Happy New Year . . .

Hoping

A

Particularly

Precious

Year

Now

Embarks

With

You

Experiencing

A

Renewal of spirit

The Little Things . . .

It’s the little things that mean the most when added through the years,

The way mom crimps her piecrust edge and hugs away your fears.

It’s the little ways dad makes you smile,  cracking nuts to feed the squirrels,

And making fudge and popcorn . . .  to treat his boys and girls.

It’s the little gifts that friendships bring,  like change to get a coke,

The little hugs and smiles given,  and the laughing at your joke.

It’s the little daily blessings found . . .  left for us by God,

The sunset at the end of day, or dew drops on the sod.

It’s the little baby born one night,  a long,  long time ago.

The little gift of love and hope,  to a world tossed to and fro . . .

So at this time of making lists, wrapping boxes, tying bows,

Wanting to give the very best to loved ones all,  please know . . .

It’s the little gifts of self you give,  all throughout the year,

That bring such joy and happiness,  and nurtures Christmas Cheer.

Preparing God’s House . . .

Daddy unlocked the front door of the church and he and I walked inside. After closing and locking the door behind us, we then set out to complete Daddy’s Saturday night tasks.

As Daddy straightened the numbers on the attendance board, I picked up one of the offering plates. "Ok Debbie, let’s get started." Daddy and I were going to make sure that God’s house was ready for visitors on Sunday morning.

We walked down the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. After I set the offering plate on the altar, I joined Daddy in the second row. Taking my 4-year old hands, Daddy reminded me how to straighten the hymnals in their rack. After making sure that they were sitting upright, with their golden letters facing out, he pushed one to each side. Then placing my hands on either side of the center hymnal he told me to spread my fingers wide. That made the perfect space between the hymnals, and centered the middle one beautifully. Daddy reminded me to do the same for all of the racks. As I began to make my way from the front to the back, then across the aisle and from the back down to the front again, Daddy took care of readying the pulpit. He cleaned out any old papers, emptied the water glass and cleaned it out, then setting it back in it’s spot, he would reach up and adjust the microphone.

By then I was on my second round through the pews. I picked up little balls of wadded paper and gum wrappers, bits of threads and fuzz from the seats, racks and floor. Whenever my little hands got full, I would carry my findings down the aisle to the altar and place them into the offering plate that I had set there at the beginning of our night, then I would skip back to the place where I left off and begin my treasure hunt for trash again. On one of my trips down to the offering plate, I asked Daddy, "God doesn’t like messes does he." With a bit of a start, but in his gentle way, he met me by the altar. Why do you say that? We, work each week to make sure that everything is just right in God’s house, so there isn’t a mess. Yes, Debbie, that is right. My smile faded into a crinkled brow. So Jesus must not like messes, but Daddy, I get messy . . . Before I could say any more, Daddy took me into his arms and gave me a big squeeze. Then he began to explain . . . Jesus loves us just the way we are. Like we sing in church, "Just as I am . . ." God wants us to come to him no matter how messy we are. That’s easy for you, I replied, you always say that you never got dirty as a child. Daddy bowed his head with a grin and a chuckle then looking into my eyes, he said in a voice that he used when he was teasing, oh that’s true, just never ask Aunt Evelyn about it. Putting my hand over my mouth I tried to stop the giggle bubbling up inside me, but it escaped and Daddy and I both through our heads back and laughed.

Then Daddy continued, look at this offering plate here, it has all kinds of little bits of trash and stray strings in it. Our lives are kind of like that but if we place our lives and our hearts on God’s altar he takes our offering mess and all, and changes it into something more beautiful than we can even imagine. That’s good, I said with a smile of relief, and we started our next tasks for the night.

After straightening each chair into it’s proper place on the platform, we then went to the organ. There we cleaned off the music rack, and Daddy made sure that the new music was in its proper order in the black book. I used one of his clean hankies to dust off the keys and the bench. When the microphone was positioned, we crossed the platform and did the same for the piano. Daddy was whistling a familiar tune, as he worked and I couldn’t help but notice that there must be something more to our Saturday night ritual.

In the choir loft, I repeated my hymnal straightening while Daddy checked each music folder, and placed them just so on the seats.

Next we went into his office, and picked up the piles of bulletins that we had printed and folded earlier in the week. I carried all that I could hold and followed Daddy in the familiar path around the church where he placed bulletins in their proper spots for the choir, musicians, one on each platform seat and then two on the pulpit. Daddy never put his bible or his sermon notes out on Saturday night, but he left the space for them where they would be on Sunday morning.

I couldn’t stop thinking, and finally I asked, so if Jesus doesn’t mind messes, why do we clean his house each Saturday night? Though my questions were slowing our progress down, Daddy wasn’t cross, once again he sat down on the platform steps and taking me in his arm he explained.

It isn’t about messes; it is about preparing God’s house for his people. Do you remember that after Jesus was resurrected and then had spent some time with his followers, he went back into heaven? Yes. Well, Jesus told his deciples " I go to prepare a place for you, and if I go to prepare a place for you I will come again and receive you unto myself that where I am there ye may be also. After a pause, I asked, "what’s the zipcode?" Daddy laughed, as he had always preached that we not only need to memorize bible verses, but we had to remember their "zipcodes" so we could share them with others. He said smiling, John 14:2b-3. So our readying the church is like Jesus’ readying heaven.

He smiled and kissed my forehead, and we went on to the back of the church with the rest of the bulletins. He placed them neatly where the ushers could reach them and hand them out to everyone as they came in for Sunday morning worship.

One more trip back down the aisle took us to the choir room where the robes were hanging. I watched as Daddy made sure the robes were all facing the same way, and each had their collar. I picked up a few hangers that had found their way to the floor, and he hung them on the far end of the clothing bar. He stood back with a thoughtful look, then smiled down at me and we headed into his office. There Daddy straightened a few things on his desk and then placed the last bulletin he had been carrying on it in the middle of his writing area. I pushed in his chair, and with a flick of the light, we headed back into the sanctuary.

Our last task was to make sure that the flowers on the communion table were arranged just so. Daddy made sure that there was plenty of water in the vase, and then he picked little brown leaves, and petals off till the arrangement looked fresh and perfect. As I picked up the offering plate with it’s growing pile of trash, I told Daddy, this is a lot of work. With a chuckle, he agreed while his eyes were still going over the flowers.

Jesus works harder getting heaven ready . . . (I was thinking out loud.)  He is knocking on doors, cleaning up heaven, placing a lot of bulletins around, getting the angels’ robes straight and he has to cook too! . . . Daddy turned with a puzzled look, cook? You know, like the funny song we sing, . . . "with angel food cake on the table, and heavenly alamode pie . . ."  with a laugh and a smile Daddy joined in, "and all down the line we will sing shout and shine, at the homecoming feast in the sky". . . . So church is almost like heaven, right Daddy?

We eat a lot at church. Yes we do. I like to eat! I said with big eyes and a big smile, Daddy agreed with that familiar twinkle in his eyes, I do too!

Daddy took the offering plate in one hand and my hand in his other and as we walked back down the aisle I said, Daddy, I want to be with Jesus right now. Debbie, only God knows when we each can join him in heaven, and it will be a long time before . . . I cut him off, no Daddy, I don’t mean heaven, I mean in your heart. Everyone knows that Jesus lives in your heart. Daddy’s expression changed to one I had never seen before; he set the offering plate down and knelt down beside me in the back of the church.

Daddy swallowed hard, and taking me into his biggest hug, he said, Debbie you are already in my heart. You always will be. If you really want to be close to Jesus, we can pray together and Jesus will come into your heart too. How would you like that? I couldn’t speak, as I nodded my head, Daddy had me kneel down beside him at the end of the closest pew, and with my folded hands in his, I prayed after him, Dear Jesus, Please forgive me of my sins, please come into my heart, as I trust you to be my lord and savior, In Jesus’ name, amen. Daddy’s tear dropped into my hands as we looked up at each other.

Jesus is happy, Daddy. How do you know? Because he is smiling inside me. Daddy hugged me tight and said Jesus is smiling inside me too.

As we got up to leave, we took the offering plate and emptied the contents into a little trashcan. Daddy made sure that the plate was now clean, and he placed it with the others in the stack by the bulletins. We unlocked the door, daddy turned out the last light, and then he locked the door from the other side. As he gave the handle a jiggle to make sure the door was secure, I tugged on his pant leg,

Daddy? Yes Debbie, I know another reason why Jesus went back up to heaven . . . Why is that? He likes being with HIS Daddy, TOO!

Oh! Fudge . . .

Daddy was the best cook and baker. He had learned these skills from his mother. He often told me stories about when he was a young boy, and how his mother would cook and bake for him and his friends . . . Even in the middle of the night.

One of Daddy’s specialties was making fudge. It was the best treat I had ever had or could imagine this side of heaven. I loved to watch Daddy create in the kitchen, and sometimes he would let me help. As he stood by the big pressure cooker pot on the stove, he would list off things for me to bring him. . . Sugar, cocoa, peanut butter . . . Just to name a few. Always last on Daddy’s list was a little coffee cup of cold water. As Daddy began to swirl the ingredients together in the big pot, he would change the temp of the burner up and down to make the heat just right. The air would begin to fill with the wonderful smells of chocolate and sugar . . . Then Daddy would always let me watch as he dropped the stick butter into the thick chocolate. I loved to watch it swirl around as it melted and made the chocolate as smooth looking as glass. Then, at just the right moment, when the chocolate mixture began to bloop bubbles up from the middle, and then all over, Daddy would set the timer on the stove, and began to beat the fudge with his big spoon, so it would fully mix and harden just right. While he was doing this, Daddy would instruct me to get the “fudge pan” and a stick of butter. With his careful guidance I would peel the paper off of the stick, just enough to expose one end, then I would “color” the pan’s bottom yellow with the stick, till every corner was completely coated. This would help the fudge not to stick to the pan, and make it easier to cut and serve later.

Then would come “the moment of truth” as Daddy called it, and he would take the big spoon, and drop a little chocolaty drop into the cup of cold water. We both would look carefully. If it held its shape, then the fudge was done, and would harden nicely in the pan. If it spread out in the cup, then it was not done, and Daddy would have to beat it more. He would repeat this process till the little drop was a perfect little ball in the water.

When the fudge was ready, he would pick up the large pot, hold it over the buttered fudge pan, and let the smooth chocolaty goodness pour out in thick waves. Taking his big spoon, he would scrape out every little bit he could, and then with the spoon’s back, he smoothed the fudge in the pan till it filled every corner and it’s top was as flat as a table.

While the fudge sat and cooled, Daddy would announce, “Who wants to scrape the pan? . . . Who wants to scrape the spoon? . . . And my brothers and sister would come running. Daddy would then make the decision as to who got what. Sometimes, though, he wouldn’t make the announcement and he and I would take two small spoons and scrape the pot clean, then he would give me the big spoon to eat off of. When the others would come around the corner, asking if it was done yet, he’d glance my way and give me a wink, as I sat at the table finishing off the last of the big spoon, and say, “I wasn’t quite sure of it tonight, so I had to have it specially taste - tested to see if it was alright” . . . The others knew that this meant that they were out of luck till the pan was ready, and I happily smiled sitting at the table with my feet swinging back and forth in my chair as I held the big spoon tight with both hands.

Over the years, we had good times and bad times. Times when everything seemed to go right, and many times that seemed too hard to bear. Even so, we could always count on three things . . . God’s Care, our Parents’ Love, and Daddy’s Fudge. Even when the cupboards were mostly bare, we always had just enough for Daddy to make his fudge for us. In later years, when my siblings had moved on with their own families, we would all gather together for special family game nights. We would sit on the floor around the coffee table, or at the big dinning room table and play Monopoly with Mom, while Daddy would make popcorn and his special fudge. . . One night, though, things didn’t go as planned and the fudge was taking much, much longer to fix than normal. No matter what Daddy did, he couldn’t get the fudge to make the little ball in the cup of water, and the fudge would not harden. Finally, after his face was beet red, with sweat drops running down his forehead, he sat the pan down on a cold burner, and declared it a failure. Everyone jumped up and got spoons and began to eat the delicious soft fudge right out of the pan! It didn’t turn out as he had planned or hoped, but it was just as wonderful tasting as always. We cleaned the pot!

This spoke to Daddy, and as he often used his life experiences, he told of this particular fudge batch in a sermon illustration. It was a while before Daddy made fudge again, but the next family game night, Mom secretly handed each of us a spoon, so at the right time, we could all hold our spoons up in our fists on the table all at once. This was Momma’s way of teasing Daddy, but as I ran up and gave him a big hug, he realized that no matter how his fudge turned out, we all wanted to eat it . . . It was just that good!!! That night the fudge turned out perfectly, and because of my hug, Daddy gave me both the big pot and the big spoon, to enjoy by myself.

*****

As an adult, I had a friend that wanted to take me to a little area of specialty gift shops for a lady’s day out. We looked at antiques, and crafts, and window shopped for hours. We were just about to leave when I spotted something in one of the Old Fashioned Candy Makers’ Windows . . . It was a beautiful display of different colored spoons, all neatly wrapped with a little clear wrap and bow . . . In the spoon? FUDGE! What was the cost for a “spoon full of fudge"? . . . $6.00. What would Daddy have thought?!

No Matter What . . .

The snow had been blowing for several days with 6 foot of snow already on the ground. January had been a particularly bad month for storms and even though February was just a few days away, the storms showed no signs of stopping. I was in the hospital to have my adenoids removed and tubes put into my ears. Just a day away from turning 13, I was more miserable than I had ever been. Hospital workers had been working for 3 shifts strait without any relief. Surgeons were being brought in on snowmobiles, and tempers were running short.

No one from my family was able to come in, and I was so afraid and alone. A nurse brought me some apple juice, that I accidentally spilled onto the left side of my bed which left both me and the bed soaking and sticky. No new sheets were available, so after a severe tongue lashing, another nurse begrudgingly remade my bed with the wet sheets so I would be mostly dry. I was able to get a phone call from my mom and I pleaded for her to come get me, but no one was allowed out. She wasn’t hopeful that I would be able to come home the next day as planned, even though it was my birthday. That night I cried all night long.

Morning came and with it sunshine for the first time in a week. The snow had tapered off yet the roads were still shut down and the hospital staff still had no relief. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want anything except to be in my Daddy’s arms.

A few hours later, a miracle happened, my Daddy walked through the door with a smile on his face and his arms ready to scoop me up. He had been out early shoveling his way to the main road, then he waited for a plow truck to come by and he followed it to the hospital. He signed me out and bundled head to toe we made the journey back home. Barely able to speak from the surgery and from crying I simply said I love you Daddy as I snuggled close on his arm as he drove. I knew that there was no way for my birthday party but Daddy’s coming to get me had been the best birthday gift I could have received.

When we reached home, and went inside, there was all of my family gathered around the dining room table yelling, “surprise!” and singing Happy Birthday to me. Mom had made the Snoopy cake that I had wanted and under a wrapped box with a big bow was the fish aquarium that I had been asking for. When I looked up at Daddy he just smiled and said, “We always celebrate birthdays, no matter what.”

Two and a half years passed and we found ourselves tied to the hospital again. Mom had been very ill, and was close to death. Daddy and I had come down from our home in MI to IL where Mom had been hospitalized to be with her. She was in such a bad way, no one in our family wanted me to be there. They didn’t want my last memories of Momma to be of such pain and hardship. I fought this as much as a brash 15 year old could, but most days I was out fought.

As I watched the calendar go by I new I had to be at the hospital. I talked to uncles and aunts, sister, and Grandma, till finally Grandma allowed me to go and got me a ride. I stopped in a little convenience store looking for gifts. I found a little stuffed monkey I bought for Momma, and then I found a tie, and a package of cupcakes. When I showed up at the hospital room I was let in for just a couple of minutes. I gave Momma the little monkey, even though she was not conscious, and told her I loved her. Daddy had been sitting with Momma and seemed both glad and mad that I had come.

I was quickly ushered out to the family waiting room where I sat in the corner by a little table. I carefully laid the tie on the table, and opened the package of cup cakes. I took one cup cake and placed a single little candle in it and when I heard Daddy coming down the hall I took the match from my uncle and lit the candle.

Daddy started scolding me before he was in the room, he had told me not to come up there and was very disappointed ----- his words stopped. He saw me, the tie and the little cupcake with the single candle glowing in the darkened room. “We always celebrate birthdays, no matter what.” I said. "Happy Birthday Daddy."

Tears filled his eyes as he hugged me so very tight. We sat there and ate the two little cupcakes, even though neither of us liked that kind, and talked till he had to go back to be with Momma and I had to go back to Grandma’s.

I never knew how much that birthday meant to Daddy till a few years later when he used it as a sermon illustration one Sunday service.

Though he’s gone on to heaven, May 29^th I still celebrate every year, because that was the day he was born and the day God gave me such a wonderful Daddy years and years before I was born.

Daddy, I love and miss you so!!!!

People watching atop the Space Needle . . .

People watching is always a theatrical experience . . . People watching atop the Space Needle is a theatre in the round with an ever-changing cast and fluid scene scapes . . .

Arthur, at the wine bar, has been busily serving, smiling, directing and educating all afternoon and into the evening. His once bustling circular bar is now reflecting the soft mood lighting as he carefully and thoroughly wipes down its surface, ending the day and readying it for tomorrow’s repeat performance . . .

Several pods of rowdy teens from NYC circle the o deck in alternating patterns. Their laughter and loud conversations are only interrupted for a moment when they look up at the visibly slanted roof and ask how they can get UP to the restaurant above so they can see it move . . . Though in reality the restaurant is below the o deck . . .

A young couple with touring packs on their backs, silently read the 18’ long history board of the needle’s humble beginning, from a concept drawn on a napkin, to the completion of the structure and beyond. They take in each word studiously and with a reverence that is lacked by those who quickly pass them by . . .

Differing sizes of colorful screens face those who attempt to capture a moment in time and their personal history with a variety of cameras and cell phones . . .

With the last remnants of today’s sunset finally gone, lovers both young and old linger by the railing soaking in a final embrace, sharing a memorable kiss before they make their way back inside . . .

Little ones with fingers placed in their mouths, use their other fingers to point to the twinkling lights of the city as they begin to dot the buildings in the twilight sky . . .

All shapes and sizes, who stand in line waiting for their elevator coach ride back down to the city floor, share their day’s memories as they look back through the digital images on their electronic handhelds . . .

A visiting 4 generation family gathers together for a group hug. Their departure leaves behind only scattered chairs round a table adorned with empty Starbucks cups . . .

A banquet of older folks now make their way around the inner deck, looking out across the water. Dressed in their finest, their gowns and suits are punctuated by large white sticky rectangles trimmed in red, with their names proudly displayed for all to read . . .

A cascade of Mylar balloons happen by bearing the salutation “Happy Birthday“. Their handler -- concealed by their number and bulk . . .

Swinging her socked feet happily, a baby contented on her mother’s lap, quietly takes in the sparkle of the view outside the window by which they sit . . .

As the night sky quickens its pace, turning it's color from hues of blue to misty black, bright flashes begin to pulse steadily on the outer deck, lighting faces of loved ones before a backdrop of the Seattle skyline . . .

Two young brothers, with neatly cropped hair, sit side by side in tall chairs directly facing a window. The unison of their matching pants and jackets are only surpassed by their synchronized sipping of their hot chocolate . . .

A gray headed gentleman leans in to within inches of the inner wall, to view the drawings and photos hanging there . . .

The baristas work feverishly together to serve the lengthening line at the snack bar and espresso counter. Short hand for latte lingo is quickly scribbled down the side of empty cups by one before they are passed to the other who busily pushes down a symphony of pumps, like keys on a pipe organ, that help create the individualized beverages . . .

A solo worker makes her way in a clockwise path ‘round the o deck with her broom and dustpan. Little flicks of her right wrist create a little rift sound with the broom as she sweeps up tiny droppings of straw papers, ticket stubs and banana bread crumbs. Her task is only interrupted by an occasional straightening of a chair or table . . .

With the noise quieting itself, whispers of conversations shared by intimate groups of people huddled around the small circular tables, can now be heard. With their feet gratefully propped up on the bottom runs of the bar stool high chairs, people share intently what is currently on their minds and in their hearts . . .

The bright red hair of a woman, reflects the glow of each spotlight she walks under in her search for her family members . . .

As he fills his elevator to capacity, the young man assures those left behind the black nylon stanchions, that he will be right back to get them. More gather in the line, and when he returns, the twinkle in his brown eyes and smile surrounded by his thickly sculpted auburn beard, give no hint of the tiredness he feels in his body, or the length of his up and down day . . .

Raindrops have just begun to dot the window panes, and ride on the shoulders of those who brave the outer deck at this late hour. The rain may dampen their clothes, but their enthusiasm for their experience remains unweathered . . .

People watching atop the Space Needle . . . A wonderful theatrical experience that raises oneself above the daily grind, and gives the soul a chance to breathe in the fresh air of renewal . . .

Family Communion . . .

Family Communion . . .

Communion is celebrated in many different ways throughout the world. In Daddy’s church, we celebrated communion in different ways depending on the time of year or special event. Communion was always a solemn time, as it symbolized the taking and eating of bread, Christ’s body and the drinking of wine, Christ’s blood. Daddy never wanted anyone to forget this or take for granted the gift Christ gives of himself, so he often came up with unique ways to present communion to our church family. One of my very favorites happened the week before Easter Sunday . . .

In the front of the church, at the altar’s edge, Daddy set up a long table from one of the Sunday School rooms. It was rectangle in shape, and it’s two legs folded out, one at each end. A metal click echoed in the sanctuary when the braces were in just the right spot to hold the table sturdily. Once the table was in it’s proper place, Daddy then covered it with layers of white draping that covered ½ of the top of the table and hung down the sides till it puddled ever so slightly on the floor. This was done till all 4 sides were covered completely. Then Daddy would spread out the special table cloths that were used in every communion to cover the top of the table with a heavy white embroidered cloth. Momma had washed, bleached, and ironed the cloths so they would look their very best.

Daddy then began to add folding chairs around 3 sides of the table, leaving the front side clear so as to be able to be viewed and admired as people walked down the aisle. There were 13 chairs in all. In the very center chair on the back side of the table, Daddy placed a large painting that someone had painted of how they believed Jesus looked. Daddy knew that Jesus was truly with us in our hearts, but he wanted to do something to help people remember this. The church lights were turned off except for just a couple of soft spotlights that shown down and lighted the table. On the table in the very center was placed a loaf of bread that had no cuts in it, and a metal goblet just to it’s right.

As I would stand back and admire the effect, I began to realize what Daddy was trying to create . . . It looked like the painting of the Last Supper, when Jesus celebrated Passover with his Disciples just before his Crucifixion. Candles were lit behind on the wooden communion table that always sat in the sanctuary in front of the pulpit, as well as on the front edge of both the piano and organ. It was so very beautiful, I could hardly breathe when I looked at it. Daddy would then ask me, “how does it look Debbie?” and all I could do was to shake my head yes, as I never could find the words that my heart was feeling at the sight.

Daddy then took me by the hand and led me into his office where he would let me help him prepare the communion trays. Every part of the trays and the little glasses had to shine perfectly. The silver trays had been washed and dried, and polished till they sparkled even in the dimmest light. Daddy gave me two soft cloths and I would hold a little glass with one in my left hand, and with my right I would push the cloth down into the bottom of each glass to make sure it was perfectly dry and had no spots. Then each glass was placed in one of the holes in the communion tray till each layer was completely filled. Lastly Daddy put the top on that sloped up to a point in the middle where a little cross stood all alone. Then we took special cloths and rubbed the two little flat trays till they shown just as brightly as the others. Daddy wrapped them in small heavy cloths made from the same material the table cloths had been made, to keep them from getting fingerprints on them.

Daddy carried the tall communion tray and I followed him caring the two little wrapped trays. He arranged them on the wooden communion table. The church people who were Daddy’s communion helpers then came in and I had to go back home. I always wanted to stay, but Daddy said that I had to wait and come with our family.

Each church family had signed up for a time to come and have communion together. There were so many that this special communion happened for three nights.

But before she took me home, Momma let me peek through a side door to see what happened . . .

When a family came in, they were greeted in the foyer by one of the communion helpers. The sanctuary doors were then opened for them, and they walked together down the center aisle to the table that had been set for them. Daddy stood at the right side of the Jesus painting and his second helper stood to the left side of the wooden communion table with his hands neatly folded. Two ladies also helped Daddy. One stayed off to the left side of the sanctuary. She was the one who tended to the bread and juice in-between each communion served, and the other sat at the organ playing softly hymns who’s well know words would run through everyone’s minds as they listened to the notes.

Daddy greeted the family and began to tell them the familiar story of Jesus and his disciples . . . How they gathered together, and how Jesus blessed the wine and blessed the bread, telling them to take and eat and to drink and to do it in remembrance of Him. As Daddy continued the story, he would tell it as if no one had ever heard it before with such a reverent joy that was so different you almost felt yourself back in time in the upper room. Before the family would leave Daddy would then pray over them asking God’s blessing and a special touch on each one. The family would then rise, and leave together, and though they walked the same aisle back, they always seemed to hold one another closer on their way out.

Once the family had gone through the doors, Daddy and his helpers would set everything up fresh and new for the next family.

Our family came together on the last night. Daddy greeted us at the sanctuary doors and walked with us down the center aisle. Daddy’s helpers greeted us and helped us to be situated. I always wanted to sit between Daddy and Jesus’ picture. Daddy sat with us and told us the story, and how that Jesus loved us each so very much, that even if we were the only ones, He would have still given his life for us, so that we would one day live forever with Him in heaven.

The helpers served us the bread and the juice and bowed their heads when Daddy began to pray over our family. He prayed for each of us individually and together as one. Daddy thanked God for leading our family, and prayed that He would give Daddy the guidance to be the Husband, Father, and Pastor that God wanted him to be. There was such a warmth in the air surrounding us that I never wanted that moment to end.

We’ve since all gone our separate ways . . . Making our own families and life decisions . . . And Daddy has since gone on to be with Jesus in Heaven. Still I remember that special time, the communion shared, the prayers said, and know that the same God that placed his hand on our family then, is still on the throne and His love for each of us is still as strong and true.

My Space Needle View . . .

. . . Up above the city, gazing out the window across the waters to the islands on the other side I am reminded of a large table that little old ladies would gather round with mounds of textiles.

Their movement of the fabrics pushed some up into little ranges of hills, while their smoothing out of others across the table created a sea for everyone to admire, touch and consider for the quilt to be created.

Like the ever changing weather fronts and times of day, no two quiltings were ever the same . . .

Today, Nature's quilt of  Puget Sound and the surrounding area is all in blues, grays, dull silvers, creams, and greens with little prints of bright dots and little box houses. The quilt is named twilight under the weather front. There is constant movement giving a bit of an uneasy feeling, yet the whole, when gathered about oneself, can give a deep and enveloping comfort.

Tucking in for the night . . .

. . . Ships in the harbor are nestling together tonight, their tall proud sales pulled down and wrapped around the decks of their ship as if to help keep the vessel warm in the biting cold of the autumn’s night. Huddling together as if to keep the cold out, here and there a flicker of light peeps through a glass pane signaling anyone who cares to cast a gaze their way that life continues on . . . and though braced for the storm heading in slowly from over the horizon, the spirit of those sailors will not diminish or give way to abandonment of all that they hold most dear to their hearts. Larger vessels are tendered further out from shore creating a loose outer hedge for the harbor, and the sight leaves me wondering what each ship holds . . .who abides there . . . and what are their thoughts as they look back my way . . .

The most special row . . .

Visiting Daddy’s Study at the church was always a special treat. Everything was always neat and organized, just as it should be. Bookcases lined the walls reaching toward the ceiling like skyscrapers in a city’s skyline. Each book, or set of books made up the windows and floors of the towers with titles in gold and silver on the bindings sparkling as the light shown on them brightly. Amongst the hundreds upon hundreds of colorful jackets, I would always hunt for the most special row.

This row was different than all of the rest. It’s volumes were worn with bindings who’s creases ran crookedly up through the faded lettering. There were little strings peeking out of the tops and dangling from the bottoms, reminding me of vines on an old stone wall after they had lost their colorful leaves and blossoms. When I spotted the row, I would carefully run my fingers over the bindings gently feeling the different textures that time and use had created.

Some were big, others were very tiny. Most had been given to Daddy, over the space of many years. It was fun to think about where each one came from . . . "How about this one Daddy?" I would question with excited anticipation. Daddy would look up from his typing, smile, and tell it’s story, bringing places and people into the study and into my mind where I could visit with them till my heart was content.

At the end of the row, was a stack of bright little white books with golden lettering on their sides and fronts. The page edges were shining with gold and in the exact middle a little white ribbon poked it’s tail out. "What about these Daddy?" Daddy would look up and smile, "Those don’t have their stories yet, Debbie." I’d laugh as Daddy would tilt his head and give me the look that said, you already know this. And I did, but asking Daddy the question filled my heart with glee and as I would practice my counting putting my finger lightly on each one, I knew that as the stack got smaller, that meant there was another baby born into our church family.

Finally I would skip around the room, and around the great desk, till my head rested on Daddy’s arm. Pushing his chair back from his work, he would lift me into his lap, and we would sing . . .
"The B-I-B-L-E, Yes THAT’S the Book for ME, I Stand alone, On The WORD of GOD, the
B-I-B-L-E!!!!"


I love you Daddy!

Sinker Fishing . . .

The ground was sunning itself after the last thaws of winter, and in the field next to our house, the tall grasses and weeds had blossomed and begun to reach for the sky. That afternoon, Daddy asked me to come out to the garage. I always liked going there with him, as such wonderful and handy creations came out of his work shop. Everything was exactly in it's place, as if it were ready for a "white glove" inspection. Daddy began to get a few things out of his tackle box, and then he reached down a small white rod and reel. "Are we going to go fishing Daddy?" I asked. "No, but while I am gone visiting today you are going to go "Sinker Fishing". . . After a few more twists of his hands, Daddy put his tools away, picked up the fishing rod, and taking me by the hand, he lead me out to the field.
The rod didn't have a fish hook on the end, in it’s place Daddy had put a big sinker. He explained how the fishing would be just right today, as the mowers would be coming tomorrow, and I had to fish while the weeds were high. Being only 6, the weeds were almost eye level for me, but I could see over the tops of them just enough to try and cast where Daddy pointed to. It took a few tries, but I finally hit the right spot for "Sinker Fish". As I reeled my line in, something tugged on it. Leaning over me, with his arms around me and his hands over mine, he helped me to feel the tugs and the right speed to reel in my catch. At the edge of our lawn, my line and sinker drug out a long green and yellow weed. I held it up like I saw the fishermen do with their fish, and asked Daddy what he thought? He smiled the smile that started in his eyes and ended in my heart, and said, "Why that's a Dandy Sinker Fish! I'd say that's a 14" stripped sinker fish!" And he gave me a wink. He then pointed to a different spot for me to try for, and it wasn't long before I hit the spot. Then he told me to look for a spot where I thought the biggest sinker fish would be hiding, and to try for that spot. With my Mom watching me from the window, all afternoon I fished.
Just before supper time, she called me inside, and was about to ask me what on earth I was bringing in the back door with my rod, when Daddy came around the corner and said, "MY! I think you caught your limit of sinker fish today! Did you have to throw any back?" We laughed and laughed till our sides ached.
The next day the mowers had come, and there were no weeds in the field. Daddy told me that patience was a big part of fishing no matter what you are fishing for, and that he happened to know that the field had been stocked with enough sinker fish to last us all the way till fall. Each day after school, I came home eager to see if it was a good "fishing" day. When it was I'd find my little white fishing rod and reel, and head out to the edge of the field and fish. Some afternoons, my brother would come and fish with me and we would make a contest to see who could catch the most. Those were the best sinker fishing days, but he was 7 years older and had many other chores and tasks to do, so most days I would sinker fish alone.
Then one Saturday, Mom woke me up early and told me that Daddy was taking me out for the day. When I asked where, she just smiled and said it was a surprise. Mom helped me get on my best play pants, my white blouse with the little ruffle sleeves, my favorite, my jacket, and white Gilligan Hat, my frilly socks and brown buckle shoes. Daddy's eyes just twinkled as I bounced up and down with excitement in the car seat as we drove up into the mountains.
Daddy parked the car alongside a dirt road and told me to wait for him to come around and open my door. As he lead me around to the back of the car, I noticed that several of the Grown-ups from our church were gathering beside the lake across the road. Daddy got out his tackle box and fishing pole and handed me my little white rod, then hand in hand we walked across the road to the others. Daddy was taking me fishing with the Men's prayer group. When the men first saw me they smiled an uneasy smile and began to whisper. "Don't worry fellas, I promise she won't spoil your fishing or get in the way . . . "
Daddy picked out a rock for me to sit on a little way from everyone else, and as he baited my hook, he whispered, "Ok Debbie, now, just like in the field by our house . . . " I wriggled up my shoulders and covered my giggles with my hand. Daddy looked out over the water and pointed to a spot. Standing over me with his arms around me and his hands on mine, he helped me cast my first cast, it came close, but wasn't just right. As the men's eyes watched me, I began to doubt myself, and almost felt a tear begin to roll out of my eye, but Daddy whispered again, don't pay attention to the others, you can do it, and he stood back. Sure enough the next cast went right where Daddy had pointed. My eyes got big and I looked at Daddy, who just looked back with that special twinkle, neither one of us said a word. I slowly reeled in my line waiting to feel a tug like I felt fishing in the field. My line came up empty, except for the bait. I remembered what Daddy had said about patience and how important it was no matter what you are fishing for, so while he was talking with the men a few yards away, I stood up straight and cast again, this time, I felt the tug, so I reeled in my line just like Daddy had taught me, and out of the water came my hook with a fish big as my Daddy's hand. I remembered to pose how the "fishermen" always did, and then I said in the proudest voice a little girl could muster, "You were right Daddy! This is just as easy as catching Sinker Fish!" Daddy smiled bigger than I had ever seen, as he told everyone that I had caught the first fish of the day!
All morning and afternoon, everyone fished and visited, ate and prayed having a wonderful time together. Some men caught a lot, some just a few, I didn't catch the biggest or the most, but I didn't care. I was fishing with my Daddy and that was all that mattered. Many of the men asked Daddy what exactly "sinker fish" were, but he never told, he would just look my way and give me a wink, and on the drive home we laughed and laughed till our sides ached. . .

Hankies . . .

Daddy was combing his hair, getting ready to go to the church office, when Debbie climbed up on the counter to watch him. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, and then back at him, several times, till every hair was in it’s place. Daddy used Brillcream that made his hair shiny as new black shoes. After his hair was just so, he reached into the medicine cabinet and splashed his Brute colon on his neck on both sides. Daddy always leaned over to let Debbie smell the fresh fragrance, which delighted her to no end. She breathed in a deep breath through her nose, closing her eyes and letting out a smiling “mmmmmmm.”
Debbie loved the smell of Brute on her Daddy’s neck almost as much as the smell of Daddy’s fudge cooking on the stove.
Daddy asked if his hankies were ready.
Debbie always helped her momma iron them. Right beside Momma’s ironing board, Debbie would set up her little ironing board with her little pretend iron. When Momma’s iron was almost hot, Debbie would pick a hankie out of the laundry basket. She would flatten it on her ironing board smoothing it with her hands. Then she’d take her little pretend iron, pressing hard, she would carefully run it over the hankie on both sides till Momma was ready to take it. Momma would place the hankie on her ironing board. Her big iron let out little puffs of steam as she glided it across the white linen on one side and then on the other side. Then she would fold it in half and iron the crease as sharp as a knife. Folding it once more she would iron the four edges till it made a perfect square. Debbie watched every stroke of the iron, eagerly waiting till Momma would hand her the warm square. Debbie would take the square carefully and sit it on the end of her little ironing board. They would repeat this over and over until all of Daddy’s hankies were neatly stacked.
Debbie told Daddy that they were ready. She got very excited when Daddy said that he would need two to take to the church office. That meant that Debbie was coming with him. Daddy set her down off of the counter, and she skipped off to get the hankies. As Daddy folded the two hankies together, placing them in his pocket, they said good-bye to Momma.
When they arrived at the church, Daddy would unlock the door to his study. He then took off his suit coat and place it on the coat rack just to the left. Debbie would reach into his jacket pocket and pull the two hankies out, giving them both to Daddy. He put one in his pant pocket, and then he would place one on Debbie’s hand like a little puppet. Her first finger fit all the way into the center folded corner, and the two corners on both sides wrapped around her hand where she would hold them. That left the last corner pointing to her wrist on the back of her hand. Debbie knew exactly what to do next. She took her hankied finger and began to dust the edge of each shelf on the first book case. Her finger was just the right size to get in between the spines of each book as she worked her way from left to right along each shelf. When the hankie was darkened enough, she would run over to Daddy to have him place her finger in another fold. All the while Daddy was typing Debbie would dust each shelf she could reach, running back and forth to Daddy for him to find a clean spot on the hankie for her to use next. When all of the shelves were finished, she took the hankie to Daddy.
Clearing a spot on his desk, Daddy took the soiled hankie and lay it out flat. He lifted Debbie up into his lap, and they looked at the hankie together. Most people, when looking at the hankie, would simply see dirt and dust, but Daddy taught Debbie to look closer, and together they would see images and patterns. They laughed at funny faces they found and marvel at the snowflake patterns that were created. Daddy was the best at finding joy and meaning in the littlest things.
Daddy then told Debbie that the white hankie is like our life, fresh and new. The work we do and time we spend mark our lives. Sometimes we may get discouraged, but when we take the time to give our lives to The Father, let Him guide where we are to work, and listen to Him, He will show us the wonderful blessings we have given to others, and we will see the joy that our life brings.
While Daddy finished his work for the day, Debbie found her favorite place under Daddy’s desk. She took the hankie with her to continue to look at and admire. She liked thinking about being able to sit in God’s lap, and having him point out beautiful and funny things in her life.
Soon it was time to go home. Daddy took the hankie, folding it carefully he placed it back in his jacket pocket. As he reached to turn the office light off, he took Debbie’s hand into his and they closed the door. Debbie skipped along while Daddy walked holding her hand tight. It was very quiet as they made their way home. “Daddy? . . . I like hankies!” . . . “So do I Debbie.” Daddy replied with a smile.

. . . a Vase . . .

A Vase is a vessel used to hold things.
Some are fancy others plain,
different shapes, different sizes,
fashioned from any number of materials,
useful, beautiful, odd,
almost always very fragile . . .

The beauty of the Vase is easily enhanced
or damaged by what is placed inside.

A Friend's Heart is a vessel used to hold things.
Some fanciful, others simple
different shapes, different sizes
fashioned from life lived over the years,
useful, beautiful, odd,
almost always very fragile . . .

The beauty of a Friend's Heart is easily enhanced
or damaged by what is placed inside.

My Heart is where I hold things.
Wildly fantastic, plain and true,
different experiences, different gifts,
fashioned from time, God, family, and friends,
useful, beautiful, odd,
almost always very fragile . . .

The beauty of My Heart has been enhanced by
what's been placed inside . . . YOU.

You have given me comfort, love, unconditional acceptance,
laughter, strength, encouragement, joy, help, compassion,
inspiration, truth, friendship, and most importantly, the gift
of yourself.

I give you the gift of this Vase as
a reminder . . .
I am eternally grateful for all you have given me . . .
I am so thankful to have you in my life . . .

I carry you in my heart always . . .
and my heart is made beautiful by your presence.

. . . and make Debbie a good girl . . .

From the earliest of my remembrances, prayer has been the corner stone of my Daddy's life.  So often the last resort of action when faced with a decision or crisis, and rarely thought of during times of blessings by many, was just the opposite for my Daddy.  Practicing what he preached, Daddy prayed in all occasions, unashamedly, and with the bold freedom to talk with God, as Lord and Friend.  Before I had reached the age of 3 Daddy spent time with me in prayer, teaching me to pray.  I always liked to hold his hand when he prayed, as it made me feel that much closer to the God that I was just learning about.  I knew that this communication was of the very most importance, because Daddy didn't just pray for me, he prayed with me, and lead me in praying.  Sometimes I would peek up at him as he knelt with me to see if his eyes were open.  When I saw how tightly shut his were I would quickly squeeze my eyes back shut in hopes of being just like him. 

Daddy would pray for everything from people to be healed, to God showing us the path to walk, to thanking him for the fish he and I would catch.  I liked the thank yous best because in my mind I could see Jesus smiling at Peter and laughing at Peter's joy of catching a fish, and I could feel the same smiling and laughter for us. 

With all of the praying that Daddy did with me, there was only one prayer that was ever just the same.  It was the bedtime prayer that he taught me to say.  Repeating each sentence after his prompting, I would say with all my sincerest heart . . .

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray the Lord, my soul to take
God Bless Mommy and Daddy
and Davy, and Kassy, and Tevey
. . . and MAKE DEBBIE A GOOD GIRL!

I knew that every time I asked God to bless each of my family members that He would.  Not a single doubt in my mind.  I also knew that by asking God to "Make Debbie a good girl", that I would need His help to be what He wanted me to be, and I could hear in my Daddy's voice that he believed that God would.

Several years later, a few weeks before my 12th Christmas, Daddy took me shopping for a new coat.  This was a very special occasion as I had always worn hand-me-down coats or coats given to us by caring church people.  I was always very grateful, for the coats that I had been given, but the joy of going with Daddy to pick out one just for me, was almost more than I could contain. 

Daddy was a wonderful shopper.  He always seemed to pick out just the right item for each person, and somehow we always had just enough for what we needed.  Riding in the car on the way home from shopping no matter what it was for, we would give thanks for God's blessings that we received.

I remember walking through the stores looking at all different kinds of coats, trying them on, looking in the mirrors, working the shiny buttons through the fresh button holes, admiring the colors and feel.  Daddy would check the length of the sleeves, and the seams as I would wave my arms up and down in a flying motion.  Then, it happened . . . I saw the coat that I wanted more than anything.  It was bright red velvet that came down to just above my knees, with white simulated fur around each cuff, and from around the neck, down the front and around the bottom completing the look with a zipper up the front.  It was seamless, bright, and became the instant desire of my heart.  Daddy looked and checked it, and then, to my amazement, he hung it back on the rack.  We were leaving without the coat.  Daddy said that we needed to think about it, and since it was still a few weeks from winter, we had time.  I was devastated.  But, by the time we were home, after recalling in great detail it's loveliness, and giving my promises to always take good care of it, the subject was closed. 

Christmas was fast approaching, and we never did go back for my coat.  The winter was mild, and with the tree decorated, and holiday festivities swirling about, thoughts of my coat, were often replaced with other things.  We had many traditions in our family, but one that was taught me by my older siblings were how to hunt the house for hidden presents.  When we would find them, we would look for names, and shake and squeeze them trying to guess what they were.  Mom and Daddy knew of this and they would often switch name tags, or wrap up empty boxes to throw us off track.  Almost all of our gifts were wrapped in old "church bulletin boxes" which were all the same size making guessing that much more of a challenge. 

I was by myself in the house, when I decided to hunt that Christmas.  I looked all over the house finding those trade mark bulletin boxes, until I decided to look under my parent's bed.  There I got the surprise of my life.  There was a coat box, wrapped from the store, with my name . . . after I remembered to breathe, I touched it, then I squeezed it, and then in an instant, I was unwrapping it, not part of the tradition, just enough to see and feel that red velvet and white fur.  Daddy was surprising me for Christmas!!!!!!!  I was elated, then I realized what I had done.  I felt a little guilty, but was so excited I had determined I would never let on that I knew of my special present, and I would fool Daddy by acting so surprised. 

Christmas morning came, and I did what I set out to do.  I was so very happy.  I wore the coat around all day inside.  I wore it to bed.  I hugged and hugged Daddy.  I brushed the fur with my hair brush and kept the coat clean and fresh each day. 

On my first day back to school, I wore it proudly as I stood at the bus stop.  Once on the bus, my precious coat became ridiculed by a few boys, calling it a Santa suit, and then one boy, who was smoking, put his cigarette out on my coat sleeve, and burned a black hole in the fresh red material.  As I poured my heart out to my Daddy, he was clearly disappointed, but there was nothing he could do.  That night as I laid in bed crying, God spoke to my heart, and I knew that I had strayed from where I needed to be.  My acting surprised on Christmas, was lying to my Daddy, and that cigarette burn was the clear reminder to me that I had to suffer the consequences of my choices in life.  That night as I prayed for God to forgive me, I repeated the prayer that Daddy had taught me . . . and the closing sentence spoke more loudly than ever before to my heart, . . . 

At the writing of this story, I am 43 years old.  I have made many mistakes and have sinned and needed forgiveness more times than I care to count.  As I pray, I am often reminded of my red coat, that cigarette burn, and my need for God's daily help.  I know that my Daddy still prays for me daily, and when we are together, or are talking on the phone, he prays with me.  I am so very thankful for him, and his dedication to God, his love for me, and for teaching me to pray.  I know that God will bless each of those that I ask him to, and I know that He still hears my sincerest request that I pray each day . . . "and MAKE DEBBIE A GOOD GIRL".

I love you Daddy! 

A Very Special Valentine . . .

Daddy and I had been making our way together on our own for over a year after Momma had died.  Learning to take care of each other, as well as the house and all of the duties that come along in life were overwhelming at times, and more often than not were down right funny. 

I will never forget the amount of planning for our covert operation "Laundromat" after we had gone weeks without washing a load of clothes at home.  Daddy going to the bank to withdraw some money, then heading to different coin operated car washes to get quarters, so as not to raise suspicion by getting rolls of quarters from the bank or all from a single location.  We carefully plotted out the laundromat least likely used by church members, but still within 25 miles from home, one open 24hrs, so we would have the cover of night to sneak out 22 loads of dirty clothes, and return with 22 loads of clean clothes without the watchful eyes of neighbors. 

Our weekly "find the fudge" hunt, matched our wits against each other, as Daddy would make fudge while I was at school, clean up all of the evidence, and hide it somewhere in the house.  My keen sense of smell, and love of Daddy's fudge, never failed to find it within an hour of walking in the door . . . even though Daddy never made the fudge on the same day of the week . . . 

Late into the night after dinner we would sit at our little kitchenette table playing game after game of Rook or Uno, to see who ultimately would have to do the dishes, Daddy marveled at how much better my card game skills were then as opposed to any other time of playing. 

During my lunch hour from school, Daddy would often pick me up to go and eat with him at a favorite diner, where salads with Catalina Dressing and the best BBQ beef sandwiches gave us both a lift and kept us going through hospital and nursing home calls we would make in the evenings together. 

Sleepless nights were filled with Daddy working on his sermons and I on my homework, taking time out only for 3:00am feasts of fried potatoes and pork chops. 

Food wasn't just for us, we always fed the squirrels and the pigeons every morning and late afternoon with black walnuts and pecans we would hammer open so our little guests wouldn't have to work for the nutty meat.  The squirrels would thank us by sitting on our back steps wiggling their noses and swooshing their tails, while the pigeons would thank us by going 3 houses up the street to use the bathroom instead of on our roof and car. 

Still . . . there was an emptiness in our home that couldn't be filled by just our love for each other.

While most of my high school friends spent time dating and worrying their parents, I didn't date . . . but spent time worrying about Daddy while he dated.  The role reversal tended to make us both giggle, and make gossiping tongues wag, but we knew God was in control. 

One very special day, Daddy came home, and showed me a little box with the most beautiful diamond ring inside.  It sparkled in the kitchen light, but it's glimmer was out shown by the twinkle in Daddy's eyes.  Daddy and I were the only brown-eyed members of our family, and Momma had told me once that it takes a lot to make brown eyes shine.  I knew before he spoke the words that he was head-over-heels in love.  Her name was Donnie, and she was to be his new bride.  The shine in his eyes made me know what her answer would be even before the question was asked.
 
The whirlwind of wedding plans, and traveling across the U.S. and back left me exhausted and feeling alone.  Our home and life together would once again be changed and the struggles and adjustments would be hard.  Still, their wedding date of February 14th, made me smile and chuckle to myself as to just how giddy and romantic Daddy was. 

It wasn't until years later that it hit me that Daddy wasn't just thinking of himself and Donnie and how much in love that they are, but he was showing me just how very much he loved me by giving me A Very Special Valentine, the gift of Donnie, My Most Beautiful Mother.  His gift has given me more joy, comfort, laughter, and love than I could ever have imagined possible. 

For years there has been a secret, just between Daddy and I.  On every February 14th when I call to wish Daddy and Donnie a Happy Anniversary, I can hear the twinkle in his eyes, as he says "I love you Debbie, and I know you love your Valentine." 

I love you Donnie!

Your Daughter,
Debbie

. . . Marv . . .

May 19^th , 1983 was the day Daniel called his Dad to tell him that he was getting married, as I listened in. Marv’s reply, “oh no son! You don’t want to do that” . . .

At that moment I couldn’t have pictured the precious relationship I would be blessed with over the next 27 years.

I often reminded Marv of that moment, because it would make him laugh, and his laughter was pure delight to me. His biggest laugh came when I was doing the splits 8 inches above the lake with one foot on the shore and the other in the boat. The boat rocking back and forth as he laughed so hard he cried, meanwhile there I had to wait, facing my reflection in the murky water till he could compose himself long enough to grab the oars.

Being fishing buddies, we had a lot of time to sit and chat, especially in his ice shanty sitting out on the middle of the lake. In the boat, in the car or truck to and from our fishing trips, he took me to other places and times telling me of his adventures with his brothers, life on the farm, the music at the old Ebenezer church when he was “just a young lad”.

Cooking together in the kitchen we would swap stories and try to figure out problems . . . Like his squirrel trap . . . You see, I love squirrels and he loved squirrels to be far, far away. I’ll never forget the night that he was trying to come up with an improvement because of it not working right . . . And I told him, jokingly, that it probably would work better if I would stop letting the squirrels back out of it . . .

There are so many memories of special times and day to day joys with him that I could share, if there was time. Through those times he became a second father to me. Marv has touched so many with his love, care, and friendship, I am grateful to have been one of those he opened his heart to.

So today, I celebrate him, and his life . . . Both here and in heaven.

. . . as winter fades into spring's early morn . . .

Amid the waves of daily life

And the storms this time of year

May your heart be filled with gladness

As your vessel you carefully steer

Looking toward the light of hope

May the tempests fall away

As you glide into the comfort

And shelter of the bay

Though the light is always shining

Where’ ere you tend to roam

May you feel it’s warmth enfold you

As you sail on toward home

And the peace that comes from reaching

The safety of the shore

Fill your soul to overflowing

Giving rise to fear no more

May the Joy of this season

Glisten merrily and bright

And the gifts of love and caring

Bring to your heart . . . delight