Hoe, Hoe, Hoe

I guess you could say we were a little(?) spoiled.

Growing up in  the midst of a great depression, as our parents did, meant working in the fields like the grownups and maybe took a little of the joy from their childhoods. Gotta be serious, you know, when folks are starving all around you.

At any rate, I think Mom and Dad recognized this and determined that we would not have to go through the drudgery of day-to-day, all day long chopping cotton or picking cotton.

There were chores of course. And that cotton field was right there in front of the house, needing hoeing if we expected to have any spend money.

And it came to pass that my two sisters and I would find ourselves working down the long rows, in the late June sun, trying, as per Dad's instructions, not to "chop down any of my cotton" along with the weeds.

Not the most exciting work and as kids will do, we entertained ourselves as we worked. We talked, though I cannot recall any of the conversations. I told stories, to amuse myself and Brenda and Deb, though again I don't remember any of them.

My favorite thing we did was to sing. I had begun to appreciate vocal harmony and as the eldest, taught my two little sisters to sing the various parts. "Sweet Adeline" which I had heard on the Lawrence Welk Show was a good tune to start on, with its echoing harmonies.

It was the beginning of many fine times Deb and I and, later, Rodney, spent with each other, family and friends, playing and singing way into the night.

Now one of the other things siblings will do is bicker. This was complicated in our case by the insane Tolar competitive gene (there really is such a thing, you can look it up).

It was a contest to see who could finish chopping their row first. I am afraid many young cotton stalks suffered because of this. Of horticultural interest is the fact that once a cotton stalk is chopped, no amount of propping it up and piling dirt around it will prevent it from withering and dying rather quickly.

These speed-chopping contests would naturally lead to a race to pick the most desirable next row to chop, e.g. the one with the fewest weeds.

Now my sister Debi was prone to torment her opponents, though I pray that Jesus and a changed heart have rid her of these proclivities. Only God and her husband Dusty know.

So when I won a hard fought race and skipped a row to one with very little Johnson grass (a truly noxious weed for cotton choppers), she planted her bony little self athwart my new-claimed row of cotton and refused to budge.

In fact, to rub it in, she indulged in a spiteful little dance and (I'm sure) some taunting words, though again (God being merciful) I cannot recall those.

I warned her to move and she refused, with flourishes. So I fired a warning shot as it were, swinging my hoe in her general direction. Unfortunately she began her dance again and zigged even as I zagged.

Result: one wound on her arm with some pretty impressive bleeding. Actually it was a mere scratch, only a flesh wound, but being a little sister, she indulged in loud weeping and hysterical (so it seemed to me) accusations.

Panicking, I snatched her up and ran all the way to the house. I explained to Mom that as I swung at a particularly large sprig of Johnson grass, Deb had accidentally wandered into the path of the hoe. A shame really, and I hoped she would live.

A bald-faced lie of course (except the wishing she would live part: I'm no Monster. Debi.), but my lil sis was to busy suffering to rat me out.

The end of the matter is this: a rinse-off of the wound with the garden hose and a liberal application of iodine (or mercurochrome, I don't know, whichever one burns the worst), and Deb was on the road to recovery.

And the punishment to fit the crime: the victim was propped on a pillow in the air-conditioned house while the perpetrator was consigned to the cotton patch to serve out his sentence.

...and be sure your sin will find you out.

My Boy Can Come Home

It probably wouldn't surprise you to hear that back in my days as a heathen, I engaged in heathenish behavior.

Not that I'm proud of any of that or that I'm bragging or giving the devil the glory (as we say when a Christian begins to relate his wretched past).

Just that the fact that I was involved with a young woman is essential to the point of the story.

At any rate, we were about to move into the Old House.

My mom was upset (as she should have been) and complained to my dad about my moving myself and my girlfriend in across the road from Mom and Dad's house.

Now back when I first walked away from the Church, my father had done his best to witness to me, remonstrate with me, advise me that "You should start back going to church."

Finally it came to the point where I looked him in the eye and said, "You know, Daddy, I just don't want to talk about it anymore."

He gazed back at me, nodded his head and that was the last time the subject came up between us.

Did he give up on me then?

If you ever knew my daddy, you would not have to ask that question.

So when the day came when my significant other and I were preparing to move in across the street and Mom drew this to his attention, he simply said:

"Ain't nobody gonna tell my boy he can't come home."

Amazing Love! How Can It Be...

that Thou, my God, shouldst die for me? -Charles Wesley

Sorrow, awe, fear, relief, joy.

We are grateful.

I am grateful.

Thinking on the words of Charles Wesley's hymn, emotions flow from one to the next until they all flow together to fill our hearts to overflowing with gratitude.

I think that whatever love we may experience in this life is only a dim but very precious reminder of the love with which our God has loved us, is loving us, will love us.

Love fades, sometimes, in this earthly plane. It is taken away sometimes with the departure of those who love us. But memories remain to remind us. And to point us to the love that is so amazing it cannot be explained, only experienced.

The love of the Lord endures forever.

Praise be unto Him.

With Long Hair Like Women

I love my dad.

I have many, many fond memories of times spent with him, especially as I grew older and was able to appreciate his life and all the accumulated wisdom that he tried to impart to me.

Like any great teacher, he told stories to teach life's lessons.

Like any obtuse student, I often failed to take his meaning.

I have lots of "Daddy Stories" and enjoy sharing them with whoever will listen.

One of my favorite stories demonstrates his propensity to speak indirectly to a situation and my own tendency to miss the point entirely.

I was a teenager in the mid sixties and like many other "rebels" I was growing my hair out, or rather combing it over my forehead and into my eyes (don't ask me why, it was the sixties). My father hated this and told me a story.

It seems that during WWII, Uncle Peewee (one of the famous "Yankee Uncles") was on leave in San Francisco. During his roamings about the city, he wandered into a bar. And in this bar, according to my dad, were men who had "long hair, like women."

That was the story. Being smarter than my father at the time, I dismissed this story as irrelevant and pointless.

Years later, I recalled it and went, "Heeyyy!"

Not to worry, Father.

I would never hang out in a bar in San Francisco.

God Answers Prayer

You keep carrying that anger, it'll eat you up inside.-Don Henley


I knew a man once, a brother in Christ. Some of the finest times in my early life in the church were spent in his company.

This fellow had the awful habit of smoking cigarettes. Whenever any of his friends would question him and ask "Why don't you quit this unhealthy habit?" he would always laugh and say "I guess y'all aren't praying hard enough."

Some time later, my friend had a heart attack and some major by-pass action resulted. Nowadays, he is living a more healthy lifestyle which includes "no smoking."

Maybe we didn't pray as hard as we could have, but God does answer prayers.

Recently received joyful news from a dear loved one.

The last time we visited, I was struck by how deeply a Christian person could be sunk into bitterness, resentment and anger. All conversation was poisoned by it and my heart was broken to see this once joyful person drowning in a sea of misery.

I admit that my prayers are sometimes pitiful and my faith weak but  I have seen even that miniscule mustard seed faith move mountains.

So when she called, this past week, I don't have to tell you how overjoyed I was to hear in her voice a restoring of the peace she had lost. She told of a setting-aside of anger, and of a reaching-out to those toward whom she had experienced such bitterness.

She spoke as well of the looks of relief and the relaxing of tension in each one as she sought to mend broken relationships. 

We have been commanded to forgive as we are forgiven.

I'm not sure if it is the hardest command to obey.

But I have seen God use prayer to soften the hardest and most intransigent heart.

I'm praying, Lord, as hard as I can.

This Be the Verse You 'Grave For Me

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will abide in the shadow of the almighty. -Psalm 91:1

I begin many of my stories these days with this disclaimer: "I may have told you this before...."

We sat in the sanctuary of Grace Pres for Ms. Joycie's funeral service.

Martha Kendall Preuett, a favorite daughter of a favorite friend, sat at the concert grand piano and began to play.

Single notes rang through the room, "Jesus Loves Me." Martha played the simple melody once through then segued gracefully. seamlessly into "In the Cross."

She swayed gently to the music, head back, tears flowing as she played perfectly each song in the medley we had selected, expressing for us all the grief at the loss, the sorrow at the parting.

Joycie's favorite Psalm was the 91st and we had read it several nights before, working our way through the Psalms.

It was our habit to discuss what we had read, but she smiled and said, "You don't have to say anything about this one, I get it."

Bro. Billy preached the 91st for the funeral sermon. At the end he smiled and said, "She got it."

Indeed.

This Much

When I survey the wondrous cross...-Isaac Watts

And can it be that I should gain?-Charles Wesley

What Christian could look upon this or meditate on it and not think of God's amazing grace and love?

On the 500th anniversary of the beginning of the Reformation, I have been reading the life of Luther, "Here I Stand," by Roland H. Bainton.

You know what stands out the most for me about Luther's life? You might say it is his courage or his faith or his dedication to preaching the Word.

But Luther's fear is the thing that strikes me as I read his story.

His terror of God's wrath that drove him to the monastery. That drove him to mortify his flesh. That compelled him to desperately seek some way, any way to make himself (sinner that he knew himself to be) acceptable to his Holy and Just and All-powerful God.

He finally found it. In Romans 1:17 (the righteous shall live by faith).

Faith alone. And that faith a gift from the God Luther so feared.

We are Luther's heirs. Beneficiaries of the doctrine forgotten for hundreds of years but recovered by Luther and all the other Reformers.

Not much fear of God today, it seems.

Even in His Church, we wink at our sin and even that of others though I will admit that it's easier to give my sin a pass than someone else's.

The hymns I've mentioned speak beautifully of God's amazing love. The love that placed Christ upon the cross in my place and yours.

What it must have been for the Son, eternally loved of the Father to take on my sin and yours, to become the thing the Father hated, to experience the hell of forsakenness.

Psalm 103 speaks of God's steadfast love as well... "to those that fear Him."

Luther was well aware of God's hatred of sin, and finding himself to be a sinner, feared God to the depth of his being.

What would my life look like, what could my witness to the Gospel be if I lived in "reverence and awe" of the living God?