SO, THIS IS HOW IT ENDS"

February 28, 1990, seemed like any other day working off midnight shift at Blue Circle Cement in Calera, Alabama.  I had looked forward this morning for seven days.  For seven straight nights my oiler and I burned the cement kilns.  We counted down the nights of the dreaded “hoot owl” with virtually no problems.  We did have to stay past the last shift for an hour and attend a monthly TAKE TWO safety class.

The theme that morning was to report all accidents, no matter how minute.  As we left the class we talked of our plans for our two days off.  We each had important things to do.  I had to visit the hospital where a church member was scheduled for surgery.  I was going and ready to visit her.  Also, I had to prepare sermons, two Lord’s Suppers and two baptisms.  My priority was to get home, shower, dress as a pastor, and head for the hospital. 

I never made it.  On the way home, an eighteen-year-old decided he would practice as an Indy 500 race driver on my side of the highway.  I knew there was a school bus in the area, and I was being cautious as a Firebird passing three cars on a hill suddenly was flying toward me.  I realized that day of departure from this life was quickly coming to an end. 

I thought to myself, “Well, this is it.  This is how my life ends.”  My time of departure was at hand and what a way to go in a wreck.  All I could see was a head-on collision with multiple internal injuries and possible death.  I had heard that your life flashes before you when death is coming.  From the moment I saw the Firebird to impact was three seconds.  To this day when I pass the place of the wreck I count, one thousand one, one thousand two, BAM!

As the Firebird floated toward me all the things that were important in my life were fleeing quickly.  No time to tell my wife and Andy, Angel, and Aaron that I loved them, that I would miss them, no time to say goodbye.  No time to complete all those things I started.  I knew that I was on the downside of life at 37, but down all that preparation for my family and my life was apparently finished. 

Had I finished my course so soon?  I thought, I have two years remaining at New Orleans Theological Seminary before really getting started.  No, closing at eighty plus miles an hour Firebird.  Firebird, named for the mythical dead bird rising to life from ashes was flying toward me with impending death.   

Had I fought a good fight?  Since the time I became a Christian, had I done the best I could?  Suddenly there was no time to pray, to study, to minister, or do anything for the Lord.  Suddenly, my goals changed, changed to survival, that which I could do was think, and that had to be fast.  I was at the mercy of God.  There was no screaming or crying, just thinking how God was calling me to my heavenly home.

Then, God showed me hope.  He showed me an opening.  Taking those talents, experiences, and His loving grace that he had blessed me, I gave it my best last shot.  Watching the “Bird of Death” coming at me, God allowed to maneuver away.  I thought, “If you want my line, I’ll take the ditch.”   As I went to the ditch the teenager flying the death bird decided he wanted the ditch.  I thought, “I’ll give you the ditch and I’ll take the lane.”  Those driving the three adjacent vehicles to my left and the bird headed to the right side of me was about merge.

For an instant, I thought I avoided a head-on collision, then there was the sound of squalling tires, tearing metal, and busting glass.  Sounds like the word for a teenage love song, doesn’t it?  Then, I took the wildest slow-motion ride of my life.  My car turned almost 360 degrees.  God’s hand and Angels intervened.  We hit head on.  Since the teenager headed for the ditch and I for the lane we hit head on but at an angle.

There was an eerie silence as I came to a sudden stop.  The bird continued a short distance hitting a drainpipe in the ditch.  I couldn’t look up.  My body was numb from my neck down and could not breathe.  I knew pain would come.  I made my way out of the car and continued to be bent double. 

I put my hands on my legs above my knees and pushed myself up almost passing out.  I checked for blood in my eyes, from my nose, and from my mouth.  Finding none, I figured all bleeding was internal.  I looked at the car and the engine was between the front seats, the right front fender had replaced the door, and the front passenger door was where the rear door was.  My steering wheel was shapes like a large horseshoe.

I checked on the teenager.  He was on the hood of the Firebird.  He was missing some teeth, bleeding from his forehead and his hands.  His motor and transmission were between his seats.  He was not wearing his seatbelt.  He had borrowed the car and incidentally it was the third car he had totaled since getting his license.  He tried to leave the scene of the accident.  He did not a license or insurance.

When the Alabama State Trooper arrived, he asked where the body from the white care was, my vehicle.  I told him that he was talking to him, me.  He replied, “There’s no way you got out of that car.  Were you wearing a seatbelt?”   I pulled up my shirt and showed him the red streak that was turning blue, green, and back, running from my right side across my stomach to my left shoulder.  The trooper saw the road covered with transmission fluid and thought it was blood.  He estimated that the force of the wreck was 135 miles per hour.  Later that morning, around ten am, the emergency room doctor me that I survived a Delta force of 135 miles per hour and that my heart tried to come through my rib cage.  He said that two things saved me that morning.  One being a big man and two, God was not through with me.

God allowed me to live.  I had faith that regardless of the outcome, God could use me.  He was not finished with me.  He helped me to see that I needed to live each day as though it is my last day and to finish well.  It was not what I did walking from impending danger.  It was God’s love.  The wreck was almost thirty-four years ago.

For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.  Finally, there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give to me on that Day, and not to me only but also to all who have loved His appearing.  (II Timothy 4:6-8 KJV)

My Friend Emmitt

 Football championships are a tradition for southwest Alabama.  I remember braving the cold night at the Hoover Met as that afternoon Sweet Water won the 1A championship and Demopolis won the 4A championship that night.  Championship football is a way of life for the people of Alabama.  Either Alabama or Auburn could pay for the BCS Championship.  Auburn sits at #1 and this year’s Iron Bowl could be the biggest ever.  The winner could take it all.

My alma mater, Jemison High School, played in the first ever Alabama High State Playoffs in 1967 representing class 2A.  I was a freshman and played two plays all season.  We lost to Lamar County 46-7 and finished second.

Several years ago, Jemison returned Legion Field for the 4A Championship against Deshler of Decatur, Deshler, as Demopolis and Sweet Water, content for the championship annually.  Thinking back on that cold night, I remember Emmitt, a good friend, classmate, and co-worker road to Legion Field with me.

Six years my senior, Emmitt had infectious personality, but he had several character flaws as well.  I remember him being a ferocious fighter, but he would never finish a fight allowing his opponent too many opportunities to win.  He liked to drink beer, had a tenacity to cuss, and loved football even though he never played that much.

Emmitt was a good and intelligent worker.  He always did a good job and the supervisors knew they could depend on him.  He was one of the utility men used to re-brick the cement kilns, which was a very tedious and vital job for the process of making cement.

Some of the men at the plant thought it unusual that Emmitt and I would go to the championship together knowing Emmitt’s lifestyle and mine.  One time Emmitt came to work with two black eyes and a broke nose.  When the guys inquired of his condition, he said that his wife’s ex husband put a 38-caliber pistol between his eyes and threatened to “blow him away.”  Instead, he slapped him across the nose with the pistol.  Emmitt and his wife’s ex were usually cordial until they got to drinking and fighting.  Remember, Emmitt had a tenacity to allow his opponent an opportunity to over power him.  That was the case here.

Emmitt and I had been friends forever, had mutual kin, and his wife was a classmate of mine.  I had witnessed to Emmitt on numerous occasions.  He always listened.  That is why the trip to Legion Field was so important.  His answer to my inquires were almost the same each time.  He would say, “I want to live like I want until I get about fifty years old.  Then, I will get saved and live for the Lord.”  I think there a bunch of folks that have that attitude.  There is a major flaw to this reasoning.  The Spirit of God will not always strive with man.

Emmitt and I had a great time at Legion Field.  He did not drink, smoke, or cuss when he was with me.  He did respect me as his friend and my office as pastor.  Jemison once again fell short of the championship coming in second to Deshler.  Emmitt fell short of becoming a believer.

One day while visiting The Clanton Advertiser website obits, I saw where my friend Emmitt died with cancer.  He was well past fifty and as far as I know never accepted Christ.  I remember the last time I saw him.  It was at his uncle’s funeral.  He was about fifty-four years old.  I reminded him of his words about being saved when he turned fifty.  He relied, “One of these days.”  I reminded him that I thought God was giving him another opportunity because of the occasion of the funeral.  He wanted to put it off again.

My heart broke as I read the obituary.  Cancer is such a terrible disease.  When I think about people dying in that horrible condition, I cannot see how they do it without the strength of God giving them peace and mercy.

Championships are temporary, no one remembers who is second, unless it is one who has fallen short.  Then again, all of us have fallen short.  The Spirit of God will not always strive with man.  Do not be an Emmitt.

And the Lord said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years. (Genesis 6:3 KVJ)

One of My Dads in the Ministry

 The first time I met Brother David was at Land Mart, a gas station near my home.  After hearing my name, he introduced himself.  He was very short and reminded me of the cartoon character because he talked like Elmer Fudd.  His Rs were W’s like “wascally wabbit.”

Approaching me he said, “My name is David Meyers, and I am finally meeting my church member who never comes to church.”

His gentle smile and warm handshake made the comment neither threatening nor demeaning.  Actually, I felt he had great compassion for a wandering sheep.  I was not a lost sheep but a black sheep dating a female sheep and going to her church.  He reminded me that I had an obligation to my church.

Brother David was my home church’s first full time pastor.  David accepted the call and lived in the church basement until the church built a Pastorium.  I have often thought about his faith to come to a church on the promise of building a house.  That influenced me.

David’s wife, Janice, played the piano.  They had two sons and a daughter.  They became part of our rural community, which is difficult for many men and women called into a new church field in rural areas.  Rural communities can be clannish and unreceptive of outsiders, but the Meyers were like home folk.

They were workers.  If someone had a pea patch, the Meyer family would pick the peas, unlike some other preacher families who wanted them home delivered, in a pot with bacon, and with a pone of cornbread.  If someone slaughtered an animal, they helped.

One time Mr. Ross, a church member, donated a calf to the church to slaughter and have a big cookout with steaks, hamburger, and camp town stew.  I, along with some men of the church, gathered at Mr. Ross’ barn to slay the fatted calf.  Brother David was having a difficult time with the dastardly deed of slaying the calf with a .38 caliber pistol.  He said that it was inhumane making the poor little calf suffer.  Mr. Ross, a man well into his eighties, tried to convince the preacher that he had used the pistol on many occasions to slaughter calves. 

Brother David was relentless in his argument.  He brought a 30.06 caliber rifle to do the trick.  Mr. Ross tried to tell Brother David that he did not want to blow off the calf’s head; he just wanted to kill it.  Brother David pleaded in the fashion of Perry Mason or Ben Matlock and won the right to slay the fatted calf in a humane manner with the 30.06.  On the day of the feast, the steaks were fine, the hamburgers were great, the camp town stew was delicious, and Brother David was happy.

David was a great pastor.  When I married that female sheep, he attended the wedding.  He convinced her, who decided she had enough church at age eighteen, that she needed to be in church and later convinced her to serve the Lord in the community in which she lived.  By the way, he pastored that church.  He was our pastor when Andy was born.  He explained to me the “baby blues” after my brought Andy home and I could not figure out why she cried for no reason. 

David was not a dynamic preacher, but he built such a close relationship with his congregation that we loved to hear him preach.  Brother David lived his sermons.  He taught us that Christians could have fun.  David and Janice hosted some of the greatest church parties for young adults.  David and Janice started a choir.  The choir volunteered to buy Inspiration Song Book No. 9.  The church grew and grew until it was packed, and we had to build a new sanctuary.

I rededicated my life to the Lord during a revival while he was pastor.  I grew spiritually under his leadership.  He asked me to be an R.A. leader, later a Sunday school teacher, and finally the building coordinator for the new sanctuary.  Shortly after completion of the new building, Brother David accepted the call of another church.  The whole church was heartbroken.

Many years later, I saw Brother David was at retreat at Shocco Springs in Talladega, Alabama.  I was a pastor by that time.  Brother David embraced me and told me how proud he was of me.  He said, “I was thrilled to hear you surrendered to preach.  As one of your dads in the ministry, I have only one piece of advice for you.  When people push you for a decision, tell them you will pray about the situation and then you wait for the Lord to solve it for you.  The biggest mistake preachers make is running ahead of God.  God will solve most problems if you wait on Him.”  That was the last time I saw him. and I still follow that jewel of advice.

A short time later I heard that Brother David died of a heart attack at a senior adult fellowship, I realized that I lost a dad in the ministry.  Feeling nauseated, he had excused himself to go to the restroom.  When he did not return, they found him in the restroom door.  He was fifty-five years old.

Let the elders that rule well be counted worthy of double honour, especially they who labour in the word and doctrine.  For the scripture saith, Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn. And, The labourer is worthy of his reward (I Timothy 5:17-18 KJV).

Tell your preacher and his family how much you appreciate them.

WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY TO MEET THE LORD

 God paints the landscape in beautiful colors as the leaves turn color, turn loose, and gently fall as breezes coming from brilliant mounds of pure white snow and ice begin returning to Alabama.  Fall nights are romantically fresh and clear as stars glisten from cosmic fires millions of light years in that place we call the heavens.  They twinkle giving the moon a crown of diamonds.  Fall mornings, pure and fresh with blue skies, provide the canvas for the kaleidoscope of breath taking colors and gaze toward the throne of God.

On cold, clear, beautiful mornings, I think of an old friend Aritris, pronounced Artareese.  As a kid, Aritris drove a road machine for Chilton County Road department.  I think the proper name is a road grader, but we called it road machine and it was an amazing piece of machinery.  We would run to the dirt road in front of our house and watch Aritris cock the blade and pull the dirt from the ditches to the center of the road.  He would return on the other side repeating the process.  I dreamed that one day I might operate a road grader for the county.

When Aritris scraped the dirt road, we knew it was going to rain and that fresh dirt heaped into the road made a muddy mess.  You could bank on it raining if the county scraped the road and you could hear the train whistle blowing through the holler, which is Chilton County for hollow, as it traveled from Brierfield down to Randolph in neighboring Bibb County.

Aritris said he found all sorts of goodies on the roads.  He found a pack of metric tools for a Honda motorcycle and sold them to me.  Daddy traded a junk tractor for a junk Honda 50 that did not have a tool set.  Aritris sold them to me for five dollars.  I remember it took me a while to pay those five dollars.

Aritris attended my home church.  He never attended Sunday School, attending only the preaching service.  He always parked a long way from the church with his car headed out.  All of us kids joked about his fast get-a-way.  We also heard rumors about a lady friend or two, but it was just gossip as far as I remember.

Aritris’ wife, Myrtle, was one of the greatest influences in my life.  Much of my Theology is due to her teaching.  She was very humble and always gave an emotional testimony when given an opportunity.  I can hear her shaky and crying voice telling how great Jesus was to her.  She always prayed for Aritris.

One crystal, clear, blue-sky morning when the air was brisk with the Arctic breeze, Aritris and his son-in-law were cutting firewood.  They took a break to eat a hearty breakfast in anticipation of a hard day’s work.  As they ate, the son-in-law, a fine Christian man, commented on the day, “What a beautiful day to meet the Lord.”

Aritris and he returned to work and in just moments, the son-in-law died when his tractor overturned while pulling a log.

Aritris could never get his son-in-law comment out of his mind.  In a matter of days, Aritris was gloriously saved.  He started attending Sunday School and parking closer to the church.  He began going with the brotherhood to a jailhouse ministry.  I remember riding the church bus with him back from one of our jailhouse meetings.  He and another friend who accepted the Lord about the same time were talking about the blessed life of Christianity.  I will never forget what they said.  They asked one another, “Why did we wait so long?”  A short time later, both men learned that cancer would interrupt their lives.  Both men died shortly after that conversation on the bus.

I will never forget what Ms. Myrtle said at a cottage prayer meeting at Aritris and her home not long after Aritris accepted Christ.  Gathered in a circle we talked about the importance of prayer for genuine revival.  Ms. Myrtle said to pray in faith.  He said she had been praying for Aritris for forty-one years.  That is right 41 years.

Aritris has been with the Lord for about forty-one years.  Ms. Myrtle continued to pray and give heart-wrenching testimony until her death several years ago.  Fall mornings remind me of her faithful prayers and touching testimony.

The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much (James 5:16 KJV).

Treated Like An Evil Doer

 It was a fall night in central Alabama as my friend, co-worker, brother in Christ, and fellow union negotiator Keilan and I stood outside a Shell Service Station near Indian Springs, Alabama.  Hours earlier Keilan, union president, presided over our meeting ratifying our 1994 contract with the Cement Plant in Calera, Alabama.  It ended after a lengthy strike which started in August of 1994.

Keilan initially wanted to go to the plant manager’s home, but I warned that it might appear as a threat to go to his home and convinced him that we meet at a neutral sight.  I was familiar with the area as my daughter played club volley at the Brierwood High School there.

We waited what seemed an eternity.  We stood outside the station and talked about the contract, the strike, God, church, family, coworkers, and life in general.  I kept seeing familiar faces going in and out of the station not really playing any attention if they were customers.  Keilan and I would nod, smile, and greet them with “Good Old Southern” how you doing.  I remember telling Keilan that the folks looked familiar.

The plant manager finally showed, and we told him that the union members ratified the contract.  He seemed as nervous as “a cat on a hot tin roof.” He was surrounded with security thuds. We shook hands and Keilan, and I returned home.  He and I knew that we would never work at the plant again even though we encouraged the union to ratify the contract. 

It had been a rather peaceful strike.  Corporate had hired a security firm that locked us out of the plant and shipped in replacement workers (SCABS) to take our place.  Corporate unsuccessfully tried to replace 2027 years, that's right 2027 years, of experience to operate an antique plant.  Union employees camped outside the plant under a large tent.  There no love lost between the security and union.  By their own admission they tried to intimidate us every way possible.  Keilan and I, along with other Christian brothers, tried to peacefully lead the strike.

A friend that was part of the management told us what went on behind the scenes at the Shell station that night.  Remember, Keilan and I were just two old country boys never meaning any harm and we were innocent, naïve, or just plain ignorant.

This security team thought we meant harm to the plant manager.  Those “customers” at the Shell station were part of the security.  They were listening to us with sophisticated listening devices, getting close to us to see if we were armed.  I admit as good old country boys, Keilan and I probably had pocketknives.  That’s just who we are but harming the plant manager never entered into our minds.  We were tickled that 150 plus men and women with families voted to return to work.

Security had trained sharpshooters ready to disable or kill us.  Our management friend described to us something like out of a movie.  It seemed so surreal.  This security team knew more about us, striking employees, than our friends and family knew about us.  Talk about “Big Brother” watching, listening, and intimidating.  We did not know it, but we had a “mole” that was in all the security briefings.  He stayed silent but he did relay what he could through our management friend.

This security team was notorious for breaking unions.  One of them approached me on the picket line.  They had painted a line on the plant entrance road and told us not to cross it.  His first name was Joe.  He called me name and said, “My name is Joe, and I am a policeman from New York City.  I take four weeks’ vacation each year to help this security team bust unions.  My grandfather, originally from Sicily, helped organize unions in New Jersey.  I'm not against unions, but the money they pay is fantastic.  I just want to shake your hand.  Keilan and you have kept this group of men and women peaceful for the most part.  We have tried everything possible to intimidate, but you two men are good men and highly respected.  This is my last day here.  I am headed back to work.”  I shook his hand, wished him luck and God’s grace.  I often think of Joe every time I read or hear about the events of 911.  I feel that Joe was a hero.

Most of the striking employees returned to work.  Keilan and I were blackballed.  We continued to negotiate and settle the strike and other issues with management.  When that ended, Keilan found employment with the Chilton County School maintenance, and I went into the ministry full time.  My dear friend and brother in Christ died in January 2023.

The cement plant never recuperated from the strike.  It ceased to profit and eventually sold.  It was difficult to replace 2027 years of experience.  When most of the experience returned, the replacement employees had destroyed so much equipment that it was impossible to operate.   Ironically, the security team did bust the union, but replacement employees realized that they were used by the company and organized another union with the help of veteran employees.

Wherein I suffer trouble, as an evil doer, even unto bonds; but the word of God is not bound. 2 Timothy 2:9

Hopper Thanksgiving

Do you smell it sometimes, the aroma coming from momma’s cooking?  I remember the smell of chicken boiling and cornbread baking.  I can close my eyes and go back to that moment.  There is steam coming from the pots of green beans, purple-hulled peas, and turnip greens.  Steam from mamma’s culinary talents fogged the windows and escaped the house to fill the yard with an aroma that ascended into the heavens.  The smell of fried Irish taters and baked sweet taters make my mouth water in anticipation of dinner.

There is the smell of poultry seasoning as mama begins that delightful task of assembling chicken and dressing.  She crumbled the fresh baked cornbread, the leftover biscuits from breakfast, slices of “light (sandwich) bread”, and saltine crackers into a big blue pan.  She poured the boiled chicken broth into the bread mixture, sprinkled in the poultry seasoning, chopped in an onion, poured in a couple of raw eggs, and then seasoned it to taste.  Sometimes she would put in some cracked pecans.  She would try to slip in some celery ever once-in-a-while.  We did not like celery, so we kept a close eye on her to prevent that.

Every time she cooked dressing, we begged her not to cook it.  She said it was raw.  Now remember, everything she put in it was cooked except the raw eggs, which cooked in the boiling mixture.  When she baked it, it got too stiff.  We wanted it “raw” because it was a tad runny, a little loose.  It made it delicious.  We would dip from the pan before she put it in the oven.

When the moment of tantalization ended and the time of indulgence set to begin, we sat around the heavenly delights.  A feast fit for a king lay before us.  As we gathered around the table, anticipation of the seventh heaven of gastronomic feast tempted the mightiest of strong will and of seasoned faith.   Mamma’s culinary talents were tremendously tempting and sensationally satisfying.

Grace had to be offered.  Every time we sat around the table, we thanked God for the food He provided for us.  It was easy on these days, but the days of “goosy” gravy (a mixture of grease, flour, salt, and pepper) and biscuits it was a little harder to say thanks.  Had it not been for “goosy” gravy and biscuits, there would have been no food on the table.

Those are fond memories.  Daddy sat at the head of the table, and I sat at the other end.  My two brothers sat to daddy’s left and to his right were mama and my sister.  Gathered around the table we learned of God’s love and our love for one another.  What we dipped, we had to eat.  When we passed a bowl of food, it could not be intercepted.  It went directly to who asked for it.  We did not know the manners of Dear Heloise, but we did know manners according to rules of the Hoppers and the wrath of daddy.

I long to back and I go back home as often as I can, but that home exists only in my mind and on this piece of paper.  What I described will eventually fade with the passing of my memory and my trip to my heavenly home.  Thank God for memories.

When I call to remembrance the unfeigned faith that is in thee, which dwelt first in thy grandmother Lois, and thy mother Eunice; and I am persuaded that in thee also (2 Timothy 1:5 KJV).

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20 KJV).

And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, this is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me (Luke 22:19 KJV).

May God bless your time together.

YOU LOVE THAT LITTLE BOY?

 

January 18, 1976, is an important day in the Hopper family.  The first grandson of JM and Leecie Hopper came that day.  It was a Sunday morning that Andy Lee Hopper entered the world.  I was a proud dad of the future of the Hopper family.  He entered life with a broken collarbone and yellow jaundice.  As a new dad with a boy child, I had many thoughts about the new responsibility I had.

Andrew, a disciple of Jesus and brother to Peter was the inspiration for Andy.  Andrew means strong, manly, and brave.  Lee means shelter, sanctuary, or haven.  My mom’s name was Leecie, which is Irish meaning servant of Jesus and English meaning happiness gaiety.  Andy Lee is an important name to honor.

One of my fondest memories is my dad holding Andy at Granny Hopper’s wake.  Andy was three months old.  It represented the passing of one born in 19^th Century 1891.  The look at dad had and the scene of this muscular man holing a small fragile baby is a price picture.  Andy would be the first of many more Hopper boys born.

Andy loved cowboy boots, tractors, and horses.  Every toy horse he had usually had a broken leg.  I have his Wonder Horse in storage for restoration.  It has a missing front leg.  One time I watched him play in a field of red top clover.  On his knees, he would throw his head back and kick his right leg into the air.  I got close enough to hear him, heard him neighing like a horse, and saw him chewing on a clover stalk.

I had an old Jersey milk cow that Andy loved.   He drank her milk as a baby. He would call out to her; J E R S E Y and she would come to him.  At one time, he had several laying hens, but that is another story for another time.

I mentioned that he loved tractors.  One time his pawpaw Moxley received a toy metal cast John Deer tractor as a gag gift for Christmas.  Pawpaw gave it to Andy because Andy thought Pawpaw got his Christmas present.  It is also in storage in my shop along with other toy tractors and trucks.  Andy had a toy John Deere peddle tractor that we lost in a house fire.  The John Deere trailer that came with the tractor survived.

Andy would ride along side of me when I cut the fields with a real tractor.  I was so happy when he would ride with me.  One day a man in an empty log truck stopped and came to the tractor that Andy and I were riding.  He introduced himself as Travis Price.  He asked, “You love that little boy?”  I thought he was about to scold me for riding my toddler on a large piece of equipment.  I looked him in the eye and said, “I love him very much.”  Then he shocked me with, “You better do a better job of watching him.”

Just minutes earlier, I had the responsibility of taking care of Andy alone while his mother ran some errands.  She had not been gone just seconds when all of a sudden Andy was missing.  I panicked.  I called out to him.  We were standing in the front yard when he disappeared.  I run into the house and I looked everywhere.  Andy was notorious for hiding.  I looked in the basement, in the closets, under the bed and in the bed.  I had built him a Captain’s bed and he was not the hidden toy box of the bed.

I went back out front and there he was standing in the yard.  I hugged and squeezed him and told him how much he scared me.  Then we went to the tractor and started cutting the field.  That’s when Mr. Price stopped and told me something that really scared me.

Mr. Price said, “I topped the hill, to our left, with a large load of logs.  In the middle of the road was your little boy.  I was scared to death and knew I could not stop.  I waited to see which way he was going to run.  When he ran toward your house, I run the log truck into the side of the road at the house over there, pointed to my grandmother’s house.

Mr. Price said I was so scared I was nauseated and had to stop about a mile up road and settle my stomach.  I was so bad that I drove very slowly to the sawmill.  When I saw that precious little boy in your arms I had to stop.”

He had my attention, and all the possible dangers and scenarios flooded my mind.  Mr. Price then shared with me what I will never forget.

He said, “I had a boy about your son’s age.  One morning I had to run to town.  As I started to back my car out of the drive, I made sure there were no children around the car.  Not seeing any, I started back.  That’s when I heard a terrible sound.  I stopped and checked under the car.  That’s when I saw that I had run over my son and killed him.  I will never forget what I saw and what I done.  He had hid under the car and I did not see him.  That’s something that I will never get over.”

When Mr. Price left, I took Andy into my arms realizing that a dad that loved his son very much lost his son.  I had mine because another dad was willing to sacrifice himself to spare my son.  I hugged and loved on Andy so much.  I wept. 

God’s gives us great responsibilities when he gives us children.  Andy is approaching his 49^th birthday as I write this article.  He lives far from Sugar Ridge in Bessie, Alabama where he learned to call Jersey, eat red top clover, ride toy and real tractors, and have laying hens.  San Antonio is a long way from County Road 50 where God placed his hand on a logger and surrounded my Andy with angels.  I love you son! 

The Father loves the Son and has given all things into His hand. John 3:35

Thanks Dad

 In one of my favorite pictures of my dad, he is leaning against a two by four board holding up the front porch.  Dad did not like to have his picture taken.  On this occasion, his brother was down from Illinois.  Dad had been hauling logs that day and had the smell of pine rosin and sweat mingled with the aroma of Camel cigarette smoke and grease on him.

In this picture, dad is tanned and muscled.  He was very strong from working with pulpwood and logs most of his life.  I, along with my brothers and sister, could not wait for dad to come home in the evenings.  We would spend many evenings lying on an old quilt in the front yard just talking about life and looking at the heavens.

I remember that I could not wait to get old enough to go to work in the woods with him.  Back then, pulpwood was measured.  I carried a measuring stick and marked the fallen pine timber as dad cut.  He had a large, and heavy, McCulloch chainsaw.  As a ten-year-old, the chainsaw was very heavy.  It was all I could do to crank it.  When I could not, daddy would give the cord a yank and fire it up.  Ever once in a while, he let me run the chainsaw.  Most dads won’t let a ten-year-old run a chainsaw!  I had the best dad.

When hauling logs, dad allowed me to guide the mule that pulled the logs back to the truck.  I was not sure I could do it, but dad said the mule knew what to do once I hooked the tongs to the log.  It was fascinating that the mule could find his way back to the truck.  I would jump on the log and balance myself as the log rolled, twisted, and turned going up and down the hills and hollers back to the truck.  It was even more fun to watch the side loading arms of the log truck throw the logs on the truck.  I don’t think momma would have let me go with daddy if she had known how dangerous it was.

I remember helping dad fall a giant oak.  He bated the tree, and I helped to push.  Suddenly as the giant tree started to fall, a gush of wind caught the oak and pushed it back toward us.  Daddy yelled, “Run son!”

As a boy, I wanted to spend as much time with dad as I could.  Dad was what folks back home call a “jackleg mechanic.”  When you are poor and have nothing but junk, you spend a lot of time repairing.  Most of my time was spent under the hood or underneath cars, tractors, and trucks.  This is something I enjoy doing today.  It is therapeutic and nostalgic.

For some reason, dad went most places by himself.  On particular day, he was going to Montevallo to pick up his check.  Momma asked if I wanted to go.  I think she wanted me to spy on dad and see what he was doing.  I knew I had to keep my lips sealed if there was to be another expedition with dad.  I was so excited and could not wait to ride in our log truck with him.

As I went out the door, I closed the door on my fingers.  Doing the natural thing, I pulled them from the closed door, leaving one of my fingernails in the door.  Blood was flying and the finger was throbbing.  I was not going to miss an opportunity to spend time with dad.  I dare not cried.  He would have made me stay home.  I remember sitting alone for what seemed an eternity with my finger throbbing with the beating of my heart.  Dad wanted me to be tough.

Momma taught me how to drive, but daddy let me drive.  Dad went from logging to working in a rock plant.  Our family car became his work vehicle.  As usual, it needed repair, another rear axle.  As we started to Bessemer to find a replacement, dad said, “You drive.”  I was twelve. 

On a long hill near Montevallo, I remember being scared to death as we descended.  I looked at dad and he seemed to have confidence in me.  That was until I kept riding too close to the outside of the highway.  Dad told me that there was more room to the inside and stop driving like momma. He said that we would have to have new tires, and the front end realigned if I kept running off the road.  Driving in Bessemer was scary and exciting.  I had the time of my life, me driving my daddy.

In her book, Catching Fireflies, Patsy Clairmont says that she read somewhere that we get our role models from our same-sex parent and our sense of safety and security from our opposite same-sex parent.  I don’t know about all that, but I do know that I am glad I had a daddy that loved me and taught me much about life.  I know there are thousands of children that do not have a dad in their lives.  Society is paying a tremendous price for this.  This creates a negative view of God as our Father.  Those that have a nurturing and tender interaction with their dad helps in bonding with our heavenly Father.  Clairmont says that Deuteronomy 32:4, 9-10 gives us a glimpse God’s father-heart.

 

He is the Rock, his work is perfect: for all his ways are judgment: a God of truth and without iniquity, just and right is he.

For the Lord's portion is his people; Jacob is the lot of his inheritance. He found him in a desert land, and in the waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his eye.

 

November is the time for Veteran’s Day and Thanksgiving.  Thanks dad!