Dad

With mom it was different. The Sorrow showed up again when Jacob was born, when Whitney graduated, when I was ordained, etc. - or when I changed some thing that was "hers". When I removed the hibiscus bushes in the front yard, the empty place where they had been provoked The Sorrow every time I looked in that corner of the yard. There is still a hook in my ceiling where her oxygen tubing used to run. It looks silly, but it is comfortable.

With dad, it's different. He was my greatest fan, my greatest cheerleader, my greatest counselor. He was the first one I went to when I was uncertain. He was the first to hear of my latest "heresy" whether it was a new understanding of God, scripture, evangelism or how you "do" church. He new all my insecurity when I launched into unknown waters. He was the candle in the window in the darkest night that reminded me where I had come from so I knew why I was going.
The only question a man ever has to answer is, "Am I enough ... ?". Dad was my constant example/mentor on being enough.

With mom, The Sorrow was a momentary shadow that clouded my day.

For dad, The Sorrow is an ever present ache with a sharp pain in every triumph, every change, every new idea, every insecurity, every failure, every question, every new revelation of God, every time I reach to pick up the phone to ask/tell dad about ...
It's like nothing is ever quite complete since I haven't told dad about it yet.

: (

With My Own Hand

At my uncle's funeral, Dr Tom Smiley of Lakewood Baptist Church in Gainesville, GA introduced me to two novel concepts.  First, he spoke about a system of files he has to save every piece of correspondence he receives from or sends to each of his parishioners.  He got the idea from the vertical filing system in a medical office.  I'd thought about cataloging pictures of the youth that pass through so that at graduation we can present them with an album of their life growing up in the church.  It would probably add a lot of laughter and a little embarrassment to the graduation party as well.  But, I never actually pulled it off.  I suppose in my life, the file would be primarily electronic with a bunch of emails, a few blogs and enormous number of facebook status snapshots.  It just didn't seem the same.
The second was actually my uncle's file itself.  It was thick.  I mean really thick.  I'm sure when he pulled it out of the file, there wasn't much left in the G's folder.  He read passages from several.  It was like having Uncle Dennis back with us for a few moments.  Incredible memories.
I don't know that I will adopt Tom's filing habits.  I receive so little by way of written communication.  But, Uncle Dennis' writing habit ...
To that end, I've written (and mailed - that part is important, too) four letters since I got home from the funeral.  I mean with actual paper and ink pen.  Complete with writer's cramp, crossed out words, misspellings, ink smudges, a paper cut on the tongue from licking the envelope flap and the like.
I don't know how many it takes before it becomes habitual.  I hope it becomes an addiction.

(1Corinthians 16:21; Galatians 6:11; Colossians 4:18; 2 Thessalonians 3:17; Philemon 1:19)

#2 Pencil

 Wow.  I miss pencils.
Someone was rattling off a phone number to me and I just grabbed whatever writing instrument was handy.  It happened to be a yellow, #2 pencil.  I don't think I've held one this year.
There's just something special about them.  The weight of the line changes with lighter or heavier pressure.  You can do cross hatch shading and smudge it to soften the lines.  If it gets a little dull, you can sharpen it by shading in your doodles with the edge of the lead.  You can erase.
Pencils are to written expression what black and white film is to photographic expression.
I almost feel like this should be written in pencil.  I don't even have a "hand written" font to use.

Two Part Epoxy and the Art of Roadside Repairs

Most roadside adventures involve tires.  Simple flats.  Sling a tread.  There was even the time when the wheel came off the van and passed dad before the back end settled down on the pavement.
I've done various roadside repairs.  Alternators, water pumps, hoses, ignition wiring, fuel pump, serpentine belts, fan belts.  Dad and I even replaced a motor on the side of the highway using a fencepost and the dashboard for a engine hoist.
On my way up to my uncles funeral in north Georgia, I had a new one.  The gauges all looked good, but the engine started bucking like it does when it overheats.  I pulled off at the next exit, fortunately it was less than half a mile, and into a little ma and pop gas station.  I opened the hood and sure enough it was smokin' hot.  After half an hour, it was cool enough for me to open the radiator cap.  No water.  I went in and got some coolant and dumped it in and then a gallon and a half of water.  When I started the engine, it was hissing.  With only one ear, I have no directional hearing.  I couldn't tell where the sound was coming from.  Finally I spotted a little stream of water that I traced back to the bypass tube.  Two pin holes in the steel tubing - not the hose.  This is not good.
Checked my watch.  Only 8:45pm.  I can call dad.  Oh, wait ... no I can't.  On my own.
Drove down the hill to WalMart, and went looking for potential solutions. I started with hose clamps and rubber tubing.  Unfortunately, I couldn't find appropriate tubing and I wasn't willing to wait until morning for an auto parts store.
Next my mind turned to JB Weld because there is a long standing Freeman tradition that anything can be repaired with either duct tape or two part epoxy.  Didn't find JB, but did end up with LockTite's version.  Now, how to make it stick.  Bought some steel wool, a screw driver and pliers (along with the two part epoxy).
With much effort, contortion, cut knuckles and burned fingers, I finally removed enough hoses and bundles of wires to sort of more or less kind of reach the problem area.  I crammed some steel wool into the space and used the screwdriver to scrub the area.  I pried the wool out and inspected it and repeated the process about 6 or 8 times until it was as clean as I could get it.  But, it was still dripping water.  I needed a clean dry surface to bond to.
I found the hose leading to the tubing and tried to blow air though it so the water would not be in the tube.  After much effort (and the concern that if I did succeed in putting my mouth on the hose I would end up blowing hot water in my own face)  I finally decide I just couldn't reach it.  Okay, on a search for a potential solution.
I scoured the interior of the car and the trunk.  I finally settled on a fountain pen.  I gutted it and shoved it into the hose an blew on it.  It worked like a charm (ignore those first degree burns on the back of my hand.  it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as cuts on my knuckles).  Now the tube was no longer dripping, but I wasn't content with the condition of the tube's surface.  Was it clean enough for the epoxy to stick.  Besides, how was I going to get the two part epoxy into the small little alcove the tube was hiding in.
Back inside to search for solutions.  I settled on drinking straws, brake part cleaner and contact cleaner.
I sprayed brake parts cleaner on the tube several times and scoured it again with steel wool.  One more time with brake part cleaner and then to air dry.  Then I sprayed it with contact cleaner ( a non residue cleaner) just in case the brake part cleaner left a residue.  Now to mix.
I used the cardboard from the epoxy packaging and mixed a good portion of goo.  I scooped some up and in the straw and threaded it through the small space and slathered it on the now reasonably clean area.  Several times.  Let the waiting begin.  According to package instructions, two hours to drill, sixteen hours until full strength.
At this point, the funeral is only 11 hours away and I still have 3 hours to drive.  I give it two.  While waiting, I head back in to buy some water - just in case.
It is now a week and a half and 950 miles later and I still have all the water I bought in my trunk.
I thank God for two part epoxy and a dad that could fix anything.

In a Small Southern Town

My uncle passed away at the end of last week.  His funeral was yesterday in Gainesville; a small town of about 36,000 in north Georgia.   I just arrived home a few minutes ago.
I love small southern towns.  The people are more relaxed, more helpful, more kind, more ...
Well .... human.
On the way there, my car had some issues.  I stopped in a little town in central Georgia and found a water leak.  I went into a ma and pop gas station and bought some coolant and as the ol' boy was ringing it up, he said, "Now if you  need some water, just come right on back in."  ("You" not "y'all", because in the south we know "y'all" is plural despite any stereotypical representation you may see in movies.)  It turned out I needed some water.  I came back in and he filled my now empty coolant jug with water and said, "If you need some more, just come on back."  Keep in mind, that all 6 of his pumps had 2 cars at each, the store had about a dozen customers in it and he was there alone making order out of chaos.  Well, I needed more.  He filled it again, told me to come back for more and not to go off without a full gallon extra in my trunk.  Several hours later (what it took to make the repairs will be the subject of another post sometime) I got back on the road to Gainesville.
I finally connected with the family, made it to the funeral parlor, the church and finally graveside. (Actually, it was "finally" back to the church for lunch provided by two Sunday School classes for the entire extended family.  More hospitable should probably be added to the list above).
During the funeral procession, both from the funeral home to the church and from the church to the grave site, an interesting thing happened.  As the procession passed, all the cars on both sides of the road stopped.  Not just as the police escort passed, but for the entire procession.  This wasn't a little side road.  It was a 4 lane, state highway with a good amount of traffic right through the middle of town.  No one got impatient and tried to squeeze around the stopped cars.  No one honked.  No one cut into the line.
Literally hundreds of people stopped to pay their respect to the grief of a family and the loss to the community.
You see, in a small town, they understand.  When one of us hurts, we all hurt.  When someone dies it is a loss to us all.  Even though I don't know you personally, you are a part of me.  We don't live in a community, we are community.
It is more human in a small southern town.