Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,
    I am thankful for you. I wish that I had known you longer. Then I could have known for certain that my quirky interest in quantum mechanics, superstring theory, and the existence of black holes came from you along with my tin ear for music and my once incredible memory (age is getting the better of me now). When I was younger I used to look in the mirror, desperately searching for some physical proof of your DNA manifested in the reflection there. Yet, these days when I think of you I find the predominant emotion is mostly a pervasive sense of peace. And for that I am doubly thankful.

   I am thankful for your legacy of honor. I am thankful that a country boy from a small town in southern Alabama with no political connections persevered against all odds to make his dream of attending West Point come true. I am thankful that you swept my mother off her feet 64 years ago and gave her a love that has never faded despite the fact that you have been gone these nearly 52 years.

   I am thankful for my sisters. You and Momma gave me the gifts of a lifetime when Cindy and Julie were born. Thankfully we have matured past our childish propensity to squabble into women who love one another dearly and always have each other's backs. I think you would be proud. When one of us is hurt, we all three hurt. When one of us rejoices, we all three rejoice. It wasn't easy for Momma to raise us after you passed away, but she made the sacrifices of love over and over again without complaint. She has always put our needs above her own, just as she always put your needs above her own. She taught us to honor your memory and she kept close the ties with your parents and sisters. We grew up loving the small town of Opp that you called home. Momma taught us what it meant to be a Scofield and to wear that name with pride.

   I am thankful for the gift of our extended Scofield family: grandparents who loved and adored me, aunts who influenced me and boy cousins who provided relief from a female dominated family structure. Some of my best memories are of riding in the back of Uncle Fred's truck with Russ and Jud bumping over the cow patties in the pasture and laughing with great glee when one or the other of us would fall (on purpose, of course!) off the tailgate to land in the field.

   I am far from the little girl frozen in time in our last family picture. I have been happily married nearly 40 years to a good man. We have four grown children, (three sons and a daughter), and two granddaughters, one grandson and another soon-to-be-born grandson. I even named one of my sons after you, Daddy. His name is David Scofield White. He is tall like you and favors the Scofield side of the family, but oddly enough, it is my youngest whom they say looks the most like you once did. I don't know if that's really true, but it makes me happy to think that it is.

   I am comforted now by the thought of being your child, but for the longest time, I just wanted you back. I just wanted a Daddy. I was the little girl who could never seem to grow past the emotional ties that once bound me to you. But thankfully as the years have gone by, Abba has brought deep healing to my heart. My savior Jesus has bathed me in a grace and mercy that have finally filled the longing that once consumed me. I am also greatly comforted knowing that your faith in Christ Jesus was as important to you as it is to me. I remember watching you read your Bible and how you loved going to the house of the Lord.

   Although I have run from God in seasons of my life, I am thankful that He has never run from me. I am thankful to be both Abba's child and to be your daughter, as well. I believe that we will see one another again in heaven and have the joy of worshipping at the throne of of our Lord side-by-side. I am not sure how all of that is going to work. I am not that little girl anymore, but I still believe that somehow you will know me. I sure hope so. I am looking forward to catching up...

   
Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I will never forget you. I will always be proud to be your daughter.
Love always,
Kathy
 

David's Daughter

We have gathered from near and far to pay final tribute to a much loved aunt. Ours is a family where the generations glide over one another in such a way that you cannot tell where one begins and another ends. It is hard to explain to strangers, but it feels very right to us. Once again the warp and woof of life have become integrated in such a way as to illuminate the tapestry of family in the midst of shared grief and celebration.

Out of necessity, weddings and funerals have become the means for our extended family to gather.  They serve to draw us close to one another. I rejoice to find that laughter and tears once again flow seamlessly in the sparkling gem of the house at 403 Park Avenue that my aunt lovingly restored and brought back to life. It has been the family home for more than seventy years, where it now faithfully bears witness to the passing of the generations.

Earlier, at the visitation I had taken my place in the receiving line alongside my eldest aunt.  I, who left home for college at 18 with a restless searching heart, have come home to roost in this place of honor at my aunt’s side. I am the oldest of three sisters. We stand in a row: Kathy, Cindy, Julie. Our names comprise a litany of remembrance in a small town that knows our history as well as we know it ourselves. In our lives away from this place we are wives, mothers, educators, volunteers, denizens of our communities and more.

But today we are David’s daughters. We shake hands, hug necks, and repeat the words over and over again.  I am known once again by my maiden name. We hear stories. At one point I turn to my sisters and say, “I am past middle age and I have never really thought of myself as simply David’s daughter. I have never said these words so many times before today.” My baby sister who was four when our father died marvels that she can never ever remember introducing herself this way. I start to cry. There is something treasured about being known as David’s daughter.

I look at the faces of my sisters and the soul hole gapes open for a second. Suddenly, I am bereft once again. This older woman is still a fatherless daughter even now. I wait for the old wave of pain. It eludes me and suddenly something deep inside shifts.  The carapace over my soul softens. The joy rises up unbidden in my heart and breaks forth over the wall of the dam to flood my soul. I can scarcely breathe. All is still inside of me, waiting.

I stretch forth my hand to take the hand of the elderly man standing in the line before me. I look him in the eye and say again, “I am David’s eldest daughter.” His eyes twinkle as they meet mine. “I know,” he whispers. “I see the Scofield in your face.”

I lie abed this morning in my Momma’s house and replay the hours of yesterday. I recall the words that were spoken at the funeral by those that I love. I smile at some of the things I learned about my aunt. I ponder the beautiful words of an old hymn, unfamiliar to me. 

I talk quietly to God. I marvel that as I whisper aloud the words, “David’s daughter,” the familiar ache is no longer patently obvious. Could it be that the death and the hole and the scar that have shaped my life are finally healed? Could it truly be? Until the tears slide down my face to wet the pillow, I am completely unaware that I am weeping.

God works in mysterious ways. I have traveled 400 miles to bury a loved one only to find that my soul has taken the longed-for journey of a lifetime. I look into the place of familiar sorrow and at long last find only a glorious peace rising up to meet me. The elongated shadow of the valley of death is no longer falling over me, holding me in its thrall.  

I question myself once more, “Could this be real?”

The scripture immediately leaps to mind: “He whom the Son has set free is free indeed.” Suddenly I am walking, no, running in this newfound freedom. 

Why today? Why now?

I close the door to my skeptical self and choose rest. I whisper, “Baruch Hashem Adonai.” There are no more words. The most profound sense of awe and gratitude holds me fast.

I know it to be the kiss of God's grace.

My father, David

Saying Goodbye

  God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7) I've read the words before, but they have assumed a special poignancy during this time. One of my daddy's sisters is literally staring death in the face. She has been told that she has days or weeks to live. It is a prognosis that was delivered with no lack of certainty, yet it is one that she is facing with grace and peace, dignity and strength. She told the doctors, "I am not ready to die, but I am willing because I know where I am going." She is standing firm in the face of the final enemy because she knows the One whom she has believed, and she knows that in the end He will stand upon the earth and she with Him. She will see Him soon. 
   This beloved aunt of mine is a mere 12 years older than I in age. She is someone whom I have always admired. Her influence upon me was solidified during the year that she lived with us (my mother and sisters) in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. I was in fifth or sixth grade at the time, but I remember that she never spoke to me as if I were a child. She conversed with me on a wide range of subjects and expected me both to formulate and share my opinions and ideas with her. I was fascinated by her obvious passion for scholarly pursuits, and I watched her carefully to see what she read and how she acquired and assimilated information. She is probably one of the smartest people I have ever known. One of her gifts to me was that she made me feel as though it was okay to be intellectually curious and to embrace a passion for learning. 
   This aunt of mine is also an articulate, opinionated, well-read, and highly educated woman. She is fluent in multiple languages and has lived and traveled extensively throughout the world. She has made her home in the Far East, the British Isles, and the continent of Europe, but she has always called Opp, Alabama, her true home. When she returned to Opp after her retirement as an educator with the Department of Defense, she lovingly restored and refurbished our grandparents' home and made it a warm and inviting place for family and friends to gather. 
    This week I have cried with my cousin, my sisters, and my Momma. And we have laughed, too. We have felt the bitter taste of impending death co-mingling with the sweetness of memories laced with love, and through it all we have been strengthened by the knowledge of our aunt's enduring faith in the Savior. Lord willing, I will travel to Opp, Alabama, this next week to hug her neck one last time and say my own goodbyes. I am trusting God to hold her close as He prepares to bring one of His own to her permanent home. And of all the places that she has lived, I have no doubt her home in heaven will be the best one yet. 

My aunt is the one on the far right
(my grandmother and another of Daddy's sisters are also in the picture.)
This was taken at my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary celebration in 1976.

    

The Sweet Scent of Spring

   As I made my way South to visit Momma, I drove with my windows down. It made it that much easier to inhale the smell of spring unfolding before me. The pollen laden air was fragrant with the scent of newly turned earth underlaid with tones of fertilizer, occasionally accented by the pungent whiff of manure. All about me were the signs of cultivation. Farmers were taking advantage of the demise of the ageless sleep of winter and embracing the glorious rebirth that spring affords. There were tractors everywhere and many a field boasted newly plowed rows and some fine terracing work. By the looks of it, Mr. John Deere is having a mighty good year.

   The grancy greybeards were also in full bloom, "just showing off" as my grandmother used to say. Their lacy arms swayed in greeting as I passed. I even tooted my horn at a couple of the most beautiful. My sisters laugh at me, but I felt I had to do something to say howdy and thank you in one fell swoop.  Sadly,  I was a little too late to see the magnificent display of spring azaleas, but the woods were still full of English dogwoods and the roadside phlox were jumping out everywhere just like a pink welcome mat.

Mr. Grancy Greybeard, thank you m'am.

     When heading down, some folks stay on the Interstate as long as possible to avoid the two-lane country roads, but not this girl (a loosely held appellation, I fear.) I can tolerate the Interstate, but put me on Hwy 189, good ole 331South or Rte 85 and I know I am home. Snodoun, Highland Home, Luverne, Brantley, Opp, Kingston, Gaskin, and Glendale are the sing-song towns as familiar to me as the back of my hand. They are old friends. From their surrounding environs I can judge whether times are good and whether times are hard, and I daresay these rural hamlets afford me a much better sense of the state of the American economy than the New York Stock Exchange ever could. Through the years I have watched the houses go up and the houses fall down. I have seen fortunes rise and fall by observing the strength of the fencepost, the state of the fields and which houses in town need a new coat of paint. We are in recovery, but barely. Good hard-working folks are still hurting out there. So as I wend my way down the ribbon of highway, I send up more than a few prayers for those who look ahead to the God in heaven for a good harvest even before they faithfully till and plant the fields. As they plow, they trust the rains will come in due season. As they sow, they trust the yield will be plentiful and full.  
   The prime interest rate and state of the dollar are secondary here, for it is the scent of the earth and the promise of spring that call to these folks. The farmers I know are more often than not people of faith. They know whom to trust. They know whom to ask. They know the One who is ever faithful. Dollars come and dollars go, but the Lord and His ways are unchanging ... yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It's a good thing to remember when driving the highways and smelling the spring. It's just a very good thing to remember...no matter what.

The Sharpest Sword

      As a child I toted around a beloved Bible given to me by my grandparents (mentioned in this post: The Treasure). Each summer I attended Vacation Bible School at their home church, The First Baptist Church of Opp, Alabama. It was a tradition that my sisters and I would travel from our home to stay with our grandparents during this week in June. VBS was something I looked forward to each year. I remember gathering outside the church in the warm early morning sunshine in my seersucker shorts outfit and sandals. We stood in rows assigned by age group and at the front of each line there was a banner. It was a honor to carry the banner into the sanctuary for the opening assembly.

     One of my favorite activities in VBS in addition to the crafts were the Bible Sword Drills. We would stand in a row with our swords -- the Word of God -- by our sides. The leader would call out a scripture and the first one to find the reference and read it aloud would earn a point. There is a part of me that loves competition so I was always trying to earn that point. But something else happened somewhere along the line...I not only learned where each of the 66 books of the Bible are located, but I also began to fall in love with the Word of God.

     I have not always been as faithful as I would have desired, but the sword of the Word has never failed me, not once. Over the years, I have learned from other wise women to literally pray the Word of God back to Him, as I remind him (tongue-in-cheek, of course) that these are His commands, His words, His ideas and He himself is the one who has said that He is faithful to His Word. It has made me feel close to Him and has opened up the door of communication that only comes when you spend extended time in the company of another.

    I am utterly convinced that prayer has been the key to open my eyes to understand my children's hearts and has been the reason that my husband and I are still finding joy in our 36-year marriage. For throughout the years I have been certain that my children and my husband were alien beings sent to my house for some unknown ulterior purpose. I have been baffled, perplexed, frustrated, confused, discouraged, disappointed, disgruntled, and angry with the whole lot of them. Fortunately this has usually not occurred with all of them at once, but in those years when we were all under the same roof, there was always someone on the hot seat. Someone, including me who needed prayer.

     I am not a stupid person. I consider myself relatively well educated, relatively intelligent, and relatively capable of being a decent parent and wife. Notice I said relatively. Some days I am downright awful and stink at any and every duty, job, or responsibility. Somedays I would like to run away from it all and hit the highway, but most of the time I manage to try. Yet there have been times in my marriage and in my parenting when, despite my best efforts (or perhaps because of them), I have hit the wall. I have faced issues, situations, responsibilities, circumstances, or whatever you want to call them that I could not surmount, or overcome, or for which I was so totally unprepared that I simply could not cope. Things so big or so hard that I did not think I would even survive. And many times I would hit that wall when I was running full speed ahead under my own steam (Is there not a lesson here somewhere?) I have always hated those walls. They force me to fall down or they knock me down (who knows which). I cannot get over the wall, and I cannot get around it. So what do I do? Once I determine that I am still actually breathing and still alive, I usually crawl to my Maker with my face in the dust and my body and soul covered with the mess. On my knees. To His sword. I go back to the only thing that I know has the power. I go back to the familiar. And it has never failed me. If I can't get over the wall, I fall on His sword, which has become my sword, the precious Word of God.

     Years ago when I was sure that my husband lay dying in a hospital recovery room, and I had to tell my children that the next 24 hours would be the most critical, I was so numb that I could not remember any of the scripture that I had memorized through the years. My mind was like some vacant lot overgrown with weeds. I was panicked. I remember that I took a deep breath outside the room before I went in to see my husband and I tried to pray. Nothing. My brain felt like marbles rolling around in a can. I cast around in my head for a scripture to stand upon and for the longest time, there was absolutely nothing. I grew desperate. I was afraid that I was losing my mind. After what seemed like forever, I finally heard the whisper in my soul, so soft and seemingly so incomplete. Over and over again the voice was saying , "The Lord is my shepherd." I thought okay, but where is the rest of the scripture? Where are the other verses that I had memorized in VBS as a child and could say backwards and forwards with my eyes open or closed. They were not there. No matter how hard I tried to remember, nothing else came. Not even the rest of the first verse of the Psalm: "The Lord is my shepherd ...I shall not want." The words had deserted me. Despite my prayers for assistance, I could not summon another single word of the famous 23rd Psalm. As the tears rolled down my face I wanted to scream. Yet all I heard again were those five words, "The Lord is my shepherd."

     It took me a long time to get it. It was a long drawn out recovery for my husband that lasted many many months and stretched out over two plus years. During that time I climbed mountains only to fall down once again into the miry pit of fear and desperation. Yet over and over again, I did find myself being lovingly carried to the still waters, and I knew much later that the Lord was not only healing my husband's body, He was making profound changes in me that would have ramifications for both of our lives. Five words. Five simple words. The opening lines of an incredible Psalm filled with power and promise. I did not get the rest then, but I finally got the beginning. The Lord is my Shepherd. Words to stand on. Words to live by. A sword that never fails.

     I barely heard Him over the clamor and confusion of my soul, but thankfully, I did. He was the Shepherd then. He is the Shepherd now. I am certain that I was able to hear exactly what the Ever Faithful One wanted me to hear. Five wonderful words. And I am so thankful to be a sheep of His fold. I might not be the most discerning or gifted sheep on the block, but I have the Most High God as my Shepherd and by His grace and His grace alone, I am still following Him. And golly, I hate to admit it -- I am still running into walls.

Christmas is Calling

     I was an eight-year-old girl sitting in the side pew of the First Baptist Church of Opp, Alabama, that October evening. It was fall revival week and my precious grandparents who loved the church and never missed an opportunity to serve others had taken me each night to the services. That particular evening, my grandmother had slipped out early to help prepare the refreshments that would later be served in the Fellowship Hall. And so it was that I was sitting there all alone. I don't remember the message, I only know that when the choir began to sing the oft repeated revival hymn, "Just As I Am,"  I found myself growing more uncomfortable by the minute. Suddenly my place in the pew no longer felt safe. I looked at the aisle of the church and wondered if I had the courage to get up out of my seat and walk the distance to the preacher standing there waiting at the end of the aisle. As I listened to the words of the chorus, my heart was beating so hard it felt as though it was about to come out of my chest. The wooden pew beneath my hand suddenly felt warm and then hot. I could sit no longer. I don't remember the walk down the aisle, the words the pastor spoke to me as he hugged me hard or the reactions of anyone else. I only remember the words to the song and the fact that from that day to this day 47 years later, I have been different. It was October on the calendar, but it was Christmas for me.
     Emmanuel, God is with us, Emmanuel, God is with me. I wish that I could tell you that I have never wavered, never doubted, never kicked out at God and screamed at Him in frustration, fear, panic, or pain. I wish that in these 47 years I had not been indifferent or apathetic or selfish or just plain mean. I wish that I had loved Him more and myself and things less. I wish a thousand different things about my walk with the One who called me out of the pew that night. But there is one thing I would never change. That night I began to know what it was to be a member of His family, to be His daughter and His beloved.  The Lamb who was spotless and perfect took on the weight of my millions of sins and paid the price so that I could have Christmas.
     I still can scarcely believe it. I know that I was scared that night. My daddy was dying with brain cancer, and I somehow knew that my life would soon change in ways that I could not fathom. But that October night when I left the pew, I left the comfort of the familiar to move into the realm of the impossible....and that is where I will always and forever be. I am a sinner redeemed by the glorious grace, mercy, and love of a magnificent God. I am in His family. It will always be so. He gave me Christmas in October and for me, Christmas it will always be. Emmanuel. God with us....God with me. A truth so amazing, I struggle to take it in.....and yet, for me each day, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas is calling......