This . . .
So what are you going to get your Dad for Christmas?
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That . . .
I miss my Dad. I miss all the trouble he could get into by standing up for things he believed. I miss his friendship, his wisdom, his encouragement, his Christian witness, his humor, the tear that could often be found in his eye, his handshake, his hug, and his love.
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This is That . . .
My Dad, William Ezra Theron James better known as W. T. James, was a writer. I ran across this essay of sorts the other night, and just wanted to share it. Dad would have loved this blogging stuff, particularly if he could have done it on his old manual typewriter.
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The first time I went to church, I was 19 years old. My family had never gone to church when I was a boy, growing up in the Ozarks of north Arkansas, and in Lawrence, Kansas, where we moved in 1932. It wasn't until I was in the Navy, stationed in Hawaii that a friend talked me into going to the Catholic church with him. At that time most of the Catholic service was in Latin, and the whole thing was Greek to me.
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The next time I attended church was after I married Arlene. I went a couple of times, but didn't like it because they wouldn't let me smoke during the service. It was asking too much of me to go without a cigarette the whole hour, and I felt silly going out for a smoke during the service.
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So I started staying home. Arlene continued to go, and after we had our two children, she took them with her. That was great with me. because that gave me almost the whole morning to myself. I'd loaf around the house, and if I had had a bad night the night before, I'd go ahead and have a couple of drinks to sober up on without any fuss from Arlene.
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Then Jerry spoiled it all for me. He got wise to the fact that I wasn't going to Sunday School and church, so why should he? He made such a fuss about it, that I finally said, "Why make him go to church if he doesn't want to. I know the Bible says, 'suffer, little children, come unto me!' but that doesn't mean that he has to . . . suffer, that is."
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So Jerry stayed home with me and we let the women go to Sunday School and church. We had a great time! Until the next week. I mean a cold front moved into our house. Arlene couldn't get it off her mind. That's all we talked about all week long. By the next Sunday, I was ready to go to Sunday School and church. Arlene had had her fill of all that nonsense!
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So I started going to Sunday School and church, and after a couple of months the preacher got after me, and before I knew what was happening, I was scheduled to join the Colby United Methodist Church. Jerry who was 7, our daughter Jeanette who was 10, and I were all baptized one Saturday afternoon, and I joined the church the next Sunday.
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Immediately I began to work my way into Heaven! I took every job they asked me to the next six years. I was a Sunday School teacher, Sunday School Superintendent, then I moved up to vice-president of the Administrative Board, and chairman of the Evangelism Committee.
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As chairman of the Evangelism Committee, I helped organize a five day revival with an evangelist from Dallas, Texas. ON THE LAST DAY OF THE REVIVAL, I WAS SAVED! What a night that was! Back in those days I never did anything halfway, and being saved was no different. I bawled all the way to the altar, flung myself on my knees, and continued to cry. I had a lifetime of sins to repent of, and the only way I knew to do it was to bawl my eyes out. The preacher asked me what I had on my mind, and that really set me off! I think I scared the people of that church half to death! I don't think they had ever seen a man get saved quite the way I did!
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My entire life was changed. I became a FAMILY MAN, written in all caps! About this time Jerry was in junior high, playing football and basketball. We had always had a good relationship, but the more he got involved in sports, the more we had to talk about. Jerry only played football one season before he broke a finger. After that, it was basketball, track and cross country.
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At the time I was saved, Jerry was in the 7th grade, playing football and basketball. He had a very nervous stomach, and on game days, he would always throw-up at the beginning of first period. He was reluctant to tell the teacher he was sick, because they might not let him play that day. So he would keep it to himself and hang on as long as he could and then . . . throw-up.
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This went on until he was in the 8th grade. The kids in his first hour class would not sit near him, and the teacher continually would say, "Jerry, if you get to feeling sick, please leave the room. Do NOT throw-up in here!" Jerry would assure the teacher that he was feeling fine, then ten minutes later would lean over and throw up on the floor. He didn't break any distance records, but he was very consistant.
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Before every game, he would throw-up during first period. You can imagine that he was very embarrassed about it. He would never eat breakfast with us on game day, but would be off by himself. It was very nice out this one morning, so we had the back door open while we ate breakfast. I could look outside on the back porch and see Jerry hunched over with his head in his hands, looking very dejected. I went out and asked him what was worrying him. "I hate throwing up in school," he said. "But I really want to play in the game."
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It was silent for a moment and then I asked, "Do you want to pray about it?" His eyes lightened up and he said, "Yes!" Well we did. And let me tell you, the morning sun turned especially bright, as I watched him walk off to school with a peace in his heart and a bounce in his step!
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I love you, Dad.