Remember

Today is my mama’s birthday. Many would say she would have been 95 today, she is 95 today, but she is celebrating in heaven. I may not get to celebrate with her in body today, but I will celebrate today with her in spirit and remembrance.

I remember sitting on the edge of the tub with a skinned up knee. Mama reached into the medicine cabinet above the sink and pulled out a bottle of ST 37 and some cotton balls and soothed the scrape with her gentle touch.

I remember the smell of bacon traveling down the hall and finding its way into my room signaling that breakfast was almost ready and I need to get up and get ready for school.

I remember her tears when she was told that one of her sons had been killed in an accident.

I remember my baptism and looking out from the baptism pool and seeing her sitting in the pews beaming with pride.

I remember her driving the Vista Cruiser taking neighborhood children across town to elementary school.

I remember her smiles when family had gathered together for Christmas.

I remember her wanting one last hug on the porch as I got in my car and left for my first day of college.

I remember her loading the washing machine, unloading the dryer and folding clothes and asking what I had learned in school today and did I want a snack.

I remember her sitting poised and proud with other families as they watched their sons and daughters receive their commissions on a parade field.

I remember my last day of jump school at Fort Benning, mama saw me and said, “I looked up and wondered if that was my boy jumping out of that airplane!”

I remember her telling me that she would not be the only woman in my life anymore, but she would always be the first.

I remember the open arms always given to a son who may have stumbled a few times.

I remember having lunch one day and pulling out the chair next to me so we could sit side by side, only to have her move across the table so she could look straight into my face.

I remember her cuddling my newborn daughter. Her eyes revealed the words in her heart.

I remember the love in your eyes the last day that I saw you.

I remember saying goodbye to you for the last time. Almost a year ago now. I remember you every day, not just today on your birthday. I still talk to you, but I miss hearing your voice. You continue to live in the hearts, minds and souls of everyone you touched. I’m sure you welcomed Aunt Angie and Bonnie with big hugs in heaven.

We will always remember.

Happy Birthday Mama.

 

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A Note from Santa

This time of the year triggers many memories when I hearken back to my childhood. This year is different. This is the first Christmas in my life that I will not hear my mother’s voice wish me a “Merry Christmas Chipper!” This year, the avalanche of memories rushing through head remind me of how very fortunate I have been in this life.
Being a member of the over 50 crowd, I have gone through many Christmas days. I was a lucky young lad when Santa made his rounds. One year, my little brother and I woke up to matching sets of cowboy gear. Clad with our cowboy hats and six-guns, we struck a fine pose next to the Christmas tree that year.

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Another time, Santa brought us a fine set of G.I. olive drab fatigues, complete with a beret and a wooden M-1 rifle. We blended in well when our mother took our picture next to the tanks next door at the National Guard Armory.
G.I. Joe’s, BB guns, footballs, baseball gloves, bicycles and other exciting toys to bring Christmas joy to little boys. All the neighborhood girls and boys would be out in the yards soon on Christmas day, playing with their newfound gizmos and gadgets from Santa’s visit. One of my childhood neighbors and friends once mentioned on a Facebook post that we lived an idyllic childhood in our little hometown. His words ring true to me as well, I think of the old TV show, “Leave it to Beaver”, when I think back to my childhood.

Chip Christmas185
During the 1960’s, many animated Christmas shows were broadcast for the first time on TV. One of my favorites that I remember was “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. During one Christmas season, I made special mention of Rudolf when I was writing my letter to Santa Clause. I remember dutifully writing my letter and asking Santa to bring Rudolf with him on his visit this year. Living in the Deep South, many of our Christmas days were bright and sunny and there would have been no need for Rudolph to light the way. My mother took our letters and said she would mail them off to Santa Clause.
When Christmas day came, my little brother and I dashed into the living room that morning and waded in to the bounty from Santa. A G.I. Joe with an orange scuba suit with an underwater sea sled, a football, cowboy boots, boy, I was all set! My mother came in, watched the festive free-for-all, and smiled as we looked at amazement at each new gift from Santa. She briefly interrupted me and pointed up at the top of our Christmas tree. She said, “Look! You got a note from Santa Clause!” I looked up at the top of the tree and I saw a piece of notebook paper taped to one of the branches. My mother brought it down and we sat down and read it together,
Dear Chip,
I hope you have had a very Merry Christmas! I wanted to let you know that I received your letter and I brought Rudolph with me on my trip this year. Merry Christmas!
Love, Santa Clause
I looked at my mother and said “WOW! Santa Clause wrote me a letter and brought Rudolph!” The joy in a little boy’s heart was expressed on his face as he gazed up into his mother’s eyes. I took the letter and put it in a special box where I kept the “stuff’ I collected. Years later as a teenager, as I was going through my special box, I read the letter again. Penned in a beautiful cursive script, the letter brought as much joy to me then as when I first saw it. My mother had the most wonderful handwriting I have ever seen. Of course, my opinion is biased, but I think many of her friends and family would agree that her cards and letters were a fine example of cursive writing. Unfortunately, over the course of time, that particular letter has disappeared from the many mementos that I have collected over the years, but its meaning is one of the foremost memories in my heart. I was so blessed as a child to receive many toys and gifts from Santa and my family, but I think the most precious gift of all was the gift of a mother’s love. The most meaningful gift I received that Christmas was not found under the tree, but written on a piece of paper. A gift that followed me all of my life and continues to live in my heart and soul. I was blessed to share 54 wonderful Christmas seasons with my mother, but I miss her today. Her unwavering faith and love inspired me while she was here. Now that she is in heaven, her memory will follow me for my lifetime and I will always remember my note from Santa.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

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The “V”

As a boy of five years old, I attended Kindergarten at Mrs. Knight’s Kiddie College. Our classes took place in the First Baptist Church. We would have our recess behind the church where some swing sets and see saws were located. But sometimes, we would go and play in a grassy area beside the church. This area was bordered by two rows of hedges which converged into a point, thus we called it, The “V”.

Kindergarten would not be my last time in The “V”. A few years later, I would join the Royal Ambassador’s. The Royal Ambassador’s is a Bible-centered, church-based organization for boy’s in grades 1-6. We would load up in my mother’s Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon and she would drop us off between The “V” and the church. Our group would meet every week and we would stimulate our minds and spirits with teachings from the Bible. After our classroom instruction, we would exercise our bodies in The “V”. We would usually have a game of football or dodgeball. My mother would wash many a pair of blue jeans with grass stains picked up at The “V”.

Boys grow up. They get their first cars and forget about some of the things they did just a few years earlier. My ’67 Mustang would pass by The “V” hundreds of times as I drove on the “main drag” in my hometown.  Sometimes I would glance over and give it a cursory look, remembering throwing a football within its confines, but most times, I never gave it a thought. The First Baptist Church would move to a new building on a new property. The old church would still serve as a house of worship for another denomination in town. All the while, The “V” continued to stand vigil over 3rd street.

I would go on to college, then military service and then make a home in another city. Over the course of thirty years, I would come home to visit my parents and each time would find me driving down 3rd street and passing by The “V” once again. One evening, I was on the phone with my mother and she said that the city and county were going to erect a Veteran’s Memorial on a spot next to the old First Baptist Church. Upon hearing that, I knew exactly where it would be located. It had to be, The “V”. No more fitting place would be suited to stand as a memorial. The symbolism of The “V” is fitting for honoring the Veteran, but it also stands for Victory. Long before the iconic two finger “peace sign” of the late sixties, Winston Churchill first used the gesture as a symbol for Victory. To me, Churchill’s symbol holds more meaning, for without Victory, there is no peace.

During one of our evening chats, my mother mentioned that she would be sending me some forms to fill out for the Veterans memorial. The memorial committees plan was to have individual engravings of each veteran’s service information as part of the monument. She also asked me to fill in the service information for two of my deceased brothers and my father. My surviving brothers filled out their individual information and my oldest brother filled out one for his father.

Time passed and I received another call from my mother. She said, “They are going to dedicate the memorial on the Saturday after Veterans Day. I sure would like for you to come over so we can go together.” I said, “Of course” and confirmed the time I would pick her up.

It was a cold, crisp November morning and the sun shined brightly. I walked into my mother’s house and she was standing in the kitchen with an eager look in her eyes. She smiled and said, “Are you ready to go?” I answered back, “I sure am” and I gave her a hug. She was beautiful. You would not think that she was 89 years old. Her hair and make-up were perfect and she was wearing a stunning overcoat in her favorite color, red. She was also prepared. She had a thermos of coffee and the ever-present snacks in her purse.

We drove to town and found a parking place next to the church across the street. As we made our way up to the memorial, my mother greeted many friends with a beaming smile on her face. There was already a large crowd assembled as we made our way to some chairs that stood next to the memorial. We sat down and waited on the ceremony to begin. As the first person began to speak, my mother reached for my hand and smiled. This memorial meant a great deal to my mother. She, and many more citizens of Butts County, had earned it.

Jackson Memorial 3

The architecture of the monument is beautiful and brilliant. At the point of The “V” stands our Nation’s flag and the flags of the different branches of the Armed Forces. Extending out on either side are angled walls which contain engraved stone square blocks. Each square is engraved with the name and service information of the veteran. At the top of The “V” stands the main feature of the memorial. It is an impressive black granite wall. On the front of the wall facing the street is the engraving, “Jackson Veterans Memorial Park”. The reverse side of the wall facing into The “V” is engraved at the top with, “All Gave Some, Some Gave All”. Below this inscription are the names of all the service men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice. Listed by war, the names detail the human cost of liberty that was paid by the citizens of a small rural county in middle Georgia.

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There were eight soldiers lost in World War I. One of those soldiers was my mother’s Uncle Jesse. She would never know him. Jesse was a soldier in Company G, 148th Infantry. He succumbed to the effects of gas in the trenches on the French frontier. He died on October 22, 1918. He was 25 years old.

There were over 40 service members lost in World War II. Two of those lost were first cousins of my mother. 2nd Lieutenant Robert C. Reynolds, U.S. Army Air Corps was killed when his bomber was shot down over Austria on May 10th, 1944. He was the only Air Corps serviceman killed in action from Butts County. He was 22 years old. Seaman 2nd Class Charles E. Carr, U.S. Coast Guard, was lost at sea in the Pacific Ocean on January 29th, 1945. His obituary stated that he was a popular young man and was a talented singer. He was 19 years old.

There were 3 service members lost in Korea. One of those was my mother’s first husband. 1st Lieutenant Carl L. Kelly, U.S. Army, was killed in Korea on February 12th, 1951 while leading an assault against the enemy. He was posthumously awarded the Silver Star for gallantry. He was 32 years old.

While sitting at the dedication ceremony, I gazed at the names on the monument wall. I then focused on the names from World War II. Over 40 families suffered the loss of a loved one. The population of the county was less than 10,000. Sacrifice was felt by all. The price of freedom and liberty does not come cheap.

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Inscribed at the bottom of the memorial wall are the words, “In this hallowed place, we remember the sons and daughters of Butts County who died so that liberty might live.” These words were penned by my cousin, J.M. Brewer. The year of the dedication, he also wrote a poignant piece titled, “In This Hallowed Place” on his blog at http://www.theliteratepen.com.

After the dedication ceremony concluded, my mother and I mingled in the crowd, speaking with family and friends. One of the encounters in the crowd was significant to the moment. My mother and I encountered “Buck” Thompson and his family. “Buck” was a World War II veteran who had served with my mother’s first husband Carl. They were both members of the “Jackson Rifles”. My father had also known “Buck” for many years. The smiles and greetings they exchanged were a metaphor for the significance of the day. They were both happy to see this standing tribute.

My mother and I would have lunch and then I said my goodbyes and headed for my home. As I drove by the memorial, I recalled the laughter and smiles of young boys playing between two rows of oblique hedges. I then reflected on the plaques with the names of all the veterans and the memorial wall with the names of the fallen. I was reminded of a statement that rings so true. “They sacrificed their tomorrows for our today.”

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91 Looks Good On You

Sometimes we are remiss to be thankful for the blessings we have in our life. Not today. I counted my blessings this morning when I heard my mother’s voice on the phone. I called to wish her a Happy 91st Birthday. Not many sons have that opportunity in their lifetime. We actually celebrated her birthday yesterday with fanfare, food, presents, flowers and birthday cake.

It was a blessing once again to look down at her smiling face as she greeted me when I walked through the door. Her face has changed over the years, but it somehow never changes in the eyes of a son. For my first ten years or so, it was me who was looking up into her face, looking to her for the comfort only a mother can give. As I grew, I would never have to look up at my mother again, but I would see her smiling face look up at me.

She would look up and smile when she saw me in my cap and gown for high school graduation. She would look up and smile as she helped my Dad pin on my Lieutenants bars and she looked up and smiled into my teary eyes as I showed her her newest grand-daughter.

I told her, ” Mama, 91 sure does look good on you!”. She replied back with laughter, “Thank you! Thank you! It feels pretty good too!”.

Here is my tribute I wrote for my Mother a few years ago. I like to share it every year for her birthday on my blog. One day, it will be me once again who looks up to see her smiling face.

Happy Birthday Mama, 91 looks good on you!

Me and Mama

 

 

My Mother’s birthday is coming up on September 28th and I would like to honor her in a special way this year. I want to share her life story and what she has meant to me.

She has been called by many names. She has been called Mary, Edna, Mrs. Kelly, Mrs. Daniel, “Miss Edna” and “Teetnin”. It has been my good fortune to call her Mama.

She grew up in “Pepperton”, a small mill village east of Jackson during the Depression. Their bank accounts were not large, but their hearts and souls were full of love. She saw the advent of the indoor bathroom and can remember drinking a “3 cent’er” soft drink. She used to enjoy going to her Grandmother’s home and playing in the country and savoring the offerings from the fruit trees. She enjoyed playing with dolls as a little girl and swimming at the pool at Indian Springs. When she was a young teenager, she and three of her friends pooled their money and bought an old convertible “ Model A” or “Model T”, I cannot remember exactly which one. Mama had the distinct privilege of being the driver because she was the only one who knew how at the time.

Very soon, she would catch the eye of a handsome young man, Carl Kelly. In the course of their courtship, they fell in love and married. They began a new life together. He, as a soldier and she, an Army wife.

Life on army posts in those days could be challenging. I can remember mama telling me of having to go out in the snow and chopping wood for their stove and drawing water from a well pump.

Mama would soon be stricken with rheumatic fever. She would be restricted to bed rest. It was at that time that she came home to Jackson so my grandmother “Bon Bon” could help care for her. Their young sons would stay at Ft. Lewis with their father where he was helped out with the boys by some army wives. Then fate would strike again. The Korean War started up and Carl was to be called overseas.

He brought the boys back to Jackson. He then bid a tearful farewell to mama and boarded a train back to Ft. Lewis. This would be the last time that she would ever see him. Carl was killed in Korea and regaled as a war hero, as was so eloquently detailed in an article in this paper some time ago. Highway 16 running east out of Jackson was named in his honor.

A new phase of life would begin for mama and her three boys. Thru the pain and the grieving, she found an inner strength and courage to forge on with life. She had come full circle, having left Jackson as a young teenage girl, living the life of a soldier’s wife at different points on the compass, and now returning to Jackson as a young woman, a mother and a widow.

She and her boys took up residence in the Deraney apartments. She also worked for her Uncle Ralph, who had a store there in town. She also forged some lifelong friendships while living in the apartments, friendships still strong to this day. This was a period of transition. Mama would begin dating again and would meet a man from Griffin, Ed Daniel, my father. They would be married in the National Guard armory in Jackson. Right across the street would be their new home, etched out of a field where an old farm once stood. Mama had bore three sons and would soon give life to another two, me and my little brother Joe.

 

Mama is one of the wisest people I have known.  As a young child, she taught me about manners and courtesy. I still have memorized the little phrase she repeated over and over, “Yes m’am, No m’am, Thank you m’am, Please.” It is these little memories that make mama, that make all of our mothers, so special.

 I was in the second grade when tragedy would once again visit my mother. My older brother Timmy was killed in a traffic accident in California. This was my first real life lesson about grief and loss. Many years later, my brother Pat was also killed in a traffic accident. Yet, my mother displayed profound courage in working thru her grief and anguish. By watching her example, I came to understand that one could rebound and engage life again with a positive attitude and a strong relationship with God.  As I continued to grow, I would learn other lessons on life from mama’s example about dignity, character, compassion, courage, courtesy, respect and a reverence of God and love.

 

One of the most enjoyable benefits of living under Miss Edna’s roof was her cooking. Whether having a wholesome breakfast of eggs, bacon and biscuits for breakfast before school, or having mama’s oven BBQ chicken with mashed potatoes on a cool fall evening, it was all good. But it was also comforting, both physiologically and emotionally. A good meal shared by family imparts a sense of home and belonging. Some of my fondest childhood memories are sitting down to the dinner table enjoying one of mama’s meals.

When I’m feeling low or down about something, I look to my mother’s example to boost my morale and pick myself up. She is my hero and she will be forever. My soul is enriched every time I speak to her and hear her voice. Many times I wish I lived in Jackson once again so I could see her every day.

Those of us of faith no doubt wonder what it will be like when we are finally called to heaven. For me, in my own dreams, I do not see pearly gates and lands of milk and honey. My vision of heaven is that of a little boy of about 10, clad in blue jeans and T-shirt running across a field of grass in the bright sunshine. I’m running towards my house. Standing on the back porch is my mama. I reach my mama and fall into her arms with an embrace. When I realize that dream, I will know that I have made it to heaven.

 I thank God daily for blessing me and my brothers with our mother.

Thank You and Happy Birthday Mama.

I Love You,

Chip

A Memorial Day Tribute – The Picture on the Dresser

When I was a young lad of elementary school age, I would sometimes find my way into my parent’s bedroom and ramble in their closet. I would find my father’s Class A uniform coat and put it on and stare at myself in the mirror. I remember it was Khaki, a Class A uniform color in use back in the 50’s and 60’s. The right shoulder sleeve was adorned with the bright blue, white and red patch of the 11th Airborne Division. My father had been a soldier in World War II and also was in the Georgia National Guard in the 50’s. I would stand up straight and salute myself in the mirror, struggling to keep the oversized coat from swallowing my little arms.

As I practiced my close order drill, my eyes would drift around the bedroom and I would find a picture kept on my parent’s dresser. It was a picture of a man. It was not a picture of my father. The man in the picture looked a lot like my older brother Pat. Next to the picture in another frame was an award. My inquisitive eyes would try to read the big words……”The Silver Star awarded posthumously to”………. I would try to finish reading it and then I would eventually finish my drill then go and play.

As I grew older, I would eventually ask my mother who the man was in the picture. In her most loving way, she sat me down and told me that the man was my older brother’s father. She told me that he was a soldier and that he had been killed in a war. I had wondered why my brothers were so much older than me and they had a different last name.  I began to understand now why the picture was there and what it meant to my family and what it meant to me.

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This reality would further touch me on a Memorial Day long ago. We got in our car and drove to the National Cemetery in Marietta, Georgia. As we drove through the cemetery, I looked out over the hundreds of headstones that stood over the rolling hills. Our car finally came to rest and we all got out. My mother had an arrangement of flowers that she had purchased from one of the flower shops in town. We walked up the hill and came to find the headstone of her late husband. We placed the flowers and said a prayer. We made our way back home that afternoon and we shared hot dogs and hamburgers at a family barbeque.

Years later, I would reflect on my family, a family with brothers who have different last names. I would think about the thousands of other families who had brothers and sisters with different last names, all with the common thread of ultimate sacrifice, the final devotion of service to a country and a way of life.

The victims of war are not only the soldier, the sailor, the airman or the marine; they are also the widows, the sons, the daughters, the mother’s and the father’s. They are the families that must pick up the pieces and move forward with their lives after the loss of a loved one from war. My mother was not yet 30 years old when she faced this reality, along with three young sons whose father would not be coming home.

I am led to believe that the people who originated the Memorial Day remembrances right after the Civil War, did so not only to remember the fallen, but also to aid their own grieving and healing process. A war where hundreds of thousands lost their lives seems unfathomable to us today, but was all too real for our ancestors.

We must dutifully remind ourselves that this is not just another three day weekend to open up the summer, but a solemn remembrance of those who have given their lives in war. I will always be reminded by a memory, a memory of a picture on my parent’s dresser.

In Memory of 1st Lieutenant Carl L. Kelly, Infantry, Killed in Action in Korea, 1951.

Awarded the Silver Star

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The Cuckoo Clock, A Christmas Story

It was late December; the aura of Christmas time was in full repose. My mother, father, little brother and myself had just returned from a visit to my Grandmother’s home in Griffin. It had been a long day and the revelry of the holiday had us all a bit tired. We stumbled into the house with all of our trappings and collectively collapsed into each of our own little worlds.
Our family living room was replete with modest Christmas décor and an artificial silver tinsel tree. Our living room was small and cozy. My mother loved to display pictures of family and there were a number of them on the walls. Included with these on the back wall above the television was a Cuckoo clock. The clock had been a gift to my mother from my brother Timmy who had served in the Air Force. He had purchased the clock while he was traveling through Germany.
The clock had not worked for quite some time, but my mother kept it on the wall to display. I think that year she felt an attachment to the broken clock because it was a gift from my brother Timmy, who had been killed in a traffic accident earlier in the year. It had been over eight months since my brother’s accident, but the memory was still vivid in the minds of our family. It was especially vivid in the mind of my mother. The loss of a child is unfathomable to most, but my mother knew all too well.
My brother Timmy was only 23 when he was killed. He was stationed in California, reveling in the freedom and the sunny west coast. For not long ago, he had been in the thick of the war in Vietnam. He was stationed in Thailand, but he had gone into harm’s way on over 20 combat missions as an air crew member of the 606th Special Operations Squadron. He had survived his tour of duty and was happy to be back in the U.S.A.
Of the myriad of childhood memories that come and go, one I will always remember was when my mother and father received the news of Timmy’s death. Having had the sense of relief that he had survived a tour in Vietnam and was safely back at home, we all had to deal with the cruel realization that he was now gone. I had felt no greater sadness for my mother and our family.
It was getting much later that Christmas Eve night and mother and father were ready to put our gifts out so they could get to sleep. They had told me and my little brother to get off to bed, but we were rested a bit from our trip and we lay awake poised to hear the rattle of “Santa” putting out our gifts.
It was approaching midnight and you could hear a pin drop in the house. I was barely awake, eyes half closed. Mother and father must have taken a brief break. They would later tell me that they had been sitting at the dining room table. Then it happened.
At midnight, the calm silence was broken by the loud bellow of the Cuckoo clock on the wall. Unmistakable in its sound, although we had not heard it in months, the familiar rhythmic cadence echoed throughout the house exactly twelve times then fell silent once again. I had crawled closer to my bedroom door, fully awakened by its call.
There was a pause and mother and father had sat staring at each other, puzzled by the event that just took place. Then my mother’s face transformed from bewilderment to enlightenment. In a steady voice that I could hear from my bedroom, mama said, “Timmy just wished us a Merry Christmas”.
The awe of what happened and what I just heard, transformed my thoughts of ‘Santa” and gifts to thoughts of something much deeper. I eventually drifted off to sleep. The next morning, my little brother and I began to open the gifts that “Santa” had brought that night. We also listened to mama as she related the story of the Cuckoo clock to us. It was a wonderful Christmas Day. Our hearts and souls were happy and at peace.
“Santa Claus” had come that night, but the greatest gift that Christmas was an Angel from God, an Angel who heralded his presence through the sound of a Cuckoo clock.
Cuckoo Clock

I Believe

“We know truth, not only by reason, but also by heart.” Blaise Pascal

Some of my earliest memories are waking up at my grandparent’s house in Griffin, Georgia and looking over and seeing my grandmother reading her bible. I would then wipe the sleep away from my eyes and punch my little brother to wake him up. My grandmother would then close her bible and intervene and say, “You boys get up now and grandma will make you some breakfast.” Our grandfather would nod with a wry grin as he tended to his pipe and watched us climb out of the sofa bed and gather ourselves for breakfast. The holidays were always special at my grandparent’s houses, both sets. Thanksgiving would always start the season off and I remember my Grandma Daniel saying grace right before we ate, giving thanks to God for the blessings of life. Years later, when I was around 12 years old, I would re-live those memories of waking up and seeing my grandmother reading her bible, except this time it would be in our home in Jackson. After my grandfather had passed away, my grandmother’s health had begun to fail and she came to live with us at our home. Walking into the living room and seeing her morning devotional was a daily experience until she too went to be with God.
It was around this time of my life that I also affirmed my faith publicly. I was a member of the Royal Ambassadors of my church. The Royal Ambassadors, or RA’s, as we called ourselves, is a mission’s discipleship organization for boys in 1st thru 6th grade. I think it was the summer of my eleventh year that I attended RA camp down around Brunswick, Georgia. A busload of young boys from our church spent a week in a wilderness camp, living in huts with bunk beds and communing with nature and learning about our faith. We also would have great fun playing games, taking hikes in the woods and enjoying some watersports. We would also worship in the wilderness church located on the grounds of the camp. After one of these services, I was drawn to talk to one of the pastors who were working with the camp, and we talked about God and our faith and he asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior. So, on a beautiful summer day under the shade of a towering Live Oak tree, sitting down with a preacher, I asked God to come into my heart. I don’t remember the preachers name, I wish I did, but I still see his face and the bible he held in his hands. I still feel the soothing breeze under the shade of the oak trees and the warmth that filled my heart and soul at that moment. I would later be baptized at my church and I remember coming up out of the water and peering over the pews and finding the smile on my grandmother’s face. I enjoyed a period of grace and peacefulness that remains cemented in my memory.
Young boys eventually begin to turn into young men. With those eventual changes, the influences of life and the expansion of experiences, the young man’s spiritual self can change from its original form into something else if it is not tended and fostered regularly. This would be my course. I began a slow walk away from God. I never left him completely and I prayed infrequently, but I did not have that endearing spirit that I had as a child. As I began a career in a job of my childhood dreams, I found both personal and professional success. My life was blessed in many ways, but I kept walking away from God. There were many times where the subtle hand of the Divine would try to intervene on my course, but I was not to be moved. I would reach a point in my life where I felt a complete spiritual emptiness. Even at this point, there was something inside that said, “It’s there, and you have to find it again.”
It was during the holidays around Thanksgiving one year, I was driving in my truck and I was listening to a CD of Christmas music by Elvis Presley. I had always been a fan of Elvis since my youth, but I couldn’t ever remember him singing the song, “I Believe.” The song began to play and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. As Elvis continued to bellow out the tune, I not only heard the words, but I began to feel the words. I bring it out during Christmas time every year and play it along with the other Christmas carols we listen to during the season. The words go like this;

I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows
I believe that somewhere in the darkest night, a candle glows
I believe for everyone who goes astray, someone will come to show the way
I believe, I believe
I believe above the storm the smallest prayer will still be heard
I believe that someone in the great somewhere hears every word
Every time I hear a newborn baby cry, or touch a leaf, or see the sky
Then I know why, I believe.

“I Believe” is a song that was written in 1953. It was commissioned and introduced by Jane Froman, who had a popular television show in the 50’s. It was the first song ever introduced on television. Miss Froman was troubled by the onset of the Korean War and asked some writers to compose a song that would offer hope and faith to the populace. Frankie Laine, of “Rawhide” fame recorded the big hit version of the song and it is also my favorite version of the song. It has become both a popular and religious standard.
I don’t know why this particular song struck a chord with me that day. They say the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Personally, I think we are all hard-wired to believe there is something out there greater than we are. I have an acquaintance who is an atheist, yet, every year during the Christmas season, he revels in the festive spirit of the holiday. I think too, that it is the hand of the Almighty which stirs him this time of year.
Today, in our society, in some circles, it is in vogue to spurn and ridicule the belief in a higher power. I have lamented seeing some of the disparaging commentary in our media on this topic. However, I am reminded as I write this story, that faith in the Almighty, has stood the test of time. Faith has survived for millennia and it shall survive for many more. That is my faith. The founding of our nation was born out of the pursuit of religious freedom. From that first day the Pilgrims set foot on Plymouth Rock, to the signing of the Declaration of Independence, that freedom of religion, not freedom from religion, has been a cornerstone of our nation.
During this time of year, we, as adults often recall our childhood memories of parents and grandparents and those in our family who are no longer with us. This day I am reminded of having my grandmother Bon Bon’s Christmas soup at her mill house in Pepperton. I am also reminded of my grandmother Daniel reading her Bible. If I could speak to them again, I would tell them I love them and I Believe.