In 2020, my dad spoke at a Christian home school graduation, and he wanted to speak to the young graduates on the topic of PERSEVERANCE. The previous year dad had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gherig’s disease), and the message he wanted to convey to the graduates included truths of both God’s grace, as well as the good and certain end that is promised for those of us who are children of God by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Dad was (and is) resting in these truths as he perseveres through his own trial with this difficult illness. Dad now receives his meals through a feeding tube, breathes through a trach tube which is connected to a ventilator, and is quickly losing the ability to speak. However, he asked us to share these truths on perseverance with his family and friends. We hope you are encouraged. -amanda criss
P.S. – We will share with dad any comments you would like to leave for him below!

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I want you to travel with me back in time to over 100 years ago, to the year 1920. The great event of this year is the invention of the radio. Keep in mind that before the radio was invented, if there were an event such as a baseball game or a football game or a horse race, even though it might have taken place on a Saturday or Sunday, you would not have known the score until the next day when you read it in the paper. So for instance, you would know that the Yankees were playing the Red Socks on Sunday afternoon, but you would not know who won that game until it appeared in the paper on the following day, at the earliest. 

Well, along comes the radio, and now you can listen to the game live, as it is being played. However, not everyone has a radio as soon as it is invented; it takes about 14 or 15 years for the radio to filter into the American public. So, in a community or small town, there may be one household that owns a radio. The family sits down, gathers around, and listens to the game while it’s played, then they walk out of their house knowing who won. Since they’ve listened to it live, they don’t have to wait until Monday morning’s paper to find out how the game is going to end. On the other hand, their neighbors are still waiting to read the baseball game’s scores in tomorrow’s paper. 

What if the neighbors offer to bet one another on who will win the game? They may not know that one of the families KNOWS how the game will turn out.

My question to you is: What if you are the family that owns the radio? How much are you willing to bet? I contend that, since you KNOW how the game is going to end, you’ll bet it all on the outcome that you know is certain.

The motivation behind my blog post today is the sum of my own life experiences, as well as the life experiences of nearly every one of my many friends. We all face hardships; we each face challenges. Unexpected troubles often come to us as massive intrusions upon our lives. These troubles may come in the form of consequences for something we did or a mistake we made[1], persecutions for living a godly lifestyle[2], or trials we suffer due to living in a fallen, broken world[3]. 

So, troubles are unavoidable, and we will face them. How can we possibly prepare for these troubles? How can we persevere, with confidence and with certainty?

Let me assure you of these two great Truths:

1. The grace of God is sufficient for whatever trouble you may face, and
2. God has an end laid out for you – a good end, a magnificent one.

The Grace of God to Help in Time of Need

First, let’s consider God’s grace. God will give you the sufficient grace to meet any trouble that you may face in this life – any trouble. 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 says, “…My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness. Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong.”

Regarding this sufficient grace that Paul writes about in 2 Corinthians 12, I’d like to tell you one of my favorite stories, the story of John Hus. John Hus was the Czech reformer; he lived 100 years before Martin Luther. In writing, John and Jan Hus challenged some of the churches on their unbiblical teachings, and the church called him to trial. He went before the council, and they ordered him to recant, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t do it, because what he said was true. He could not recant. They sentenced John Hus to be burned at the stake.

The night before he was to be burned the next morning, he was sitting in his prison cell, and in the center of the cell, there was a single candle with a little flickering flame at the top of it. He looked at that little flame, and he thought, “I’m going to be burned at the stake tomorrow,” and so he tried to take his finger and place it over the flame, but he immediately pulled it back. He couldn’t do it. He tried again, and he couldn’t hold his finger over the flame. He thought, “If I can’t do this, with that little bitty flame there, how in the world am I going to bear being burned at the stake tomorrow?”

The next morning, history records that John Hus literally sang psalms and hymns as he was being burned at the stake. The truth not to be missed here is that, the night before in that prison cell, he didn’t need God’s grace to hold his finger over that flame. But the next morning, when he was being burned at the stake, he needed God’s grace desperately. And God delivered it abundantly. I love the story of John Hus and what it means for us as we experience God’s grace. 

The End Intended by the Lord

Next, let’s consider the end game.

Your end, the end intended by your Heavenly Father, is certain. It is a good one, a great one; despite any problem that you may have, despite any obstacle you may encounter.

James 5:10-11 encourages us about God’s intended end for all of his children: “As an example, brethren, of suffering and patience, take the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. We count those blessed who endured. You have heard of the endurance of Job and have seen the outcome of the Lord’s dealings, that the Lord is full of compassion and is merciful.”

So, in whatever form you encounter troubles or obstacles, consider the inevitable end game. Just as the family with the radio knows how the game will turn out, those of us who are Christians already know the end intended to us by the Lord. Since we know how our “game” is going to end, we all know how we should bet – mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

Bet it all. 

“Bet it all…on what?” you ask. Bet it all on the things your Heavenly Father has promised you in his word, including–especially including–Jesus’ imminent, triumphant return and the certainty of your coming heavenly reward! 

However it turns out in this life, know that your Heavenly Father is in control. The game is already won.

Two verses that have encouraged me in this regard are Romans 8:28 and John 16:33–

Romans 8:28

“And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.” 

John 16:33

“These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.”

You will make mistakes, you will face troubles, trials, and failures, you will suffer. It’s inevitable, it’s unavoidable. But don’t forget… Great is His faithfulness. Great is His all-sufficient grace. Never, ever forget this! And whatever troubles, whatever trials, whatever obstacles you face, His grace is sufficient. He is in control.

Those of you who know me will not be surprised to see this passage from Philippians 4:4-13:

Rejoice in the Lord always. Again I will say, rejoice! Let your gentleness be known to all men. The Lord is at hand. Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things. The things which you learned and received and heard and saw in me, these do, and the God of peace will be with you. But I rejoiced in the Lord greatly that now at last your care for me has flourished again; though you surely did care, but you lacked opportunity. Not that I speak in regard to need, for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content: I know how to be abased, and I know how to abound. Everywhere and in all things I have learned both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Persevere, my friends, persevere. Persevere with confidence, the confidence of knowing that your God is faithful, His grace is sufficient–absolutely sufficient–for whatever trial you may face. You can do all things, you can overcome any hardship, through Christ, the one who strengthens you! Listen to these encouraging words from the Apostle Paul:

Romans 5:3-5

“…we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.”

I close with the words of Paul as he completes his second letter to the church at Corinth:

“[May] the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, be with you all.” (2 Corinthians 13:14)

Amen!

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[1] Galatians 6:7
[2] John 15:18; Philippians 1:29
[3] James 1:2; 1 Peter 4:12

(My dad has a new blog post to share! Due to the progression of his ALS he is no longer typing, but this is a story he wrote several months ago, and we would like to share it with you now! You are welcome to leave comments for him below, and we will read each one of them to him. Enjoy! -amanda criss)

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Elementary school was filled with wonder and surprises. Every day was fresh, new, exciting, and contributed to the development of life-long friendships.

Looking back, I believe I must have unknowingly been part of the very origins of today’s “Everyone-gets-a-trophy” era. The long-standing “A, B, C” grading system had been abandoned; our grading system consisted of “R” denoting Rapid progress, “N” for Normal progress, and “S” for Slow progress. Then there were “fast” and “slow” reading groups—which were later re-named “Red” and “Blue.”

As we progressed from grade-to-grade our classes remained pretty much intact, which encouraged stronger and stronger friendships.  Occasionally families moving away from our small town caused a loss to our close knit fellowship. I remember warmly a number of my elementary school classmates that I quite literally have not seen or heard from since my elementary school days: Tren Alford, Shirley Campbell, Terry McConathy, Zeta Quella—the list could go on—are names that stand out in my memory. I often wonder where they are, and just how their adult lives turned out.

One of these “missing” individuals is the focus of today’s story.

It seems every elementary school class has one standout troublemaker. In Mrs. Clark’s third grade class that distinction belonged to one Terry McConathy. Terry’s dad was the local jeweler, and watch and clock repairman. Terry spent his school days peering out the classroom window, throwing spitballs at his class mates, pulling his female classmates’ hair, and generally disrupting class.  Out of frustration Mrs. Clark moved Terry’s desk to the very front of the classroom, next to her teacher’s desk. Each school day Terry sat there all alone, completely separated from the remainder of his classmates.

The classroom calmed down—somewhat.

Things rocked along fairly smoothly for a few weeks.

Then the much-anticipated “Parent’s Day” approached. One of the historical highlights of “Parent’s Day” was that, as the parents filed into the classroom, each parent was directed to sit in their own child’s desk. As “Parent’s Day” approached, Terry tearfully pleaded with Mrs. Clark to move his desk back into alignment with the remainder of the desks in the classroom. “For just this one day!” he cried. “No deal” replied Mrs. Clark, “You made your bed, now you must lie in it.”

Parent’s Day arrived.

Each mom cheerfully filed into the classroom and searched for the little sign that denoted their child’s desk, then, each with a smile on her face, proudly sat in her child’s little desk.

Then Mrs. McConathy entered the room.

She looked for her son’s desk to no avail. “Where is Terry’s desk?” she asked Mrs. Clark. “Right here,” the teacher replied, pointing to the lonely little desk at the front of the classroom.

The smile disappeared from her face.

Throughout the brief “Parent’s Day” festivities she sat stoically in the little desk. Her eyes fixed on the chalkboard in the front of the classroom, looking neither left nor right.

The very next day we met a new Terry. Overnight his behavior noticeably improved. No more spitballs, no more hair-pulling, and very little disruption. His mom had “gotten the message,” and effectively communicated that message to her disruptive son. 

Eventually Terry‘s desk was moved back into alignment with the remainder of his classmates. Thanks to Mrs. Clark (and Terry’s mom), “Troublesome Terry” became simply “Terry.”

Whew!

Each Christmas season brings warm family memories—memories that often last an entire lifetime. Mostly the memories are joyful, but if we are honest we must acknowledge that Christmas can also be a time of loneliness and depression.

I vividly remember Christmas Day lunches in our family. Our home was the overall “family get-together place.” Pretty much any relative or family friend who had no place to enjoy Christmas was included in our invitation list—and often joined us. It was not unusual for us to have as many as 40 people for our Christmas lunch.

Throughout my teenage years I remember soberly scanning our dining room table during our annual Christmas lunches as my elderly grandparents, uncles, and aunts enjoyed open, warm fellowship and a delicious meal. I could not help thinking, “I wonder which of these sweet, beloved old folks will not be with us next Christmas?” Sure enough most years, as the next Christmas season approached, one or two of these loved ones would indeed be “called home” and thus be absent at the next Christmas get-together.

And such is life.

I remember an old-time revival service at my home church. The visiting pastor asked the congregation, “What if I asked you to identify the next member of this congregation to ”pass away?” In answering this question my instant mental response was, “Well, obviously one of those old folks sitting near the the back of the church will be the next to go.” Then I realized the pastor’s whole point: The next person in the church to pass away could just as easily be one of the young children serenely seated next to their parents or perhaps even one of the middle-aged parents themselves or maybe even one of the teenagers seated near me in one of the little side wings of the sanctuary. The pastor successfully made his point. In any group it is impossible to know who will be the “next to go.”

At our annual Christmas lunches, as I looked about our dining room table, I was confident that the “next to go” would be one of my elderly aunts, uncles, or grandparents. It never once occurred to me that one of my siblings—or even I—could indeed be the “next to go.”

An artifact from my father underlined this harsh reality several years ago when I found myself holding my dad’s billfold—the billfold in his pocket when he unexpectantly died in October 1955.

Inside the billfold was a season ticket to the Port Gibson High School football team’s 1955 season. Along the bottom of the ticket were printed the numbers one through six, representing six home games. The first three numbers were “punched,” indicating his attendance at the first three games. At game number four the punches abruptly stopped. I soberly realized that my dad purchased the season ticket, and even attended the first three games—fully expecting to attend all six games—but was unable to because of his untimely death.

And such is life.

“And inasmuch as it is appointed for men to die once and after this comes judgment…” (Hebrews 9:27)

According to this verse, after that appointed time of death “comes judgment.” Given our sinful, broken nature, how can we possibly survive this judgment?

“…for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, being justified as a gift by His grace through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus…” (Romans 3:23-24)

“For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9)

The Truth is that we each indeed have a sin debt—a sin debt that separates us from our Heavenly Father, a sin debt far too great to pay ourselves. Because of His great love for us—Christ fully paid that sin debt through His death on the cross.

Our sole obligation is to accept this great debt payment, by any measure the world’s greatest gift.

Practically every cemetery in America is covered with headstones. Nearly every one of these many headstones contains two dates. The first is the date of birth; a date which nearly everyone knows. Conversely, the second date is the date of death; no one knows the second date, the appointed date of their death.

Separating these two dates is a small dash, or line. This line represents your life.

Many lines are long, quite long. Sadly, some lines are short, quite short. Not one of us knows the length of our line. Regardless of its length, this line represents the time you have been allotted to accept Christ’s great gift of salvation.

Do not let today pass without accepting His great gift.

Tomorrow is not assured—for any of us.

It was the fall of 1954.

My father, Oby, loaded up my 7-year old sister Martha into his truck and headed for the hardware store in downtown Port Gibson. I’m sure the original purpose of the trip was to purchase highly practical farm-related supplies or tools. But as they walked around the store a random display featuring a little white plastic church caught their eye.

On a whim he bought the little church—for $5. They completed their shopping and headed for home. Once at the house he proudly revealed his spontaneous purchase.

Spontaneous purchases were not a common occurrence in our household— unheard of, in fact. Money was tight and not to be wasted on frivolous items; the little plastic church was the very definition of a frivolous item. My grandmother, who lived with us, expressed her firm disapproval.

Well, the deed was done, and the little church had found a home.

The little church was graced with a tall steeple and adorned with a cross. A small light bulb produced a warm glow from the tiny “stained glass windows.” Inside was a cylindrical music box with a wind-up knob protruding from the back of the church.

Firmly winding the music box produced a beautiful rendition of “Silent Night.” The crystal clear musical notes filled the entire room.

While in elementary school, both my sister and brother took the little church to school each year as the Christmas holidays approached. Their young classmates were mesmerized by its beauty, and the music it produced.

Every Christmas of my entire life, the little church is carefully pulled out of storage and proudly displayed. Each year we wind the music box again and again (and again and again)—and softly smile as “Silent Night” sweetly plays.

Age has given the church an obvious yellow tinge, the little cross on the top is missing, the stained glass windows are long gone, and the plastic steps are broken.

Still, the precious little church perseveres.

Following my parents’ move to an assisted living center in late 2009, my 4 siblings and I met at our family home to divide my parents’ many household possessions.

Throughout our adult lives our mother voiced an earnest—and oft repeated—plea: “Do not sit around this dining room table and argue over this ‘stuff’!” The “stuff” she referred to was the many antique family heirlooms all around us. This loving admonition hung warmly over us as we divided up the antique furniture, the antique cut glass, the antique china, and the antique silverware—without a single cross word—without the hint of conflict or distrust.

The following Monday, I reported this significant fact to my mom—she was deeply pleased.

Of the numerous heirlooms divided up that day, one seemingly insignificant item seemed to maneuver its way to the very pinnacle of our sentimental pyramid—the little plastic church. 

Which elicits a question: How is it possible that a little plastic church, bought on a whim for $5, fifty-five years prior and now yellowed, broken, and cracked from years and years of use, be worth anything? Anything at all?

The answer: a) the church was purchased by our beloved father a mere year before he died in an airplane accident in October 1955. He was only able to enjoy his little church for a single Christmas. b) We cherish the hundreds and hundreds of joyful memories that the church now evokes.

We love that little church.

Now I must ask a second question: What is it that gives me, my own sinful, worthless self, any worth, any worth at all? Moreover, what is it that gives you, your own sinful, worthless self, any worth, any worth at all?

The answer to this question also has two simple elements:

a) Our Heavenly Father made me, made each one of us, in His own image.
“Then God said, “Let Us make man in Our image, according to Our likeness…God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” Genesis 1:26-27

b) Because of this God loves us, He loves us dearly, despite our many faults.
“And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest. But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.” Ephesians 2:1-7

Miraculously, despite our great shortcomings each one of us is loved; in fact, we are each cherished, by our Heavenly Father.

With tearful eyes, yet with a joyful heart, our family’s love for this yellowed, cracked, and broken little church is to me a beautiful picture of our Heavenly Father’s great love for us.

I’m very thankful for this wonderful, real-world depiction, of this great spiritual Truth.

Growing up in a small town, in the deep south, football was (and is) a central part of community life. Given a few valid exceptions virtually every young man is expected to play the sport, both to support his community, and to affirm his burgeoning manhood.

At Port Gibson High School the Blue Wave football team celebrated the close of each season with a banquet.

Coaches tend to call upon a core of trustworthy moms to help with the planning, preparations, and execution of these complex events. As you might guess, my own mom was one of those selfless, engaged parents who readily stepped to the plate whenever she was called upon—the quintessential “team mom.”

Following one sports banquet , my brother Oby boldly approached my mom and told her: “Mom! You embarrassed me! I don’t want you to serve at next year’s banquet!”

My mom was taken aback. Clueless, she responded “I’m sorry, Oby. What did I do?”

“While you were cutting the cake tonight, you licked your fingers. Yuck! You embarrassed me!” he answered.

At the following year’s banquet my mom dutifully complied with his request and politely declined the coaches’ invitation to help with the event.

Following the banquet, Oby returned home. Curious, my mom approached him. “Oby, how did the banquet go? How did the mom serving the cake do? Did she lick her fingers?”

With eyes opened wide, Oby replied. “No! Mom!—she licked the knife!”

And thus my mom was rightfully reinstated into her role as “team mom,” and Oby came to peaceful terms with the fact that “finger-lickin’” was indeed good!

1996 Promise Keepers Clergy Conference

Our nation’s current racial unrest is deeply troubling.

I have long held that if there is any hope for racial reconciliation it must begin in the Christian community. Black, Hispanic, and white Christians worship the same God. We each acknowledge that we are equally broken sinners, saved—not by anything that we have done, anything we do, or by who we are—but by the grace of God alone, in Christ alone. If we as Christians cannot love and respect our fellow Christian brothers and sisters, how can we possibly expect our secular friends and neighbors to do so?

“If someone says, “I love God,” and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from Him, that the one who loves God should love his brother also.” 1 John 4:20-21

Attempts at racial reconciliation are not new; obviously, we must continue to fight this ongoing battle.

In the months leading up to 1996 I was privileged to take part in a Starkville-area campaign to send local pastors to Atlanta for the 1996 Promise Keepers Clergy Conference, entitled “Breaking Down the Walls.” The goal of our efforts was to build a foundation for racial reconciliation among the local Christian community—and beyond. The event was hugely successful—and impactful; it also resulted in some of my most precious memories….

After learning of the scheduled national Promise Keepers Clergy Conference, Starkville Promise Keepers leadership fully embraced the concept and began actively soliciting the participation of every local pastor—across racial and denominational divides. Letters of invitation were prepared and mailed; the letters were followed by a personal invitation.

Generally we were warmly received as we delivered the face-to-face invitations. Although in a few instances we were met with considerable pushback. We forged ahead, undeterred.

Ultimately 42 pastors—12 of them black—representing many of the area’s Protestant denominations, signed up for the conference.

This thing was happening!

As we approached the conference date the entire Starkville Christian community rallied enthusiastically around the campaign, both financially and spiritually. Men within the local Promise Keepers organization gave generously to support the effort, as did a number of persons outside the group. Even though the effort was definitely grassroots, two Starkville couples, Carey and Bonnie Hardin and Dr. Mike and Debbie Mabry, should rightfully be credited with ensuring that this dream became a reality.

I will never forget the role played by these individuals.

Local stores bought in. Kroger, FoodMax, Fred’s, Walmart, and others each responded generously. Bags and bags of fruit, chips, candy bars, bottled water, and other groceries soon overwhelmed the dining room of one of the members of the local PK leadership.

We secured two buses from our local bus company, made the necessary hotel reservations, and purchased the event tickets. Dr. Mike Mabry and I were selected to serve as hosts for the trip, so we contacted the Promise Keepers organization and volunteered to serve as ushers at the conference.

Unknown to the participants, when making hotel room assignments the organizers strove to cross both racial and denominational barriers.

The big day finally arrived. We loaded up and headed for Atlanta.

Upon boarding the bus, each pastor found his “goody bag,” prepared by the PK volunteer leadership. The bags were a huge hit. They immediately lifted the mood of the entire group and set a cheerful tone for the entire conference experience.

The bus trip itself was the most profitable and enjoyable part of our time together. Many took this opportunity to share their hearts—and hurts—with their fellow pastors. The time spent in close quarters on the bus opened the door for many, who had quite literally never even met, to form and build lasting relationships.

Two pastors who drove to Atlanta on their own, met the group at the Atlanta hotel, and even attended the entire conference. As much as it grieves me to say it, those two men never fully became part of the group. Their conference experience, though profitable, was vastly different from those of us who bonded both emotionally and spiritually during our time on the bus. This emphasized the importance of fellowship time.

Relationships take time.

The conference overlapped Valentine’s Day. In the weeks leading up to the conference the volunteer leadership discretely collected love letters and Valentine cards from each of the pastors’ wives. During the bus trip the hosts surprised the pastors with these letters and cards. Not a dry eye could be found.

The conference program was uplifting, healing, and powerful. The teachings of the racially diverse speaker line-up were spiritually challenging, encouraging, and motivating.

The conference’s musical component was equally powerful. Imagine 40,000 men, all pastors, enthusiastically singing traditional hymn arrangements, coupled with contemporary choruses, unified in heart, purpose, and spirit.

As we neared the close of the conference, Christian musical artist, Steve Green, walked onto the stage and began to sing “Let the Walls Fall Down.” The entire Georgia Dome erupted. I would contend that the excitement I witnessed at this time would rival the energy of any athletic event ever held in that great venue.

As the song concluded, it was obvious that the men on stage were absolutely unprepared for the wildly enthusiastic reaction. They gazed at one another, with extended arms and upturned palms, so as to say, “What do we do now?” This audience reaction was clearly not on their agenda. Finally one of the men on stage walked over to Steve Green and asked him to sing the song again.

He did.

The Georgia Dome erupted—again.

Things eventually settled down. It was obvious to everyone attending that they had been part of something very special.

Shortly the conference concluded and we loaded the bus for home. As a closing gift, the hosts surprised the attendees by handing each pastor a gift certificate for Richey’s, a well-known Starkville steakhouse at the time. The entire group was taken aback by this final act of generosity which artfully climaxed the overwhelming expression of love from the Starkville community.

Since everyone was exhausted, the ride home was somewhat less eventful. Many slept, though extended conversations and relationship building continued. Once back in Starkville everyone returned to their home—and their home church—with a sense of unity, friendship, enthusiasm, and warmth.

Over the next several days many of the pastors enjoyed a follow-up fellowship experience as they met and enjoyed a nice steak dinner with their wives.

POST-CONFERENCE EVENT

One of the conference’s featured speakers—as well as one of its singers, Pastor Joseph Garlington (now Bishop Joseph Garlington), of Covenant Church in Pittsburgh, somehow learned of our community’s campaign and was deeply moved. He asked to come to Starkville and address the community.

Wow!

Roughly one month after the conference, essentially all the participating pastors, along with their families, and in many cases a large portion of their church membership, gathered at Calvary Baptist Church to hear Pastor Garlington. The church was packed —and the spirit of community was palpable.

The post-conference worship service provided an appropriate exclamation mark to a notable event.

As said previously, many of these warm relationships continued for years, long after the conference itself was a mere memory.

I am very blessed to have had the privilege of being a part of this very meaningful and impactful event.

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“…at the end of the three-day rally in Atlanta, a real breakthrough had indeed occurred: Pentecostals and Baptists prayed together; Anglos and men of color embraced. Suspicions had given way to respect, even love, for fellow believers with different beliefs.”
Christianity Today

“In perhaps the most moving event of the gathering, PK leaders invited men of color down to the Dome floor, while white ministers stood and cheered them.” Christianity Today

As our society becomes further and further removed from agriculture, we tend to think “farms are farms.” That is to say, we are prone to believe that one farm is pretty much the same as the next—I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.

I grew up on a cattle farm.

On a cattle farm there is always something that needs doing: Gathering hay in the brutal heat of the summer, then distributing those same bales before school each morning the following winter, branding cattle, vaccinating calves, “fixing” male calves, fixing fences, bush-hogging the pastures in the summer, and on and on…

Did I mention fixing fences?

As a teenager I became convinced that our cattle had some secret insight into my social calendar. Having this insight, they would choose the most inopportune, disruptive time to find a hole in the fence, and then begin their sampling of the proverbial “greener grass.” A cow out on the road invariably forced me to to cancel whatever I had planned, rustle the bovinian escapee back into the pasture, go collect the necessary fence fixing tools, and (finally) repair the broken fence.

It never ended…

When I graduated high school, my dad sold every head of cattle we owned. Despite the fact that cattle prices at that time happened to be at an all-time high, I remain convinced that he was motivated primarily by the anticipated loss of his free labor force—me.

On a somewhat related note, our family also purchased its first riding lawn mower at this time. I’ve always contended that, even though the mower was likely purchased with the proceeds from the aforementioned cattle sale, the transition from push mower to riding mower was motivated primarily by the same anticipated free labor loss as the cattle sale.

As I neared the end of my freshman year at college I approached Wiley Hatcher, a prominent local farmer, businessman, and citizen, in search of a summer job. In addition to his local farming activities, Mr. Hatcher owned a sizable land surveying and mapping company. Since he had survey crews covering much of the U.S. the big question in my mind when I applied was, “If I get this job, I wonder where I will spend this summer? Colorado?, Texas?, North Carolina?, Utah?”

Mr. Hatcher surprised me by offering me a job—on his farm. Oh well, it looked like my summer would be spent right here in Port Gibson, Mississippi.

I reported to my new job thinking, “I grew up on a farm. Surely I know what I need to know to be a successful farm worker.”

Wrong!

Mr. Hatcher farmed nearly 3,000 acres of cotton, corn, and soybeans—a “dirt farm.” Almost nothing I learned on our family’s cattle farm prepared me for this, the very different world of row-cropping.

Our work days began at 7:00 a.m. and ended at dark—roughly 8:30 p.m. Each day in the field, lunch was delivered to us. We would step off the tractor, hopefully find a nearby shade tree, eat quickly, re-mount the tractor, and get back to work. The lunch menu was quite predictable: a quarter-inch slab of cotto salami served between two pieces of white bread, a ninety-degree-(hot)-bottle of Coke, and a honey-bun for dessert. Yum! I got home each night around 9:00 p.m., ate dinner, showered, then fell into bed. The next day we did it all over again—six and seven days a week.

Although the schedule was insanely demanding, my mother observed that she had never seen me happier.

About two weeks into the summer, friend and co-worker, Ross McGehee, and I decided to move into a vacant house near farm headquarters. While this initially sounded like a good idea, I quickly realized that I had grossly under-appreciated the value of a breakfast prepared for me each morning, a dinner prepared each night, clothes and sheets washed and waiting, groceries bought, etc. etc. etc.

One morning, during our first week in the house, one of us accidentally left the refrigerator door ajar. When we returned home that evening around 9:00 p.m. we were greeted by a refrigerator full of spoiled food—and ants.

Discouraging.

Soon after moving in we were awoken one night by a significant “thumping” sound, a strange noise, coming seemingly from our attic; the next night, we heard it again. On the third evening, before going to bed, we made sure we had a flashlight and a .22 rifle handy before going to sleep.

About 2:30 a.m. the sound woke us again. Ross grabbed the .22, I picked up the flashlight. We climbed the ladder leading to the attic, first Ross, then me. Using the flashlight we looked intently for what could possibly be making that strange sound. It didn’t take us long to notice the attic insulation moving slowly up and down about 12 feet away. What in the world? Tiptoeing from rafter to rafter Ross slowly approached the mysterious movement. As he reached the active area, he carefully lifted the insulation. I shined the flashlight on the space beneath the insulation.

Together, we saw it.

A large writhing pile of…snakes!

We were both shocked. I quickly descended the ladder. Uh, this left Ross alone—in the pitch dark—with the snakes. He hollered at me (understandably). I quickly recovered, re-climbed the ladder, and shined my flashlight in his direction. This enabled him to tiptoe his way back across the rafters, down the ladder, and out of the attic.

After a while our heart rates returned to normal and we were able to go back to sleep. A few days later I decided to move back in with my parents.

My decision to move back home was due solely to our taxing work schedule and the burden added by living on our own. To this day Ross enjoys attributing my departure to our unsettling late-night snake encounter.

“Behold, children are a gift of the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward.”
Psalm 127:3

When joyfully married in July 1981, Marilyn and I casually took for granted that children were a part of our future. Having children was important to us, but there was absolutely no sense of urgency.

Then, around February 1982, we found ourselves unexpectantly pregnant. Surprise! Surprise!

We accepted the news and carried on with our lives. On our fourth visit to the doctor, we received even more surprising news: “Mr. and Mrs. Easley, it looks like you are going to have twins.” “Twins??” We were shocked! Our family had no known history of twins. When we questioned the doctor he told us that roughly one in sixty births are twins, regardless of the parents’ genetic history.

We adjusted. We had purchased one crib, a dear friend loaned us a second one. A second car seat—bought. Second this—bought, second that—bought.

We were ready.

On the morning of our six-month appointment we awoke to a downpour. The night had been a tough one for Marilyn. Random flu-like pains had kept her awake. I was scheduled to go to work that day, coming home in time to take her to her appointment in Jackson, about an hour away.

“David, please stay here with me! Don’t go to work this morning!” Marilyn pleaded.

I called and told my office mates I would not be coming in that day.

Around seven o’clock, I suggested that we go ahead and depart for Jackson. Why not? We had an appointment later that day anyway. Once in Jackson, we could eat breakfast somewhere, and then be there in plenty of time for our appointment at 11:00. We dressed, loaded into the car, and took off.

The heavy rain continued. While on the road, we began to notice a vague pattern to Marilyn’s pains. What in the world was happening? Surely not labor pains. The day of your six-month appointment is far too early for those. The developing pain patterns prompted us to stop at my cousin’s home who happened to live along the way. We used their phone and called the doctor’s office.

“Meet us at the hospital,” the nurse replied. We thanked my cousin and his wife, walked back out to our car in the pouring rain, and hastily departed.

Once at the hospital, Marilyn was whisked into the maternity suite. After a time, I saw a familiar doctor. “What’s happening?” I inquired nervously. The doctor soberly replied, “David, your wife is eight centimeters dilated.”

Whoa! This is for real.

At this stage of pregnancy, a journey through the birth canal would be far too traumatic for our little ones; we agreed to the doctor’s recommendation of an emergency c-section.

Shortly we welcomed Scott Dowdell and Gregory John into the world.

The pre-mature boys weighed in at roughly two pounds each. Thankfully, we were at Hinds General Hospital, then the premier infant intensive care facility in the state.

The boys were immediately placed in incubators. I was allowed a visit once each hour. Marilyn, confined to her hospital room, was afforded no opportunity to visit her first-borns.

Scott, the eldest, died within 24 brief hours; Greg lived another 12 hours. Their lungs were simply not sufficiently developed to support them. We were devastated, broken-hearted.

I left the hospital that day, looked about me, and was overcome with a genuine disbelief that the world continued to turn, despite my deep sorrow. People laughed and joked. How could that be? I saw a young mother, cigarette dangling from her lips, loading her baby into her car. Why was it that she was allowed to keep her baby, while our twins had been torn from us? How could the world go on as if nothing had happened?

The bodies of our precious twins were placed into a simple pasteboard box. My parents offered to transport the boys to the funeral home in Port Gibson. The next day Marilyn, confined to the hospital, was unable to attend the grave-side funeral service. No Port Gibson native would have been surprised to see the outpouring of love and sympathy by dozens and dozens of my life-long close friends attending the service.

When Marilyn was released from the hospital, we returned home with a transformed perspective on the importance of children in our lives. The doctor advised us to wait three months before attempting another pregnancy. We did just that, we waited exactly three months; nine months later we welcomed our oldest daughter, Amanda, into the world.

Since then we have been blessed with four more children, for a total of five. Our perspective on the importance of children to us has not waivered since the day of our great loss.

Despite our loss—perhaps because of that loss—we will never, ever forget how truly blessed we are.

“Behold, children are a gift of the LORD, The fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, So are the children of one’s youth. How blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them; They will not be ashamed when they speak with their enemies in the gate.”
Psalms 127:3-5