Thank you, Dean Abbott.

Other than my father, there is no other man who has had a more profound impact on who I am today than Dean Abbott.  He taught me things, both directly and by example, that have become a part of my everyday life both personally and professionally.  For this, and so much more, I will forever be in his debt.

I learned this morning that Dean went home to be with his Lord–our Lord.  All day, I have been remembering things about him–things he said, things he did, the cadence of his voice calling my name, the sparkle in his blue eyes, the love in his heart for his fellow man.  These are things I will cherish until the day I breathe my last, and I hope that when I do draw that last breath, that I will have been even a tenth of the man Dean Abbott was and will continue to be in the hearts and minds of those of us who knew and loved him.

I will never forget the first time I met Dean.  It was in the vestibule of the chapel at BoBo’s Funeral Home on East Main Street in Spartanburg.  A friend of the both of our families had died; I was about twelve at the time.  Mama had prepared me to be introduced to Dean because, you see, she had worked for him at the Sun ‘N Sand peach stand off I-85 when she was a teenager in the 1970s, as did her brother, my uncle, Johnny Cash.  Although I was just twelve, I was very interested in meeting a successful business man.  To let him know I was a serious business man myself, I had a dollar billed rolled up and was playing with it between my fingers; I don’t think he noticed that, which was probably a fortunate thing for me.  He was very nice when we were introduced and made that skinny, twelve-year-old kid feel important.  You see, that was one of his greatest gifts, he could make everyone feel important.

Mr. Abbott made an impression on this kid, and that following Spring, I sent him a letter apprising him of my availability to work at one of his peach stands.  He called me and thanked me for my letter.  He said I was a little young yet, but that I should get back in touch with him the next year.  I did.  I wrote another letter.  Late that June, the phone rang, and I had a job to work around the Fourth of July.  I was so excited.  I worked as hard as I could, and when the Fourth of July was over, I got to stay on and work the rest of the Summer.

You see, my middle teenage years were probably the most difficult time in my life.  I did not know exactly where I fit in the world, and I needed something to latch on to to help find purpose and fulfillment.  Work provided that, Dean Abbott provided that.  He was always so encouraging, and patient.  He did his best to make a salesman out of me, but that never quite took.  He dealt with that, though.  That was another gift he had–he knew how to find a person’s strengths and use them.  While not the salesman, I was fast, I worked hard, and I was organized.  After spending the summers of 1995 and 1996 working at his peach stand on Reidville Road, he promoted me to become the manager of the Fireworks truck for the summer of 1997–I had just finished by sophomore year in high school.

The new position would be based out of Cowpens–the home office for the then seven store fleet of Abbott Fruit Markets.  This was fine because my grandparents lived there, and I was able to stay with them during the summers.  I enjoyed that, and I think they did too.  The days started around 7:00 a.m. and ended about 5:00 p.m.  There were a couple of little problems with the arrangement.  First, I was not 18, and I could not actually drive the fireworks truck.  Dean got around that by having someone who was 18 drive the truck for me.  There was also another boy on the truck; he had worked on it the summer before, and he was my age.  Second, I had never managed anything or anyone in my life, and I did not know how to do it.  Take that, along with the fact that both of the people I was supposed to manage were older than me, had done the job before, and didn’t particularly care for me bossing them around, and that was a recipe for disaster.  It nearly was a disaster.  I thought you managed people by bossing them around and telling them what to do.  I was wrong.

I will never forget the conversation I had with Dean when I was at my witt’s end with the situation.  He and I went out behind the old Midway peach stand, which is now a Subway off 221.  He asked me why I would always work so hard to please him.  I thought for a minute, and I told him it was because he made me feel good about doing what he wanted me to do by complementing me and making me feel like I was helping him and the company when I did whatever it was he wanted me to do.  He then told me that was the secret to getting other people to do what you want them to do; it was not about demanding people do things or barking orders, it was about making them feel good about what they were doing.  He told me I should get things done by saying things like:  “Will you help me with this?” or “can you do this for me?”  He was right.  It worked.  And it still does.  To this day, when I need my secretary, paralegal, or another lawyer working with me to do something, I still approach asking them to do something the same way.  I will never be as good at it as Dean was, though.

Over the years, Dean had me do all sorts of stuff.  The following are just a few of the “job titles” I had over the years:  Helper, manager, snake wrangler, rat killer, fireworks movie maker, sign maker, retriever of wind blown billboard panels in the middle of I-85, painter, stainer, driver, trash man, roofer, barn repairer, post-peach truck wreck peach salvager, and the list could go on and on.  Anything you can imagine that might possibly need to be done in or around a peach stand, Dean had me do it.  I always enjoyed these varying assignments, but I did tell him once that I just really did not want to ever have to actually pick peaches.  He never did make me do that, thankfully, but he told me a story when I told him that one day.  He said there was a man who was working one day doing something (he told me what, but I don’t remember), and the man said:  “This is awful, I would rather be shoveling chicken crap than doing this (Dean probably didn’t say crap; he was above such words).  Then, the next day, that same man showed up to work, whereupon he was sent to a chicken coop, and shoveled chicken crap all day long.”  Dean always had a story or anecdote like that.  It was another of his many gifts.

Dean was a business man, and a good one.  He could outwork men half his age.  During the summer, he must have worked 16 or 18 hours a day–every day, except Sunday of course.  But that was only part of who he was.  He was a great family man.  His two oldest sons have always worked with him and today carry on his legacy, as do many of his grandchildren who were my contemporaries in the business.  He was also a great man of God, and a Deacon in his church.  He was there every Sunday morning and night, and all of his stores were closed to honor the Lord’s Day–even when Sunday was on the Fourth of July.  That being said, there are many men whose kids and grand kids love them, and who attend church on Sundays, but who aren’t really great men.  Dean was great because he lived it every day.

Dean truly was the employer of the second chance, or third, fourth, or fifth chance–however many you needed really.  I made many mistakes over the nine years I worked for Dean.  He would have been justified in firing me several times, but he never did.  I wrecked the fireworks truck once, rammed a sitting transfer truck once, and hit buildings on more than a few occasions.  He always forgave me, and told me to be more careful.  I was on my “second strike” many, many times.  He did the same type thing for many others.  On one occasion, he had me and a couple of the other boys move one of his other employees who had hit hard times from one house to another; he didn’t charge that employee for the gas or our time associated with the move.  There are so many examples of that kind of thing that he did for others that I could never remember them all, and those are just the ones I knew about.

As I said above, Dean provided direction and affirmation for me at a very critical period of my life.  I got so carried away with things that I actually had business cards printed up for myself and I carried a briefcase while I was managing his fireworks truck.  While others made fun of me for such things–and rightfully so–Dean never did.  He would just smile and pat me on the back.  I suspect he knew it was over the top, but he knew that it was important to me, so he accepted it and, in turn, made me one happy and fulfilled kid.  I was a guest in his house many times, and he and his devoted wife of so many years, Barbara, always made me feel welcome and at home.  From time-to-time, we would be off working together around lunch, and he never failed to buy mine.  It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot, and it made me feel important.  The last time I saw Dean was at the Cooler stand in Cowpens late last Summer.  He did not look well, and it was clear that time had taken its toll on his body, but the Dean I had always known was still in there.  Still working, still complementary, still making me feel important as he asked how my family and I were doing, and how my “lawyering” was coming along.

As Brooke and I were driving to the Spencer family reunion tonight, we were talking about Dean’s passing, and I looked at her and said:  “You know, I would like to deliver Dean Abbott’s eulogy.  I can’t say that I would want to do that for anyone else.”  She asked me why I felt that way.  My response:  “It would be so easy.  There’s so much good to say.”

Farewell for now, Dean Abbott, for in the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore (and have some peach ice cream).

-Joshua D. Spencer

Campbell getting Baptized by Papa – Edwards Road Baptist Church – 3/27/2011

So, I’m a Deacon…

            

             As a preacher’s kid growing up in a Baptist church, you are very familiar with the Deacons.  At all the churches where my Daddy pastored, the Deacons were the governing body of the church. 

             As far as I was concerned as a kid, they were a bunch of old guys (“old” being a relative term that I probably would not consider “old” now, though gray (or no) hair was a common theme).  They met once a month in a meeting that neither I, nor my Mama, nor my Sister was ever invited to attend.  There was much discussed in these meetings (I knew this because they lasted so long), but I never knew what they really talked about, because Daddy did not tell us.  He told Mama some of it, I suspect, but she did not tell us either.  One of the things we did know was that sometimes Daddy was pretty happy after these meetings.  Sometimes, he was not.  Sometimes, he was upset.  Sometimes, he was stressed out; this happened a lot. 

             You see, while most of the Deacons of whom I ever knew were great servants of the Lord who understood the role and importance of the office, some thought the role of their office was to keep the preacher in line; I suppose they thought God was too busy with other things to take care of that Himself. 

             At one of our churches (I will not say which one, but not the current one), the Chairman of the Deacons at one particular time believed it his job to keep up with the comings and goings of my Daddy.  The church was not of the size that would require its pastor to keep “office hours,” so Daddy would do things at a time and on a schedule that suited the needs of the congregation.  This did not always involve being up at 4:30 a.m. to tend the flock.  Somehow, Daddy learned that this Deacon would ride by the house early in the mornings to see if the blinds were open to make sure Daddy was not sleeping on the job.  Now, my sister and I had to be at school before 8:00, so it was not like Daddy could sleep until 11:00 even if he wanted to do so, but the very idea that this man would keep tabs on us in such a childish way was somewhat infuriating (at least it is to me now, even if it wasn’t to Daddy then…I didn’t learn about this until many years later and not then from Daddy, which is a testament to his character).  Daddy’s response to our early morning stalker still amuses me to this day; he just started opening the blinds at night before we went to bed, but once the lights were out.  The Deacon was apparently none the wiser, and perhaps thought that Daddy was up and at the Lord’s work no matter how early he passed by.  There are other stories similar to this one that I could tell, but I will refrain.  After all, I have a point to make. 

             Today, I was ordained as a Deacon at my church, Edwards Road Baptist, in Greenville.  The day was a great one for several reasons.  Obviously, I am honored and humbled to be chosen for the position.  Another relates to some very kind and personal things my Daddy said to me when it was his turn to “lay on hands;” the sorts of things that any son who wants to please his father laps up.  Several others also said kind and meaningful things that I will keep in my heart for years to come.  It was also great to have Brooke, Mama, Daddy, and even my out-laws there for support (my father-in-law and granddaddy-in-law are both Deacons too).  Of course, Campbell and Maria (our foster daughter) were there as well, and Beck stayed at our house with our two sick little boys, which was a great blessing. 

             The Deacon Body (not a “Board”) at our church is a servant body, not a governing one.  While many Baptist churches, congregationalists as we are, have chosen to have their Deacons govern the affairs of the local church, ours has not.  This is different than anything I grew up encountering, but having seen it both ways, I think the servant approach is the better one.  So, what do we do as Deacons if we can’t tell the pastors what to do, and we don’t have to get up early in the morning to check the hoods of their cars for heat to make sure they have been visiting the hospitals and shut-ins?  Well, we do what the Bible says we are supposed to do, or at least we try.  Scripture describes the role of a Deacon as one of a servant.  After all, the word “Deacon” is derived from the Greek word, “diakonos,” which means “servant.”  In particular, we are to take care of widows and orphans in their distress.  See Acts 6:1-7, James 1:27.

             In order to become a Deacon, there are a few requirements.  See 1 Timothy 3:8-12.  Some of these are pretty easy for me (i.e. “not indulging in much wine,” “husband of one wife.”), others are more challenging.  In any event, I am not worthy of the office.  However, as our pastor just said last Sunday, if we knew all the thoughts that went through his mind, we would fire him.  The same is true of all of those who seek to do the Lord’s work to one degree or another; we are all imperfect vessels who can be used by God to further His Kingdom.  With this in mind, I will do my best, with the help of the Lord, to fulfill the office to which I have been elected.  I will fail, but I will keep trying. 

             I actually started service in January, and I have been assigned to serve two wonderful Christian widows, and a very sweet homebound couple.  They have already blessed me far more than I ever will bless them.  Please pray for me in this endeavor, and pray for all the Deacons you know; we need it.      

           

The Black Pot

     Brooke, Campbell, and Cade all went to Clemson to spend the night in the motor home waiting for tomorrow’s Clemson / Miami game.  I have to work a little bit tomorrow, so I didn’t go, not that I was all that interested in going anyway.  Rather than putter about the house all evening by myself, I decided to come stay at Mama and Daddy’s house.  Mama indulged me by going to The Beacon with me.  While I’m sure this might be painted as some great sacrifice, she did seem to enjoy that chili cheese and that little bit of sweet tea I caught her sneaking in after ordering unsweet tea at the counter.  Beacon tea is the nectar of the gods as far as I’m concerned.  After we left, we went to Wal-Mart, and I saw something for sale there that brought back a fond memory of my childhood.  You might ask, what could this be?  The answer is a black plastic planter that looks like an old timey pot that some witch might have used in Salem.  This was one was with the Halloween stuff; this is usually the only time of year I see them.

     When I was five years old, and Daddy was still the pastor at Thompson Chapel Baptist Church just outside Cowpens, he preached a sermon on vice.  This sermon is my all-time favorite for him.  I think it is because it was so different than any other sermon he ever preached.  The name of this sermon?  “THE BLACK POT!” 

     To my knowledge, Daddy only preached this sermon three (3) times; once at Thompson Chapel, once at Fingerville, and once at Northside.  I don’t know where he got the idea, but it was a pretty good one.  It was a visual sermon, and the only such one that Daddy has ever preached. 

     I remember Daddy preparing for his sermon.  It started with a Redbook magazine.  I remember him keeping the magazine in his study, which was always locked (to keep my sister and me out), but we knew where the keys were so we would break in and mess with his pens and stuff (Campbell is now paying me back for these youthful transgressions).  Daddy colored a new label to cover up the “Redbook” emblazoned on the top.  I couldn’t read yet, but the letters on the new label spelled out P-L-A-Y-B-O-Y.  Daddy took his new label and put it over the Redbook label.  Then, he found an old Jack Daniels bottle on the side of the road in a ditch somewhere.  There were several other things he found.  I think like an audio cassette or something that he was going to say was wicked “rap music,” or something like that. 

     When the day came for the sermon to be preached for the first time, I was so excited.  He took the black pot to church and put it on a stool beside the pulpit.  He covered the pot with a cloth of some sort to help build suspense.  After the singing was over, he introduced the sermon and pulled the sheet off the pot.  The general theme of the sermon was all the things that Satan can put in our paths to keep us away from God.  I think there were some playing cards or dice to represent gambling.  Then the Jack Daniels to represent being a sot.  And, of course, the Playboy to represent being a fornicator, or a man, or whatever.  Daddy took them out one at a time and talked about them.  But the best part, and the part I remember most, was that he would stir the pot each time.  He used a big wooden kitchen spoon to do it, and would pretend to stir the pot and then pull out the next sin.

     After the initial sermon, the pot and all its contents went to the top of his closet and stayed there for years.  It moved with us twice, and he preached the sermon at two (2) more churches.  Then, one day, he apparently decided keeping around the bundlesome pot and its dusty contents was too much trouble, and he threw all the stuff away.  That was a sad day.  I wanted to keep the “Playboy,” but the gal on the front with the mid-’80s hair and clothes just wasn’t too appealing.

The Lord’s Supper

     Baptists are not much into sacraments, or anything remotely liturgical.  In the Catholic church, and in many Protestant denominations, there is the sacrament of communion.  Baptists don’t call it communion; the word is a little too formalistic for us I suppose.  We call it the Lord’s Supper.  We also don’t do it every week, or even all that often.  To do so would be a bit too “religious” for Baptists.  We don’t even like the word, “religion.”  Part of the definition of that word means, “ritual observance,” and we are not about that.  Daddy always used to say that there are plenty of religious people who won’t make it to heaven.  The concern Baptists have about any “ritual observances” is that they will become just something we do–like taking a shower every day or brushing our teeth–and that in so doing, we will miss the forest for the trees.  The whole point of being a Christian, in our view, is a personal relationship with Christ, not going to church every Sunday, or being “good people,” or “doing” anything else.  As a result of this view, we only have the Lord’s Supper about once a quarter.  The churches I grew up in always did it when there was a fifth Sunday in the month.  Fifth Sundays also sometimes lent themselves to “Fifth Sunday Night Singings.”  

     The way the Lord’s Supper happens is basically this: 

1.  The preacher preaches a sermon, but it is somewhat abbreviated (10 – 15 minutes if we’re lucky); 

2.  The Lord’s Supper sits in “silver” trays on a wooden table in front of the pulpit.  The trays and the table are covered by white table cloths.  The table always has “This Do In Remembrance of Me,” emblazoned on the front with a professional wood burning kit;

3.  After the mini-sermon, the pastor and the Chairman of the Deacons take the white table cloths off and fold them in a fashion reminiscent of a couple of Marines;

4. The crackers are given out by the Deacons to the congregation.  These represent the body of Christ, which was sacrificed for sinners.  Baptists do not believe that the crackers (i.e. the unleavened bread) actually become the body of Christ (Transubstantiation).  In fancy Baptist churches, the crackers are either oyster crackers or little square crackers made specifically for the Lord’s Supper, which can be purchased at Christian Supply or Lifeway.  In the churches I grew up in, the crackers were broken up saltine crackers (I hope the Lord’s Supper committee washed their hands before breaking them up).  You get your cracker, but you hold on to it; you don’t eat it then.  If you do, you’re in danger of hell fire; at least that’s what I thought as a kid.  Then there is some scripture and, sometimes a prayer, and you eat your cracker only then. 

4.  The little plastic (or glass) cups of grape juice are handed out to everyone.  No wine; never wine, nor even sparkling cider.  You still can’t drink the juice.  Not yet.  Then there is some scripture and, sometimes a prayer, and you drink your juice.   

5.  Everybody sings “Blessed be the Tie,” and the service is over.

     As a kid growing up, you can’t actually participate in the Lord’s Supper until you have made a profession of faith, and you have been Baptized–in that order.  I did both at the age of six, so I don’t really remember too much about not being able to participate. 

     My favorite part of the Lord’s Supper as a kid was after it was over.  The implements would be taken back to the church kitchen, and there was always over-preparation.  This meant there were a lot of little plastic (or glass) cups full of grape juice left over.  Beck and I would go back there, and we would drink tons and tons of the grape juice out of the little cups.  The Lord’s Supper committees were always understanding–or at least they pretended to be–about our doing this.  I don’t know why we did it, except that it was fun to do.  We may have been reprimanded for doing it a time or two by Mama or Daddy, but they eventually gave up and accepted it.  After all, if we drank the grape juice at church, we wouldn’t drink as much at home.  They were a thrifty bunch.   

     Once, we were presented with an offer of pouring up the grape juice into a larger container and taking it home.  I’m sure this offer was made because the person who made it needed to get to the cafeteria before the Methodists, but the offer completely missed the point.  The whole point of doing it was to be able to drink it out of the little cups.  After all, we had grape juice at the house if we wanted it.

A Man of Principle

     One of the most difficult things to do as a parent is to lead by example.  Anyone can talk a good game, and tell their kids how they should do things, while they themselves abstain from living according to their own proclamations.  However, talk without commensurate action is not an effective tool in raising kids.  They have an inate ability to cut to the core of who their parents really are with laser-like precision.  My daughter can certainly do this, and my son is well on his way.  Hypocrisy it seems is something that affects all of us to one degree or another.  Even amongst “good people,” no one lives up to their ideal.  Some, though, do a better job than others.  One of these people is my Daddy.  

     In 1994, I was 13 years old.  That summer, my family and I went with our church (Northside Baptist Church in Woodruff) and several members of other Woodruff churches on a mission trip to Worcester, Massachusetts.  We spent a week working with kids in a city park doing a Day Camp.  In the evenings, we got to do some pretty cool stuff like go to Boston on the Fourth of July, attend a Red Sox game at Fenway Park (Griffey, Jr. hit one over the Green Monster), and go eat lobster in Maine (I ate a cheeseburger instead).

     Anyone who knows my mother well, knows that she has a thing for lighthouses.  Well, she did have a thing for lighthouses.  I think she has kind of tired of them over the years.  She has never really told me this, but the parsonage in Woodruff looked like a Coast Guard Museum.  I can’t think of one lighthouse on display in their house now, though I’m sure one or two have survived in some nook or cranny.  The height of her love of lighthouses was probably in the early nineties, the nascence of which commenced just before we went on that mission trip.

     During one of the evening excursions during the trip, Mama discovered these little light-up ceramic lighthouses at some wicker-smelling home goods store that I would rather have undergone Chinese water torture than be forced to enter.  But they were so expensive at $21.95, or something like that.  She didn’t get one, but she told several of the other ladies on the mission trip about them, and they all decided they needed one, but there was going to be no time to go back to that store before we left.  Wait, they would just rip Daddy away from the work of the Lord to go buy some nightlight-ridden earthenware models of the great beacons of America’s coasts.  So what did Daddy do?  He went and did what the women wanted him to do–a wise man. 

          When Daddy got back from purchasing these things, he realized that instead of the $21.95 he was supposed to have been charged for each of the little lighthouses, he was, instead, charged $12.95 each.  Now, the easy thing to do would be to regard this as found money, and dismiss the different price as an unadvertised sale.  Daddy knew better, though.  Rather than take the easy way out, he drove the thirty or so minutes back to the store, and told the sales clerk who had sold him the lighthouses of the error.  He then paid the difference.  While such an occurrence might not surprise any good Southerner, this lady was completely shocked that he had come back.  He explained he was just doing the right thing.  She was impressed, and it gave him an opportunity to explain the reason for our presence in the Bay State.  The rest of the folks on the mission trip were impressed too.

     There was one person who was very impressed by this display, perhaps more than any other.  That person is the one any father should be most concerned about showing the true essence of his character–his son.  A son has a hard-wired desire to seek out the best in his father, so when something like what my Daddy did that day sixteen years ago happens, it creates an indelible impression of who the man was that gave you your name and to whose credit you owe your existence.  I told this story, and the effect it had on me, at the service commemorating Daddy’s twenty-five years in the pastoral ministry.  That one thing he did, so many years ago, still speaks volumes to me about the man I have grown to admire more than any other. 

     I can only hope that when the time comes for my character to be tested while my son (or daughter) is watching, that I will pass the test the way my Daddy did.

The Scottish Inn – New Orleans Style

     I like New Orleans.  However, this is a relatively recent development.  After Katrina in 2005, I acquired a rather jaundiced view of the city and really questioned why anyone would ever want to live there.  However, in 2009, I went to a construction law conference there.  The meeting was in April, and the weather was absolutely gorgeous.  Though I was, for the most part, by myself, I had a really great time.  Sitting in the Chartreuse vinyl chairs while eating some hot beignets at the Cafe Du Monde overlooking Jackson Square on the banks of the Mississippi is truly something every American should experience before he dies, as is riding the St. Charles Street Car through the Garden District past the stately mansions, which sit quietly underneath the gnarled oaks filled with sparkling Mardi Gras beads.  The Libertarian streak in me also somewhat admires the laissez-faire attitude the whole city seems to possess. 

     My 2009 visit to New Orleans was only the second of my life.  The first was in 1990 for the Southern Baptist Convention held there in the Super Dome.  I was eight years old and had just finished the third grade.  We drove there in our 1988 Chrysler LeBaron; the LeBaron had a bad catalytic converter, which, from time-to-time, made it smell as if it had eaten a bad Thai meal and was suffering the consequences. 

     My parents were somewhat foreign to what one calls “reservations.”  I’m still not sure they understand the concept.  They must have understood at least somewhat because they called and got them for a couple of the nights we were going to be there, just not all of them.  The environs they booked for us were suitable enough; a Holiday Inn with external access room doors, and a sweet swimming pool in the middle of a horseshoe-shaped building layout.  Also staying there were Robert, Faye, and Lynn Dickard; the pastor and his family at nearby New Prospect Baptist Church.  Why my parents did not see fit to book us a room for the whole time I cannot tell you, though I’m sure some excuse will be made for this oversight.  I suppose they thought they would be able to coax the hotelier in to letting us over stay our welcome; they were wrong.  We got kicked out.

     We then began to look for a place to stay.  Well, with thousands of Southern Baptists and other sinners in town, we couldn’t find one.  So, we kept driving, and driving, and driving until we were in a very bad part of town.  This did not discourage Daddy; we had to find a place to stay.  The Answer:  A Scottish Inn.  I’m not sure why they are called Scottish Inns, but the chain doesn’t even have a website.  In 2010; no website!  That says something.  We pulled in, and Daddy went to get us a room, which was readily available.  While he was taking care of that, we took a look at the swimming pool.  It was full of about two feet of luxurious green, algae-ridden water.  In the midst of this green lagoon was a golden metal island, which was once the frame of a lounge chair.

     The interior of the room we were provided was just as exceptional as the swimming pool.  The beds were made, but pulling back the sheets revealed cigarette ashes and some sort of hair sitting on the paper-thin sheets, which were stained with substances, the origin of which I will not speculate.  The bathroom was covered with vinyl flooring that, somehow, managed to be about an inch think.  When you walked on it, it squished in around your feet.  The glass door to the shower also had some sort of advertising on it; probably for some local Cathouse, or other reputable establishment.  Growing up, Mama and Daddy were never particularly choosy about the motels we stayed in, but this was even too much for them.  Daddy and I went back to the front office, and we checked out. 

     Thanks to some kindness on the part of the Dickards, we had a place to stay.  You see, they had two double beds, so Mama and Daddy took one of them, the Dickards retained theirs, and Beck, Lynn, and I slept on the floor.  While not an ideal situation for anyone, this act of Christian charity on their part impressed me a lot at the time, and it does even more now as a frequent traveler who does not share a hotel room with anyone with whom I do not share kindred blood.

     Now, you might think that some or all of the events that led to this story would have made the home video reel.  You would be wrong; none of it did.  We have plenty of footage from that trip, but none of the Scottish Inn or the cramped sleeping arrangements we all shared at the Holiday Inn afterward.  One thing that did make it to film is Rebecca and me in front of the Cafe Du Monde, which comes along with this post for your viewing pleasure.

     After that trip, I never again trusted Mama and Daddy to make reservations for us.  No, I took that responsibility on myself at the ripe old age of eight, and I continued to do so throughout my teenage years.  To this day, I book all hotels I stay in for myself; this is something I do not trust to my wife, my secretary, and certainly not to Mama or Daddy.

A True Jule

     As a little kid, I was never much into sports.  That changed when I was in the fifth grade.  You see, it was that year (1991) that the Braves went from worst to first, and played in the World Series.  Daddy got really interested in watching them, and we watched them every night on TBS.  This motivated me to start playing baseball that Spring.  I kept playing baseball all the way through high school.  I was pretty good a couple of those years, mainly during the 6th grade and again during the 10th.  However, I couldn’t hit curveballs, and I made the varsity squad and stayed on it more out of charity than anything else.  I played very little while on the varsity team and, by the time my senior season, was over, I was glad to leave baseball behind.  I really wanted to quit after my junior year, but there is a part of me that just never wants to say die, so I didn’t quit.  I actually still have dreams at night where I quit instead of finishing.  I don’t like how I feel about myself in those dreams, so I’m glad I didn’t quit.  Though I still like baseball, and I love playing softball on my church and law league teams, I mostly just like college football now; a good thing considering the wife I married, though we don’t agree on which team to like.  We do hate some of the same ones though (e.g. Notre Dame, Tennessee, etc.), which is fun.

     My love of baseball was never greater than when we moved from Fingerville to Woodruff in 1992.  I played for the Babe Ruth League Braves in 1993 and 1994.  This was about the time I met Jule.  Jule went to our church.  He was in his seventies, and had a mane of white hair that most men his age only have in their dreams.  He attributed the thick hair to his father having required him to shave it as a child.  Like the best Baptists, he sat on the back row.  I picked up this habit from him.  Ever since, I have always liked to sit at the back of the church, or any room really.  It’s not as much about not being seen as it is having my back against the wall and being able to see what else is going on in the room.  Jule taught me this you see; he was a former Woodruff police officer. 

     Our relationship started with me learning that he liked the Braves.  He liked them even more than I did, and that was saying something.  He watched every game from his small Mill Village house located just a few doors down the street from the church.  In what was very much a transitional neighborhood by that time, he and his wife were some of the last original residents to be there.  The yard and house were immaculate where many others weren’t–think Clint Eastwood’s character’s house in juxtaposition to the neighborhood in Gran Torino.  Before church, I would go sit back on the penultimate pew in front of him, and we would talk about the Braves.  He became my friend at a time in my life when I didn’t have many friends.  An unconventional friend, yes, but one nonetheless.  

     I don’t remember the exact reason why, but my parents were out-of-town or something, and I needed someone to pick me up from school.  Jule was the man for the job.  He picked me up in his tan Chevy Lumina.  We then went to Burger King for a milkshake and french fries; his treat.  This became somewhat of a regular occurrence.  He had a CB in his car.  I had never used one before, so we would ride up 221 up near the Interstate to see if we could get some trucks to talk to us.  He taught me how to say, “Breaker Breaker One Nine,” to get them to respond.  When somebody finally did, I had no idea what to say.  I think I may have asked them about where the smokies were or something like that; whatever Jule told me to I’m sure.  He also showed me where he kept his pearl handled pistol.  It was between his seat and the console.  He kept it covered with a handkerchief.  This is generally an illegal way to carry a gun in SC, which Jule freely volunteered, except that he was still some sort of reserve police officer, which afforded him a badge that he showed me, and allowed him to carry a gun this way (or so he said). 

     My friendship with Jule lasted for several years.  Then I got a job, and he got sick.  As time went on, he came to church less and less, and I didn’t see him as much.  I went and visited him at home.  He showed me his collection of Hess trucks.  He also showed me how he sat out his cereal on the kitchen table at night beside all of his medicine.  Then, he had to go to the hospital.  I went and visited him there too.  Then, he died.  I went to his funeral. 

     After that, I don’t remember his wife coming to church on Sunday nights much anymore, so I sat in his seat some.  It wasn’t the same, though.  I missed my friend.  I still think about some of our conversations and the things he taught me.  Each time I do, his memory lives on.  I still thank God for the blessing the Jule was to my life.  I’ve always gotten along with folks who were older than me, and junior high was a very difficult time for me socially.  Jule helped me forget about that on Sunday nights when we would talk about the Braves, and when we would go get Burger King milkshakes and fries, and when we would go ride and try to talk to the trucks on the CB.  By the time he stepped out of my life and into eternity, I was in a place in my life where I could move on, and this I know God knew as well.   

     Rest in peace, Jule.  I hope the Braves pull it out for you this year.

Daddy & The Kids

The Pet Sin

     I’ve heard lots of my Daddy’s stories over the years.  Just like everyone else, I heard most of them for the first time while he was in the pulpit.  There is, of course, a favorite one amongst these.  I’ve pondered why this story is my favorite.  I think it is because it has an absolute ring of truth to it–almost prophetic it is–and it is an idea my Daddy came up with himself.  So, I guess it’s a little pride of a son in the wisdom of his father.  The other thing that I like about it is that is an absolute quintessential anecdotal story for a Baptist preacher to tell. 

     Now some of you may not know this, but, at one time, I did a pretty mean Baptist preacher impersonation.  This impersonation was not of my Daddy or Charles Stanley or anyone like that, but rather of a firebrand “hang ’em over hell” type evangelizer.  The character I played had a name, “W.B. McGee.”  A buddy of mine at the time, Philip Spencer (no relation), was the inspiration for this character.  Phillip also did an evangelist impersonation; his character’s name was “B.C. Bitterman.”  These two fictional evangelists were constantly traveling around for tent revivals and camp meetings.  B.C.’s fictional wife was “Evangelica.”  She sang in a female singing duet called, “The Weaker Vessels.”  You get the idea.  The only confirmed sighting of B.C. and W.B. together was at the annual post-peach-season banquet at “My House” in Chesnee, SC.  B.C. gave an impassioned sermon about being a good Abbott employee. 

     Well, B.C.’s famous sermon was the pet sin.  Like any good Baptist preacher, B.C. stole his story from another preacher.  The real preacher was my Daddy, and the real story was told by him.  Here it is:

     Daddy never much liked animals.  They were something he would tolerate on the periphery of his life, but nothing with which he wanted to do much bonding.  I inherited this trait.  My sister did not.  She was always the one who wanted to drag some animal in off the side of road and keep it.  And put doll clothes on it, and put it in a baby stroller to push around the yard.  This led to her getting cat scratch fever once; it’s a real condition you know.

     We were at Fingerville (First Baptist Church) at the time, when a cat as black as midnight showed up around the pile of junk near the edge of the woods.  The cat was eventually bestowed the apt name of “Ebony.”  The cat was tolerated on these outskirts of our lives.  She ate the scraps that Mama and Daddy would throw out to the edge of the woods.  Eventually, she would come into the car port.  We allowed this.  Beck and I liked her.  At some point, some cheap cat food was bought from The Family Dollar, or some other such store.  Then, she made it on to the porch.  Not just for a visit, but to stay.  She had a litter box made out of the brown bottom of an old humidifier; Daddy saw to this.  

     Then winter came.  Beck said, “I bet Ebony is cold, Daddy, can’t we let her in just for tonight?”  The cat came in.  She was isolated to the back room of the house, and she had to go outside during the day.  Then, as time went on, she didn’t have to go outside anymore.  Eventually, she didn’t even have to stay in the room at night.  She had become very much not only a tolerated, but a loved, part of the family.  She was a sweet cat, the best we ever had.  She wasn’t all snooty and uppity like some cats.  She could lay on the furniture.  Eventually, she was allowed to sleep at the foot of my parents’ bed like a dog in some cliché TV show or movie.  Then, on the morning my Daddy told this story for the first time, he woke up, and that cat was lying right beside his face looking him in the eye.   

     So what’s the point of all this?  Well, according to Daddy in his sermon, this is what sin does in our lives.  At first it’s something we frequent only on occasion, some little distraction at the edge of our lives.  Then, it becomes a little more comfortable, and it gets a little closer into our lives.  Often, we may not even notice that its status has changed, but it gets ever and ever closer until it is more and more a part of our lives.  We make excuses for it, like “just this once,” or “a little never hurt anybody.”  But, as we make excuses for it, it becomes more and more an accepted part of who we are.  The end result is that something we once abhorred, or at least thought was someone else’s problem, and not ours, is lying in the bed with us licking us in the face.  These things, in essence, become our pet sins. 

     This was essentially where Daddy left it in his sermon, but I think the analogy is a much broader one.  As time goes on, I like the story even more and more.  I think it is a real metaphor not only for how bad and sinful habits can enter our lives, but it is very much about the progress of life itself. 

     As we go through life, things that once seemed very foreign slowly creep into our lives until we no longer have an appreciation of how foreign they used to be.  For example, I spent 15 years of my life with but one goal–to become a lawyer.  I did, and I have been one for 4 years.  That may not sound like all that long, but it is very difficult for me to remember a time when I did not think like a lawyer, yet I know that time was there–it was for most of my life.  Yet being a lawyer and thinking like one has become so much a part of who I am that it’s sometimes difficult for me to remember than not everyone thinks that way.  It’s probably good that they don’t–the world would be a much less exciting place. 

     There are many other examples of this paradigm in our lives.  Each of these things come into our lives somewhat slowly, but eventually become the very essence of who we are.  Kids.  Marriage.  Careers.  You name it.  These things come into our lives and become so a part of them that we hardly realize the effect they have had on us.  The opposite is also true.  Things fade from our lives, just as quickly as other things come in.  How many of us keep in regular contact with even a handful of our friends from elementary school, junior high, or high school?  Yet, these people were once daily parts of our lives with whom we shared everything.  The examples are endless.  Even Ebony, the star of the Pet Sin story, died not too long after that story was told for the first time.  I had actually forgotten which cat was the focus of the tale until Mama reminded me.