, after Frank came home).
The young man went to the door of the garage and got Frank’s attention. “Excuse me, Master Chief, but the Admiral is on the phone for you.” (It should be noted that the officer in charge of the District was an Admiral, who lived and worked on Governor’s Island).
“Tell him I’ll call him back in about five minutes,” Frank said.
“No, no, Master Chief. You don’t understand. This is the BIG admiral! (As he said this, he made a gesture with his hand, forming an imaginary, round belly from his diaphragm to the base of his abdomen).
“Oh! Okay! Tell her I’ll be right there.”
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The young man came back to the phone and told me to keep holding; Frank would pick up the phone momentarily. We finished our call and both went back to whatever business was at hand, but the standard had already been set by the young man who had answered my phone call. From that day forward, I was known to my family and all of Frank’s crew as “The Admiral”. That moniker has stuck with me ever since. It is a favorite family joke.
The child I was carrying that summer was born in October: a son, whom we named Kevin. After his 2003 graduation from high school, Kevin, joined the Marine Corps. His MOS was Logistics; that is, the job he did involved getting things ready to send somewhere and making sure they were properly packed and loaded for shipment. By 2010, Kevin had achieved the rank of Staff Sargent. He was in charge of a logistics unit in North Carolina.
Occasionally, I would get a phone call from Kevin when he had a question about something. Usually, those questions involved some information he wanted or needed regarding his dad – who had died in 1999. I was always thrilled to hear from any of my boys, and was a little surprised when a call came in during what I knew to be their work day. One such call came in on Friday, September 10, 2010. I must’ve been busy or away from my cell phone when it came, because the call went to my voice mail. Later, when I listened to that voice mail message, this is what I heard:
“Good afternoon, Admiral. This is Staff Sargent Reese, of 2nd LAAD Batallion. If you could give me a call back on my cell, I would appreciate it. I have a question for you that I can only have answered by you. Thank-you. Out.”
The voice was, unmistakably, my son’s. Curious, I giggled to myself at his phrasing while I called him back. Again, the humor of the message has long since obliterated any memory of the nature of his question. I do recall that, as I suspected, it had something to do with some information about his dad. I got such a kick out of Kevin’s message, I saved it. In fact, it remained among my saved messages for over 6 years before it was finally lost in a switch from one phone to another. By then, I had the entire message memorized.
As humorous as all of this was to me, it got funnier a few years after it happened. My new husband and I were visiting Kevin in North Carolina. While we shared a relaxed meal at a restaurant, this story came up again. As we shared it with Richard, and Kevin’s new wife, I learned a part of the story I had never heard before. The day Kevin had placed that call, and left that message, he was, indeed, calling me from his office at work. Standing around him were two or three of his subordinates. Kevin became very animated as he described to me the looks on their faces as they overheard his call. They listened in amazement as they heard the message he began to leave.
When Kevin addressed me as “Admiral”, their mouths gaped open in shock. Their sense of wonder grew greater when he asked for the return call to be placed to his personal cell phone. It took them a moment or two to find their voices after he hung up.
“Wow, Staff Sargent! You know an ADMIRAL?!?”
Kevin decided to play along, “Yup.”
“And you know him well enough that he knows your personal cell phone number?!?”
“Uh-huh.”
Kevin said there were a few more stunned comments back and forth. His men demonstrated a whole new level of respect for him, knowing that he knew such a high-ranking officer on a personal level. Finally, satisfied that their sense of awe and wonder had elevated to a sufficient level, Kevin spilled the beans.
“Relax, guys. It’s my mom. That’s been her nickname since she was pregnant with me.”
They all had a good laugh, and the story remains a favorite in my history with my sons. To this day, we all get a good, hearty chuckle out of this story when we share it with someone who’s never heard it . . . or when we recall it for our own amusement. I once had the opportunity to meet one of the young men who was standing in Kevin’s office the day he delivered my favorite phone message. What a special treat!
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To His Glory . . . BJ
As I indicated last month, there were two events that happened during my brother's last week that added some of the warmest colors to the tapestry of our lives. This month, I share with you the second of those stories . . .
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Semper Fi
6-1-2020
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God shines the Light of His Love into our lives through our relationships with others. I’ve seen it on many occasions in my own life. Once in a while, though, that Light shines so brilliantly, it takes my breath away and leaves me forever changed. One such occasion came in April of the year my older brother, Jim, died . . .
The news that he was terminal had left Jim’s mind racing - to people he wanted to see again while he still had time. At his request, I had contacted our younger brother, Ed, and my three sons – all of whom lived in other states. Miraculously, all of them were able to arrange time off to come see him during the same week – an amazing achievement, since two of them were in the military. Ed & his family, Jim’s girlfriend Debbie, and all three of my sons arrived over the course of Easter weekend, 2011.
The Tuesday after Easter was the first day when we were all here together. Al, a friend who has become a part of our family, was here, helping to see to Jim’s needs. One time while Al was downstairs with him, Jim said he felt as though everyone was avoiding him. When Al told us about it, we all began taking turns sitting in Jim’s room and visiting with him and Debbie. Al’s sister, Amy, and her family were here also, and joined our efforts to make sure Jim didn’t feel neglected or ignored.
By Tuesday evening, about 15 of us had gathered in Jim’s room at the same time. We sat around sharing memories, telling jokes, laughing, singing, and praying. Although weakness had kept him from speaking much at all in weeks, you could see the joy in Jim’s eyes. He knew he was loved and cared about, and he truly enjoyed the stories and jokes. He even chimed in with smart-alecky comments a few times.
After we’d been down there a few minutes, my youngest son, Kevin, joined us. He was holding a folded piece of paper in his hands. As he walked into the room, staring down at that paper, I could see a serious expression on his face. “What ya got there, bud?” I asked brightly.
“A song,” he said flatly. “Don’t think I can sing it, though.” He looked very somber. His statement was surprising, since Kevin had spent 12 years in choir at school, and had a beautiful singing voice.
Tony, my oldest son, moved over next to Kevin and peered over his shoulder at the piece of paper. “Tell ya’ what, bro,” he said cheerfully. “I SUCK, but I’ll help ya!”
“Me, too!” Ed chimed in, now standing next to Kevin and glancing over his other shoulder.
They cleared their throats and stood up tall, shoulder-to-shoulder, facing Jim. Then they began to sing. The song on the piece of paper? The Marines’ Hymn – an appropriate choice. Jim’s time in the Marine Corps was among his proudest memories. And the source of a wonderful bond between him and Kevin.
The fact that these three men were standing there, singing a Marine Corps song, was amazing in itself. Kevin was in the Marines, but Tony was in the Army. In his younger days, Ed had done some time in the Army. After he got out, he then served a few years in the Coast Guard. Watching them stand in unity was an extraordinary contrast
to the rivalry that always exists between the different services. In its own simple way, that gesture alone demonstrated how God’s Presence can overcome any situation and draw people together in a common cause.
As they sang through the three verses on the paper Kevin held, each of them had tears in their eyes. The further into the song they got, the more tears we could see. Soon, all of us had tears streaming down our cheeks. All but Jim, who watched them with a pride in his eyes that reflected a joy I hadn’t seen there in many months. When the boys got into the last verse, they stood even straighter, as though they were “at attention” . . . and their voices grew stronger. When they hit the last four lines of the last verse, their voices grew to a proud, powerful crescendo . . . loud and strong and filled with the pride of unity. A fitting response, when you hear the words of those lines:
“If the Army and the Navy,
ever look on Heaven’s scenes,
they will find the streets are guarded
by United States Marines.”
Everyone in the room joined in as my boys and my younger brother proudly sang those last lines to Jim. By now, there wasn’t a dry eye in the room . . . except for Jim. His eyes fairly shone with the pride of an honored Marine. When the boys finished their song, the three of them embraced, crying openly. From the middle of the embrace, Kevin turned his head toward Jim. “Go guard the gates of Heaven, Uncle Jim,” he sobbed. “Semper fi!” {“Semper Fi” is a shortened version of the Marine Corps motto, “Semper Fidelis”, which means “Always Faithful”}
With a pride and joy I hadn’t seen in his eyes in several months, Jim looked straight at Kevin, Tony, and Ed. It had been many days since he’d said anything that people could easily understand; his speech had become very garbled and mumbly. This time, his words were clear and concise, and everyone in the room heard them. “Semper Fi,” he said softly, but proudly. You could almost see him snap to attention in his mind.
It was one of the most moving moments I’ve ever witnessed in my life. And I truly believe it helped Jim connect to some of his fondest and proudest moments. There'd been many things in his life that he was not proud of, and he had often doubted that God would still welcome or embrace him, because of those things. I believe that this simple moment helped Jim’s mind and soul remember that he was, at his foundation, a child of the most high God . . . one in whom God took great pride. In turn, that would help him to accept God’s Embrace when it finally came . . .
Kevin’s simple idea had been designed to honor a fellow Marine – one who was facing the end of his journey on this Earth. To pay tribute to the bond that never fades: “Once a Marine, always a Marine,” the saying goes. To honor that relationship that exists between all men and women who wear a uniform. But it did something far greater for Jim. It helped him return, in his mind, to a place where he could finally accept the relationship God was waiting to have with him. By leading him back to that relationship, these three loving men helped Jim find the Peace he had been searching for all his life.
To His Glory . . . BJ
(April 27th, 2020, marked the 9th anniversary of the day my older brother, James, went Home to the Lord. There were two events that happened during his last week that have added some of the warmest colors to the tapestry of our lives. I would like to share them with you . . . This story is the first; I'll share the other one next time.)
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One Last Fishing Trip
4-30-2020
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Very often, the Light of God’s enormous Love for us shines into our lives from the most unexpected sources, or at the most unexpected times. Such was the case in April, 2011, shortly before my older brother, Jim, died. Our home was filled with loved ones, gathered here to say good-bye to Jim and to support his girlfriend and me in any way they could.
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Over the years, our family has come to include many people who are not related by blood, but in our hearts. We’ve come to think of them as adopted children and grandchildren – loved every bit as much as those linked to us by birth. Once such group is Tim and Amy, their 16-year-old son Bailey, and their 13-year-old daughter, Cathy. Like many siblings, Bailey and Cathy bicker about things a lot. The week before my brother died, however, they continually reflected God’s compassion and caring toward our family. Sometimes, they did so in amazingly creative ways . . .
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One of Jim’s great passions was fishing. He loved to get out to one of the local lakes, and drift around on the water. His joy came more from being there than it did from the fishing itself. Whenever possible, he and my husband, Richard, would spend whole days out in Jim’s boat, enjoying the serenity of the lake. Toward the end of summer, 2010, Jim had promised Bailey that he’d take him fishing sometime during the summer of 2011. Bailey was looking forward to the opportunity.
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As Spring of 2011 approached, Jim’s thoughts often turned to being able to go fishing again. By early April, however, it became obvious that he wouldn’t have the strength to go. His illness had made him so weak, he rarely got out of bed. That didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though. One day, while Amy’s brother, Al, was here helping Jim clean his room, Jim mentioned his beloved boat again. “I promised Bailey I’d take him fishing this year!” he said, sadly realizing he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.
“Oh, I think Bailey will understand, Uncle Jim,” Al reassured him. Still, he could see how much it was bothering Jim. He’d always tried to be a man of his word, and to keep his promises to people. Later, Al related Jim’s concern over the promised fishing trip to Bailey and his family. Not much was said about it at the time, but it would soon become obvious that Bailey had remembered it.
By April 20, we were awaiting the arrival of several family members from out of town. Our younger brother, Ed, and his family were coming on the 23rd; and my three sons were arriving the 24th and 25th. Jim had expressed a desire to see them all, and they’d arranged to all get time off during the same week . . . no small feat, considering 2 of the boys are in the military. While I awaited the arrival of our company, Amy’s family and Al spent a great deal of time here, helping me get ready for their visit. Al pitched in to help with Jim’s care, which was a great deal of comfort to us both.
Friday afternoon, Bailey came up to me with a big grin on his face. “Grandma! I figured out how to take Uncle Jim fishing!” he said excitedly.
Knowing the severity of Jim’s weakened condition, I was curious how Bailey proposed to pull this idea off. As I listened, he proceeded to lay out his plan. When he was finished, I told him I thought it was a wonderful idea. Cathy even got into the act, offering to help Bailey put his plan into action. He graciously accepted her offer, and they agreed to implement the plan Saturday afternoon.
When their family arrived at our house Saturday morning, Bailey was out running some errands. Tim sat down at the kitchen table and began cutting out some pictures Bailey had printed from his computer: rainbow trout, brown trout, bass, walleye, pike.......an assortment of lake fish, printed in bright, lifelike colors. While Tim worked meticulously with the scissors, Cathy sat across the table and began building “fishing poles”. She tied long, carefully-measured pieces of embroidery thread to the ends of two chopsticks. Once satisfied that they were securely fastened, she carefully tied a paper clip to the end of each length of thread. Voila! Two fishing poles – specially created for taking a bedridden man on one last fishing trip before he died.
While the rest of us sat there, admiring Cathy’s creativeness, she explained Bailey’s plan to us. “Bailey will sit on the bed with Uncle Jim – that’ll be the boat. I’ll sit on the floor with all the fish – that’ll be the lake. When they cast their lines into the “water”, I’ll clip a fish to the end of the thread, using the paper clip. Then I’ll tug on the string, so they know they got a bite!” She fairly beamed with pride and excitement as she told us how it would work. I was awe-stricken that two teenagers would willingly indulge in such a profound game of pretend with a
66-year-old man – strictly in the hope of bringing him some joy in his final days. It was, indeed, an impressive plan.
When Bailey returned in the early afternoon, Cathy proudly showed off the fishing poles she’d made. He was pleased with her efforts, and told her they’d work just fine. After he’d filled his mom in on his progress with the errands he’d run, he looked at Cathy. “Let’s go fishing!” he said happily. He asked his dad to come with them, in case Jim needed help sitting up to cast his line into the water. The rest of us waited upstairs.
A little while later, the three of them came back up to the kitchen. Bailey and Cathy were beaming. “He laughed, Grandma! He laughed!” they chimed. This simple statement was extraordinary news; Jim was so weak, he hadn’t smiled or laughed in weeks.
Cathy said she’d made sure that Uncle Jim had caught the biggest and prettiest fish. “He really had fun!” she said cheerfully. She and Bailey both seemed extremely pleased with the success of their idea. The joy on their faces lit up the kitchen, and brought all of us a special joy. It was easy to see how much fun they’d had doing this simple thing for Jim. Then Cathy got another idea, and asked me where the tape was. When I showed her, she took it downstairs. She wanted to hang Jim’s “trophies” up where he could see them from his bed.
Later that day, while I was visiting with Jim, he told me how cool his fishing trip was. He loved what the kids had done for him. Bailey and Cathy had given him a very special gift, and brought him a moment of great joy. My heart overflowed for him – and for them – for the extraordinary gift they had shared.
Bailey and Cathy had brought a moment of peace and joy into Jim’s life during a time when there was almost nothing left for him to smile about. Even more surprising was what the experience had done for their relationship. I watched for days as they spoke to each other with affection, understanding, and respect – instead of the cranky, critical tones I usually heard between them. They’d learned a precious lesson about how important it is to show people how much we care, while we still have the chance.
Five days later, when Jim died, the memory of their gift to him became an exceptional treasure for all of us. For me, it is a constant reminder of the many wondrous ways in which God expresses His Love for us. For as long as I live, I will never forget the kindness and compassion of their creative, loving gesture.
To His Glory . . . BJ