One of the most bitter letters I ever received in my long life and, I have known bitter people, very bitter family members, even a few bitter friends, I received from the pastor of the church in which I grew up as a child. The church where both my mother and father grew up as children, the church in which both my mother's and father's parents worshiped and their parents, my great-grandparents built (1874). My ancestors arrived in 1677 (I have the original document, written with a quill pen) on the Good Ship Kent, founding the town of Morristown, NJ. They later moved south bringing with them a committed Christian life and founded several rural churches (Union Grove, Rains Crossroads, Little Rock, all FWB churches) in Wilson and Wayne Counties, North Carolina. The Lucas and Morris families are listed as some of North Carolina's first families, the Lucas family owned a large part of Wilson County, Lucama. This writer never knew anything except family, God, country.
On the long list of email addresses, my blog sent out by a server, the pastor of this old family church. As those of you who read what I write know well, I hold no punches from socialism, modernism, pretendism. This pastor will be unable to find anyone who has given more in time, talent, treasure, than has this writer and his family. He wrote that I am “negative”, that everyone knew how much money I had given the church, Mt. Olive College (this writer is not a member of this church or denomination, only a financial supporter of Mt. Olive College...Christian School), but that he never wanted to hear from me again, in any way (I will be glad to send his scanned letter showing his pastoral attitude). This pastor did not realize that someone in the church had put my telephone number on his master calling list so, I am, although at my age mostly housebound, aware of many things.
One thing which happened at the church, please God help me understand, as when I was growing up in that community, a time severe drought...crops drying up in the fields. I have often said about our large and beautiful family farm, the thing I remember most about farming, it was always too wet or too dry. Anyway, after a long drought they had a huge rain. The preacher called the members, “...that since the ditches were so full of water, so much rain, we are canceling prayer meeting.” I would have thought that everyone would have rushed to the church in thanksgiving for the rain...full ditches, revived crops, etc.
I want to remember Father's Day mostly by remembering my own father...his total commitment to the church. We were always the last to leave the church yard anytime, because he was the one who always made sure that all the doors and windows were closed. He was the one who went early and made fires in the wood stoves, led the singing, made all the preparations for communion and “foot washing”. I went out early to the family home on the day of my mother's funeral, to be with him. I said, “What time did you get up?”. He said, “ I got up early so I could go to the church and cut the grass. I want the church to look so good for your mother's funeral. My children's friends are coming to her funeral and I want our beautiful church to look good.” It was always my father, in times of drought, who went around the community and asked everyone, whether a member of the church or not, to go to the church and have prayer service for rain. By the way, the rain always came.
In time of dry weather, as a small boy, he would show me how the roots of plants would grown downward seeking moisture and he would say, “When the rain comes the plants will grow many inches almost overnight.” He was the one who showed me about weeds, the roots of weeds...how roots of weeds will encircle and strangle good plants. I was probably too young to understand tares, why and how God put tares in the field crops as well as in the church house. Tragic that tares have taken over most churches, most pulpits, the gospel being strangled by the roots of unbelief.
We have all read about “a man for all seasons”. My father was one of those men, shaving, trimming the hair of men who were very sick or dead. Fellow farmers came to him if they had a sick animal. I remember telling Dr. Guy Phillips, one of North Carolina's famous educators, how the school principal would come to our home, find my father on a tractor in a field (my father was Chairman of the School Board) and discuss a school problem with him...right out in the field. Often, he would go to the school with his truck and make a repair. The principal knew that the repair on anything would be made without the red tape involved in town. He knew my father had the respect of the community, that he could speak to any parent about the behavior of their child.
Never mind about me, my unbelieving sister and brothers. I want my son and grandsons to know about a real man, a real father. One who never stopped working. When not involved in farming, building houses, always barbering on weekends and holidays. I will never forget the love he showed toward one of his sisters, warning her about the behavior of her daughter...this in front of his own father, my grandfather. The sister's daughter died in prison.
Once, after my mother's death, the large kitchen with so many cabinets built by his parents, I was there and these cabinet tops were filled with pecan pies. I said, “What about all these pies?” He said, “ I could not sleep last night so I baked pies all night. They will go in the freezer and, like your mother, when there is a need in the community, I can take a pie.”
At his funeral, many preachers talking about his life, just before the service the funeral director handed me a card which I stuck in my pocket. Later, a relative read the card to me, I never showed it to anyone else (they would not have cared). The card said simply, “In memory of the only man who ever talked with me about my soul.” The card was signed by a State Senator. (A [good] name [is] rather to be chosen than great riches, [and] loving favour rather than silver and gold. Proverbs 22:1)
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