Step One...

At the risk of sounding cliché or overly-biblical, all we like sheep have gone astray. The decline of this country did not happen overnight…but it has exponentially increased in the last seven years. "We the people" have sat idly by and let it happen. 

Before I go any further, I must ask myself why not sound overly biblical? You can open your Bible in the morning instead of turning on the news and still know exactly what is happening in the world around you. We are approaching "game over" at breakneck speed. It is only a matter of "when", and the Father in Heaven is the only One who has that answer. My greatest concern and anticipation is that the Bible tells us who endures to the end will be saved…Heaven only knows what we will have to endure.

As for the path this country is headed down, a pie chart would show significant slices of socialism, and more than one thin sliver of fascism. The Marxist view of socialism is that it is a state that exists between the death of capitalism and the rise of communism. Hello, is anyone paying attention?

I have recently been watching two documentaries, one on the Roosevelts and one on the events that led up to World War II. I cannot watch without shaking my head and saying "Lord help us". We need a Teddy Roosevelt today. He was a little bit off-kilter I will admit...but he got the job done. 

One interesting fact that was brought out is that after World War I the birthrate in France had dropped significantly so that by the time of WW 2, they only had enough fighting age males to form a "defensive" army. Look around you in this country right now and you will see that our population is growing more from immigration than birth. We are being invaded in a most peaceful fashion, and our government is paving the way and through taxpayers, paying the bill. Not only are we encouraging and funding this invasion, we are no longer requiring immigrants to assimilate to our culture...we are being told to bow to theirs. Back to TR on this one. 

"In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American, and nothing but an American...There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the American flag... We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language... and we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people."

Theodore Roosevelt 1907

Amen Mr. President, amen.

The main focus of the WW 2 documentary was a certain head of state who came in from seemingly out of nowhere on the support of the deceived public; who preached one message yet lived another; who used the media to push his hidden agenda; who kept the country's focus in one direction while he secretly changed laws in another; who used victims to his advantage and mock emotions to tug the heart strings of the huddled masses. Wow! Sound familiar?

One thing that gripes me to the bone is that people will support the current administration simply because of skin color. You can say what you want but the truth is the truth. During the last election I watched as the returns came in and people of different races on my friends list on Facebook who claim to be evangelical Christians were cheering for reelection. There is absolutely no way you can support the cause of Christ on the left and the current administration on the other. These two cannot mutually coexist. If you think differently, please submit your proof. If you so vehemently believe, then at least back it up. Don't merely lean in a specific direction on general principle alone. Have some backbone. To support the current president simply because he is half black is racist. Yet I would be labeled as such because I dislike him. I dislike him for shipwrecking our country and it wouldn't matter to me if he were half Chinese and three-quarter bull mastiff. 

Personally I was not a Clinton fan and he is about as WASP (white Anglo Saxon Protestant) as a guy can be. He was likeable enough personality-wise but very untrustworthy, and an absolute goofball with regards to dignified leadership. I disliked him as our president but I could have tolerated him at deer camp for a weekend, provided he left his girlfriends behind. He is Caucasian. I am Caucasian. 

The American people are constantly being deceived and flat-out lied to. Here are two examples, and I will only need two examples. I challenge any one of you who stand on the other side of my opinion to take one of these two examples and prove me wrong. One: There are documented and videotaped speeches where BO himself eschews the dangers and evils of executive orders, yet he continues to enact them. Truth or no? 

Two: He goes on national television with feigned tears and says he wants to save just one child yet continues to allow the funding of abortion. Is there any rebuttal? There cannot possibly be an explanation other than the fact that the majority of the voting public was duped, and pride or ignorance (or both) keep them sticking to their positions.

We get all up in arms about supporting corporations who's values we disagree with. Doritos came out with a gay pride bag and some people stopped buying Doritos. I remember when it was said that Target would not support Toys-for-Tots and some people stopped shopping at Target. With that in mind, imagine yourself standing at the Great White Throne of Judgment. As God reviews your life, He asks you who you supported for President, Senate, Congress, etc. As you begin to stutter and stammer your answers, He interrupts you and reminds you of their policies on matters that went against His Word. Your response? 

In the last seven years in this country, people have become so overly-sensitive that now "words hurt". College freshmen need their own safe space. When I was a college freshman I needed gas money and time to study between classes and work. I needed new clothes. I needed a cheeseburger and a root beer. 

We are making allowances for the Muslim community and welcoming them in with open arms like never before. Much like the old farmer's tale about the man who rescued a rattlesnake and was surprised when his patient bit him, there are going to be some very shocked people in this country someday should the Lord tarry. I can see a liberal in my mind's eye, blindfolded and down on bended knees, pleading and reminding the executioner that he or she was a friend to them. The blade still falls.

If you put a frog in a pot of cold water and gradually increase the heat, he will boil to his death. It is happening. It has already happened. 

The mainstream news media is used to push the agenda. Would you like an example? Do we hear of blacks killing blacks as much as we hear of whites killing blacks? Why not? I thought all lives mattered. Statistics don't lie. You want to talk about spin? From two separate news sources, on the same day, I saw the situation in Oregon reported as 1: patriots standing for a cause and as 2: terrorists seizing government property. Which is it? 

I probably shouldn't but since the egg is cracked, let's go down that road. Why must any news story include race? If a police officer of any race shoots an unarmed and innocent teen of any race, it is a tragedy. If it is a case of a white officer and black teen, the news anchor will lead into the story with the fact that it was a white officer shooting an unarmed black teen. If the victim turned out to be a thug, we will not hear anymore about it. If the officer turns out to be any race other than Caucasian we will not hear anymore about it. If the officer was black and the victim was white...silly me, that never happens according to the media. Again, statistics don't lie. Look them up for yourself. 

Do you remember the guy who shot the teenager in Florida? Isn't it amazing how his Latino heritage disappeared  and he became just another white guy? Yes, the media feeds the frenzy. We are so appalled by this that we tune in three times a day...or more. Take a gander at the Facebook page for our local news affiliate. On any given story on any given day, within one dozen posts of the headline, more often than not a verbal race war erupts. My point? We only recognize the boogeyman we are told to recognize. We are being programmed to be divisive. Pay attention folks!

People have cried racism for so long they have actually flipped the script. Do you remember the college students who needed their own safe space because of racism? Did it dawn on anyone that by doing that they actually were practicing segregation? Hello?

I have friends and fellow brothers and sisters of all types. I cannot be a true Christian and be a racist.  However I  am an equal opportunity disliker of stupidity of all types and creeds, and friends our country is neck-deep in it.

Facebook is a classic study in the sad state of our society. Create a post that is 100% made up...the more outrageous the better; post it and wait a few days. Viral! Facebook privacy notice? Zuckerberg's fortune? Deadly onions in the fridge? Woooooooo! Stop being sheep! Do your own research! 

On the flip side, if social media had been around in the 1700's, the famous line "The British are coming!" might have gotten two likes and one share. Today, "Jesus is coming" will net even less interest. People will die and go to hell thinking they might win some money with a click and a share and we never told them about the saving Grace of Christ and the infinite love of God. 

God help us!

OK the first step is recognizing there is a problem. If you do not see multiple problems around you today, and if you are not concerned on some level by those issues, well....I won't say what popped into my head, I will let it lie fallow for now. Anyway, my question is, for those of you still with me, what are we going to do now?

Just another day being me

My Visitor

He came up my driveway on a golf cart, wearing faded bib overalls with a denim shirt on the outside. He wore a Caterpillar ballcap to one side with the brim flipped up; more of a result of that is just the way it landed than trying to make a statement.

At age 90 his once dark hair was white as snow. He had finally given in to the false teeth that once sat on the dash of his pick up truck, sliding this way and that way with each curve. When he smiled, he resembled the Cheshire cat...and he knew it.

He stared at me through his thick bifocals with his steel blue eyes. I knew he was reading me as if I were an open book.

I had just come home from a tough hitch at work.  I have a daughter who just started junior high, and one who is talking about grown-up things like career options and wedding ideas. If my mind were a pinball machine, the tilt sign would be flashing. In short, it was one of those days where real life had slapped me in the face as soon as I rolled out of bed.

After a few minutes that seemed like forever, he broke into a smile and asked me how things were going.

He no longer smoked. He no longer cussed. He seemed to be at peace with himself, his past, and every one around him. I felt like in some strange way I was staring at a mirror that had aged 40 years, except the reflection had already seen the last chapters of the book.

We talked about some of life's most important issues…and we talked about nothing at all. I could not help noticing we had similar inflections in our voice, almost identical facial expressions, and the same intent yet far away gaze when discussing something close to the heart.

I felt like we had so much catching up to do, but at the same time I needed sage wisdom for the here and now. He let me have my brief pity party, before laying things out there the way the cow ate the cabbage as he put it.

What is strange is that I knew he had been gone since '84; but I felt like he had been there all along. Would I be able to truly enjoy this moment without my mind telling me this experience was too surreal to be true?

All too quickly he turned to go, but not before shaking my hand. It was a strange rite of passage I had never experienced as a youth. I suppose the opportunity and never presented itself before. What 17-year-old randomly shakes hands with his father? We shook hands as grown men, looking at each other with the same squint and talking without words.

As I watched him drive back down the driveway, my eyes filled with tears, but not tears of sadness. They were tears of joy and tears of pride...tears of thankfulness, mixed with a few of regret. My mind was at ease and my heart was full, and I knew he would be back.

As certain as I know my name, I know the next time I am having a stressful day, or I am facing something that seems insurmountable, when I close my eyes at night I will see him come by for a visit. As my Heavenly Father recharges my spirit and whispers peace to me, my earthly father passes through my subconscious mind to let me know that I am doing okay.

Tonight I am very thankful for both.

An oilfield hand watches the sun come up...

While cleaning out and organzing a seldom-used email account, I came across this piece I wrote in October of 2008. The formatting got somewhat whacky when I copied and pasted it over.  I hope you enjoy...

Reflections of the Rising Sun

October 2008, Offshore Gulf of Mexico 

I watched a sunrise this morning. In my years in the oilfield, I would

conservatively estimate I have seen some 3000 or so, give or take a vacation or

stormy day. Each one looks the same yet is unique in its own appearance. For

the pessimist it signals another long day of hard work and sweating in the

southern sun, and looking forward to the end of the day. The optimist sees

another full day of opportunities and new and exciting things to see and do. Many

of us fall somewhere between those two extremes…we are realists. We see

another day. Period. My Bible tells me the Lord made this day and I am to rejoice

and be glad in it. I will.

As I watch the sun appear as if rising slowly from the depths of the ocean,

I pause to reflect. I am a blessed man, for each morning God paints this picture

for me to see; and each afternoon if I am a mind to, I can see another glorious

portrait in the western sky. I do not think about the economy, the presidential

race, mistakes from my past, or even my current activities. For the immediate

present, I reflect. I take in a deep breath and think simply how blessed I am.

The smell of the ocean permeates everything. It is a hard smell to define

but once it is ingrained in your memory, you will never forget it. I can smell the

acrid diesel smoke that powers this drilling rig; a behemoth of iron and

technology that so many of us rely on to support our families. My nose picks up

the smell of epoxy paint. I have always thought it smelled a bit like the Style

Shop. Maybe the same ingredient that holds a woman’s hair in place also bonds

paint to steel. I pick up the faint scent of chemicals being added to the mud and

the almost overpowering smell of the mud itself. I smell the shampoo I used this

morning. It is overwhelming the multitude of things we take in, sift-through, and

process on a daily basis. I let my mind wander.

I can smell fresh cut grass at the high school stadium. It mingles with the

smell coming from the grill cooking up hamburger patties. Occasionally I smell

someone’s overpowering aftershave or their popcorn as they pass by on their

way to the stands. I hear locusts singing in the trees, the drums of the marching

band, and the counts and chants of the football teams warming up. I see a bustle

of activity; moms and dads, brothers and sisters, fans and onlookers. There are

cheerleaders with their arms loaded down with programs. There are grammar

school kids playing football with a mashed paper cup. I am in high school again.

I smell the early morning in the green house in the middle of town. There

is coffee in the kitchen and Mom is making breakfast. Daddy smells like hair

                tonic, Old Spice, and cigarettes. His clothes have a faint smell of oil and grease

that never washes out. The old butane heater sits there and glows, warming the

house. It smells and feels comforting. I stare at the flame until my vision gets

blurry. All is right with the world. I step outside and feel the cool bite of the air. I

hear trucks starting up. I smell the diesel smoke.

The sun appears to be out of the water now. I can hear voices; some near

and some far. Some crackle over the radio hanging from the back pocket of my

coveralls. Some come from my right where the guys are furiously dumping sacks

into the mixing hopper. A periodic crane whistle reminds me to look overhead to

see if a load is swinging above me. With my earplugs tightly in place, I can hear

my own breathing. If I keep my mouth closed and make short grunting noises, it

sounds like a set of drums. If I try really hard, I can hear the waves lapping at the

surface, some two hundred feet below the platform.

I feel the cold painted steel of the handrail I am gripping. I feel the strain in

my calf muscle as I prop one foot on the lower handrail. I feel the stretch in my

back and hips as I position myself to be more comfortable. The muscles begin to

remember countless mornings when they have felt the strain of this lifestyle. I

realize that while the mirror may not show it and my brain certainly denies it, my

body fully feels its age.

I breathe a silent prayer. God knows my heart. He knows my mind. He

knows how blessed I am and how humble I feel. He knows what lies ahead for

me today. He knows everything that needs to be known. While I rest in the

knowledge that God has it all under control, I am able to enjoy this brief respite

from the daily grind. I am thankful for the senses He has given me. I am thankful

for the ability to use them and enjoy the information that is being taken in.

Ninety seconds have passed from twilight until now. In less than two

minutes I have travelled twenty-five years. In less than two minutes I have come

from darkness to light. I have experienced what could be described as a sensory

overload from merely stopping to reflect. I have seen this same sunrise from a

tree stand. I have seen this same sunrise from the seat of a farm tractor. I have

seen this same sunrise through the windshield of my pickup. Sadly, I cannot say

that I have stopped and reflected each and every time.

I am a blessed man. While it seems the world around me is going downhill

fast I cannot say that I am stressed out about it. We knew it was coming.

My family is healthy. My church is doing well. I still have a job. I still have a

song to sing and a joke to tell. I live in the country. I can see the mist rising over

my pond early in the morning and walk the same ground that my ancestors did a

hundred years ago. I live in a small town. I can still walk in a store and be known

by name, joking with some of the people I encounter, and being encouraged by

others. I live in America. I don’t have to worry about militia firing assault rifles

near my home, or roadside bombs that may kill my children. For the time being at

least I still have my freedom to worship as I choose. I can still hold my head up

and know that in spite of it all, I am doing my best to keep the faith.

Though storms around me rage, I cannot fall victim to fear. I have read the

back of the Book. I know how it all turns out. When the latest topic of

conversation is “Man you know how much I lost in my 401k yesterday?” I still

know that everything is ok. My Father owns the cattle on a thousand hills.

I make myself a promise to pause and reflect more often…to enjoy each

experience and appreciate the good in each situation. To thank God more often

for the way He has so richly blessed me. I pledge do my best to give and help

                     others and to honor the God who has blessed me so.

The sun is fully risen.

Daylight is officially upon us. It’s time to turn around now. It’s time to come back

to the present. Two minutes have passed…practically a lifetime in this industry.

Fortunes and lives have been lost in less time.

I smile. I take another deep breath. My joints protest as I stand upright

and head for the stairs. I think of a song I haven’t heard since eleventh grade. I

think of the job that lies ahead today. I think of the shared responsibility for the

                guys’ safety, the company’s bottom-line, and the performance of the team as a

whole. I think of my family and my friends and how my goal is to return home as

healthy as when I left. I make a mental note to step outside of the living quarters

tonight after my shift is over. I want to look westward and see how this one ends.

I am a blessed man. I watched a sunrise this morning.

Dr. Cole, Richton, and Reminiscing

I wrote this article not long after the passing of a Richton icon, Dr. E.H. Cole. It was published in the Richton Dispatch. Hope you enjoy!


Doctor Cole, Richton, and Reminiscing

“Sit down James Wilbah. What seems to be the mattah?” Dr. Cole
had always referred to me by my full name and always with that
distinct Southern accent. It was the type of accent that turned “er” into
“ah”. It was the type of accent that made you think of small towns
upstate, close to Memphis, the Delta, the “old south” as opposed to
the “rural south”. It was the type of accent that many Hollywood
actors have attempted and butchered over the years. Think of Carroll
O’Connor in “In The Heat of the Night”, Nicolas Cage in “Con Air”…so
many others. In order to perfect that particular Southern accent, you
had to embody the old-school Southern gentleman that was Dr.
Edwin H. Cole.

We all have memories of Dr. Cole that would fill volumes of books.
Mine are probably not much different than others yet are special to
me. Although I do not remember that fateful afternoon in July of 1967,
I am told that Dr. Cole was the first person to ever lay eyes on me.
From the time he delivered me until the last time I saw him in his
office, he was “my doctor”. Sure, we all see those “other” doctors
from time to time; but for many of us, Dr. Cole was the go-to guy.
Growing up in Richton, you tended to favor either Dr. Moak or Dr.
Cole…sometimes both depending on how busy the clinic was.

A few months after Hurricane Katrina, I lay spiking a fever in the ER
of one of the hospitals in Hattiesburg. For most of the night, the
young doctor who attended me rushed in and out, checking charts
and ordering tests, asking questions, and giving me concerned looks.
Eventually I was released with a couple of prescriptions and the usual
instructions to see my family doctor if my problems persisted. There
was no diagnosis.

The next day, still feverish and now beginning to feel pain in my
stomach, I went to see Dr. Cole. After roughly fifteen minutes, he
confidently told me the problem and what he intended to do about it.
When I gave him a puzzled look and questioned his diagnosis, he
laughed and explained it again…I had never heard of anyone having
that particular condition…he had only seen it a time or two himself.
Needless to say, after a couple of days on a new prescription, the
problem was solved. There is something to be said for experience
and intuition.

Growing up as the son of a nurse, I could often be found at the
hospital. I remember visiting Mom while she was at work and seeing
Dr. Cole there; hearing stories or jokes, or overhearing him speaking
into his recorder and saying “End of dictation. Sign my name.” Years
ago, we ran cattle on some land adjacent to the Cole’s place. I have
sat on the tailgate of my Daddy’s pickup many times while he and Dr.
Cole discussed cattle, broken fences, and life in general.

There were some things about Dr. Cole that never seemed to
change. I only remember seeing him drive one of three vehicles…the
blue station-wagon from the hospital, the conversion van, or my
favorite: that old beat up VW bug. Everywhere you met him, he was
the same; and in today’s times that means something. It’s sad to note
that we are quickly losing that generation of men and women.

The world we live in is getting faster and faster and it seems we are
pushing ourselves harder than ever before. A slower time and more
laid-back existence for many of us has become only a memory. Are
you of the generation who can remember the night Cash Supply
burned? How the flames could be seen from one end of town to the
other? How about Grit Papers? Dr. Roddy? TWL? Pratt’s? Carley’s?
Do you remember when we left our doors unlocked? Our windows
open on summer nights? Do you remember when we had a Chevy
dealership in town?

The streets of Richton used to get so quiet at night that the
occasional eighteen-wheeler passing through was the only traffic at
all. The smell of fresh-cut grass wafting through the house by the pull
of an attic fan was comforting. Waking up to the sounds of log truck
engines and the chatter of men at daylight coming across the street
from “Rex’s” was the norm.

We walked barefoot to the pool in the summer. We all knew
“Johnson’s Trail” like the back of our hand. We knew if we were bad
in class, the news would reach our parents long before we were
finished at the office. The worst problem we faced at our school was
when it would be “rolled” during the week of Halloween.
The “good old days” as they are called are long-gone. Our children
look at us like we are from Mars when we reminisce and tell them
how things used to be. I am sure it is much the same way we once
looked at our own parents.

One by one, we are losing people in our community who were the
cornerstones of the way of life that we have come to love. I once
heard a man say he believed in giving flowers while the recipient was
still alive to enjoy them. To that end we should cherish and enjoy
those people who have helped to forge the community that we enjoy.
While we have no other choice but to keep up with the world today as
we know it, we can look back fondly on our heritage.

You won’t find a Jack Holifield at AutoZone…there is no Warren
Strickland at Rite Aid, and sadly no Dr. Moak or Dr. Cole at the big
hospitals. If there were a school around today with a “Miss Moser” at
the helm, I would enroll my kids immediately. I never knew the history
of our town until I read Miss Josie’s book. It’s been a very long time
since I had a greasy chili-laden burger from “Cooley’s”. Was not
“Steven’s” the closet thing to a Wal-Mart any of us had ever seen?

To those of you who have made a difference in our town and in our
lives, I say “Thank you and God bless you” and you most certainly
know who you are: so many teachers, business-people,
administrators and church leaders…so many common everyday
people...so many unforgettable characters.

Rest in peace Dr. Cole. We will miss you.

It seems only fitting to end this essay with this phrase: End of
dictation. Sign my name.

My Mother...My Inspiration

I finally got around to locating my external hard-drive, organzing it, and "rediscovering" a lot of the things I have written in the last few years. This piece was published by the Hattiesburg American online edition, a couple of Mother's Day's ago. I hope you enjoy...


A “short Coke”, a Bayer aspirin, and some TLC. Most of the time that was all that was needed to
recover from whatever “deadly illness” overtook me during my childhood. Perhaps a good old fashioned “whoopin” to motivate me to get out of bed and get ready for school…or to complete
that long overdue assignment. My Mom set a standard and held us to it; and while it made little
sense to me back then, I am thankful for it now.

When skin allergies took control of my hands and feet, she was there each night to apply
ointment and wrap my hands in bread sacks so I would not scratch in my sleep. She patiently
carried me to the doctor many times a week for my injections, and then brought me by the lunch
counter at the drugstore for a tuna sandwich while we waited for the noxious creams and potions
to be mixed. She argued with Dad about carrying me outside to the grass and into the shop
where the grease was. She was the one who had to listen to my cries when I would break out as
a result of exposure. In an almost ironic way, she was also the one who argued with my Dad
when I reached the age that those things no longer affected me. “Take him with fishing with
you,” she said; “Spend some time with him”. I can only imagine the confusion he had when the
once “hands off” sick kid was now being presented for him to train and mentor. Looking back, I
am sure it caused him to chuckle in his frustration.

She gave birth to six kids; she reared eight. She went back to college and earned a nursing
degree while keeping Dad’s business afloat as his default accountant and sounding board. We
were each a problem child in our own little way; headstrong and stubborn, apt to buck the
system at any given moment. She kept us in line without breaking that independent streak that
she knew would sustain us through the pitfalls of adulthood. She had to endure the disrespect
from the sons she was not maternally connected to. She had to endure the seemingly
endless in fighting and disharmony when Dad passed away. She had to face moving away from
her home of so many years as result.

In all this, my Mother hitched up her bootstraps and “put on her big girl pants” as she likes to
say. She moved back to her family’s land, built a home, and carried on as a fifty-something
widow. The years seemed to fly by as one-by-one new grandkids came on the scene, sons and
daughters-in-law came and went, and loved ones were called away. Before we knew it, we were
surprising her for her 70th birthday with a reception hall full of family and friends. She was
delighted and knowing her, a bit embarrassed by it all.

A child of the economically depressed South, my Mother only knew hard work and hard times
growing up. Divorced young and remarried, she seemed to have spent the bulk of her life rearing
children. I cannot remember a time when she was NOT there in my life; whether it was a special
occasion or just a time when she was ready to disown me for something I had done. Momma is
an icon to me and the standard by which I based my judgment of other women throughout my
life. Even after retiring from the local hospital, she continued to make the drive to Hattiesburg
each day to work at a nursing home. She would say she needed the money and while that may
have been mostly true, I knew she cared for her patients and truly enjoyed the profession she
had chosen. Strangely enough I see the same traits in my sisters.

When family strife affected me, she was there. When I changed jobs so many times, looking for
that one perfect fit, she was there. When I was called into a singing ministry and needed help
packing dozens of CDs and flyers into mailing envelopes, she was there. We have sat and drank
coffee late into the night as I sealed packages and she wrote addresses. She has always been
ready to help any of us, from modifying school uniforms for that perfect fit; to lessons in canning
and preserving, or her famous dumplings. Years I ago I remember we had to “rein her in” when
my sister had been offended by something someone said at a church she had attended. Mom
was ready to go into battle and defend her baby.

The worst day of my life undoubtedly was when I got the call that Mom had suffered a heart
attack. Though 180 miles offshore, I was able to be connected to her by phone in the CCU. I told
her I was on my way home and true to form, she admonished me to drive carefully and not get a
ticket. God was gracious to Mom and she came through her surgery with flying colors. A week
later, she began to suffer problems with her kidneys. As we walked back to the ICU waiting room that night, not knowing what the next few hours would bring, we all had a chance to reflect and pray. I remember asking God to give us the grace to accept His will, but if I had a say in matters I wanted Him to know that I was not ready to give up Momma. He listened.

Mom turns 75 on May 5 and she is still as feisty as ever. Even after two total knee-replacements
Momma shows no signs of letting up. Her days mostly consist of doing housework, crossword
puzzles, and chasing her four ½ year old great-granddaughter. Sarah phones her each morning
and then comes over for a visit. The two have a “special” relationship indeed. I watch her pull a
chair up to the stove and “help Nana cook”…and it reminds me of myself so many years ago.
Often we cajole her into a road trip to visit our siblings in Georgia and Tennessee. Sometimes she
travels with my family to whatever location we may be in concert. Mom is always ready to help
someone in need; serve at her church; or administer wisdom and advice.

We do not always agree…we sometimes argue. I suppose she would not expect it any other way.
My mother, Mary Helen Cooper, is one-of-a-kind and I thank God for her. She instilled in her
children a strict work-ethic, a strong backbone, and a determination that has never left us. That
will forever be part of her legacy.

To: dad@missingyou.hvn

Wow! What can I say? It seems like it’s been forever. I suppose I would come closer to saying everything I truly feel in this format rather than face to face. That was always tough for me when dealing with you. You had that overpowering presence about you. You seemed to take over a room when you walked into it, without even trying.

I never told you some of the things I am about to tell you when you were with us. The main reason is that I did not know these things at the time. They came into being as I got older, joined the workforce, got married, and became a parent. I hope you liked the flowers we brought out last week. Deb fixed them up, as she always does, and I dropped them off. I brought Mallorie and Micah with me. Mal was reading your headstone and she got this shocked look on her face. She looked up and pointed to the stone and then at me and said “That’s YOUR name!” I had to explain the whole “junior” concept to her at that point. You would have had a time with those grandkids…as if they aren’t spoiled enough. At last count there were over thirty. What a family tree and legacy. I hope someday those kids realize where they came from.

You were rough around the edges, a bit uncouth at times, always direct and honest, and often hid your enormous heart. I knew you would give the shirt right off your back to someone who needed it. I have even heard that is why you wore your shirt outside your overalls. The only thing you asked in return was fairness and respect. You had a hard time with people who did not understand that. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, as they say.

The family has undergone a lot of changes since you left. It seems that you were the only one strong enough to hold things together. I was ashamed of the way things fell apart and felt guilty about it for the longest time; but I had to realize I had my hands full with my own life. I hate we didn’t have more time together. At seventeen, it didn’t make sense and it didn’t seem fair. I was mad at you, mad at God, and just plain mad. I thought there was so much that I had to learn; but as I got older I saw that you had planted a lot of seeds that were beginning to grow.

I want to thank you for being the hard-nosed, old-fashioned and tough man you were. I didn’t understand it way back then, but I appreciate it now. Sure, you weren’t perfect and there were things I would have liked to have been different. Yet looking back I see you did the best job you could with the skills you had. I often hear one of your speeches or statements coming out of my mouth when I am talking to my girls. They roll their eyes at me like I did at you; occasionally they puff like I used to; and I respond just like you did by saying “Go ahead and puff like a puffin’ adder, but you better hear me!” There’s that apple again…

Yesterday while going through security at the airport I patted myself down to make sure I had not left anything in my pockets. I couldn’t help laughing when it dawned on me it was the same old routine you did daily when you were looking for your cigarettes, lighter, or anything else that was lost in the pockets of your bib overalls. I get told a lot that I look like you. I smile when I hear it because I can’t think of a better compliment that anyone could pay me.

Not long after you left, I dropped the Junior from my name. Some didn’t understand it, but I had always hated “Jimmy”. I figured the best tribute I could pay you would be to honor the name you gave me. I hope I can live up to it. I guess I can relate to George “Dubya” in that regard. You had your gig. I had mine. I hope we both did ok.

A lot of years went by before I found out that you had prayed the week you left. If I got my facts straight, two different times with two different men of God. That was you to a T…making sure things were square. I can look forward to seeing you again and that really encourages me. To see my Heavenly Father and to know my earthly one is there too…what an awesome experience that will be.

I often try to imagine what you would be like if you were still here. Your hair would have to still be dark because as I tell your daughter-in-law, “Cooper men don’t go gray”, ha ha. You and Momma living under the big oak tree, spending time with the grands and great-grands, and keeping the peace. It would be amazing to come to you for advice. It would be worth the price of admission to hear you two “tie up” again too. You would have been 86 next week. Wow.

About a year ago I found a website dedicated to dirt track racing in Mississippi. There was picture of you going around the track in the #77 car. I have had an old Polaroid of that same car for years and I never knew until that moment whose car it was. Through the webmaster I was put in touch with the track announcer from the Laurel track back in the fifties. His memory of you was as sharp as ever. He told me about the wreck that almost killed you; and about one that did kill another driver. He told me about your driving style and how nothing seemed to rattle you. He told me there wasn’t an engine around that you couldn’t listen to and fix. You would not believe how that made me feel.

I don’t know what’s going on lately…maybe life is catching up to me; maybe it’s the mortgage, the kids, the bills…I don’t know. It just feels like I have finally connected with you the way I always wanted to. It’s strange; I almost feel like I need to go through the grieving process again. This time not as an angry teenager, but as an adult who really understands. Lord knows I miss you…and so do a lot of others. I feel sorry for those folks who never really got to know you; I have heard some say they were scared of you. If they only knew who they were dealing with, they wouldn’t have felt that way.

I think you would be proud of the way we all turned out. We are battle-scarred for sure; but hopefully wiser for all the wear and tear. You were always a music fan and I like to think you would have enjoyed mine. They say a person’s outlook on God is often shaped by their view of their Dad. It took a long time to get the image of God smacking me when I messed up out of my head. It took years to finally see the loving person that you were inside, and I could have only seen that by knowing a loving God.

Happy (late) Father’s Day and Happy (early) Birthday. With the rate she’s going, this old earth can’t last much longer; so we’ll see you soon I am sure. I miss you every day and so does the rest of the gang…even the ones you never got to meet. I love you,

Jr.

...and all this from an arctic chicken...

When I was in sixth grade, Mrs. Hill assigned us a project. While I cannot remember the exact subject we were studying, I do remember it had something to do with animals from around the world. One of those animals was the ptarmigan.

You remember those days right? We had encyclopedias. We had tracing paper. If further research on any subject was needed, you had a library card. The smell and the quietness of the library downtown was almost surreal. On a summer day it was a temperature-controlled haven where you could lose yourself among the books while the afternoon passed. Fortunately at home, we had three different sets of encyclopedias to choose from. I found my ptarmigan in the "Little Golden Books" series of encyclopedias.

Ptarmigan. I never forgot that animal because the spelling intrigued me. I had to draw a picture of the ptarmigan. I had to write a paragraph about the ptarmigan. I tried to pronounce the word without spitting. As I recall, I made a passing grade on the project...but that almost did not happen.

Always the procrastinator, I kept putting off the project while my classmates worked enthusiastically on theirs. One day, near the deadline, as I lay napping on my sister's bed, I awoke to a familiar voice coming from the kitchen. As I tried to focus and and shake off the sleepiness, I recognized that voice mingling with my Mother's over the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. My heart almost stopped as I heard Mrs. Hill revealing to my Mother that she had seen no progress on my project and was not even sure if I had started on it. Mother listened intently; they continued to chat pleasantly, and I heard Mother thank her for coming over. I knew the next few minutes would not be nice.

Mom came into the room and in her own special way, made certain I was fully awake and alert. She let me know I had to finish that project at once. She would check it herself the next morning. How I accomplished that task was up to me...but I would NOT fail. I worked all afternoon and into the night, frantically putting together my booklet. I was proud of my work. Mom was pleased. Mrs. Hill smiled.

Looking back I am thankful to have had teachers like Mrs. Hill in my past. She didn't have to come over. She could have just given me what I deserved; a failing grade. The fact that she didn't speaks volumes about her wisdom and intuition; and was an amazing example of grace.

Grace, as we know, is something we are given that we do not deserve. We don't have to be taught how to lie, misbehave or disobey. It is born into us and is part of our fleshly nature. When confronted about breaking God's rules in the Garden of Eden, Adam wasted no time in placing the blame on Eve, and by proxy God Himself. God punished them, but He still continued to bless them. When asked about the whereabouts of his brother, Cain answered incredulously when he said he was not his brother's keeper. Although He was unhappy, God gave Cain another chance at life. King David was prepared to mete out harsh punishment against the rich man who took the poor man's only lamb; until he realized it was he himself at the center of Nathan's metaphor. God, ever merciful, forgave David and never ceased to prosper him.

God's Grace overwhelms me. As Christians it seems all too often our walk resembles a hilly highway. We have our mountaintop moments...we have our valley-low moments. Sometimes we are pushing and fighting to get through a trial; and sometimes we seem to be coasting along. The one constant in this ever changing battle is the Grace of God Almighty. When we are at our lowest, He reaches down to us. When we are at our highest, He still takes the time to minister to us. We could only speculate at the many times He has protected us from dangers that we had no idea were coming our way.

God takes time to let me know when I am falling behind on my "projects" for the Kingdom. He awakens me from my spiritual slumber. He encourages me to burn the midnight oil to make things right. When I cannot even look at myself in the mirror, I know He still loves me. When I cannot understand how I will make it through another day, I know He still has plans for me. He has blessed me with an amazing family. He has given me a life that I once only dreamed of. He enables me to overcome the challenges that come my way; even when I want to just give up.

It is amazing what can run through your mind in a short drive down a dusty gravel road. It is amazing the memories that can be triggered just by taking in the beauty around you. Seeing a small brown and white "arctic chicken" strutting around in the tundra took me back 30 years and caused me to reflect on a lifetime of learning. Thank You God for loving me and for never ceasing to take care of me, and amaze me with Your Grace.