Sometimes I think the hardest part of getting older is remembering things and people that are no longer in my life despite my intense desire for them to still be with me. At least I have the memories. I lost my grandfather when I was 11. I think of him every day. If for no other reason because I live on land that was once part of his farm and I drive by the old farmhouse every day. When I was 9 my best friend, Eddie Brown, drowned in the San Jacinto River on July 11, 1965. We were like brothers. He had three sisters and I had two and we were the only boys of the 7 kids. Eddie and I did everything together. I remember pretending to be James West and Artemus Gordon from “The Wild Wild West”. I remember going to see movies on Friday nights with my parents to the drive-in and Eddie going with us. I remember when we were on my bike, Eddie on the handlebars and me driving, and we took a tumble. I skinned up my elbow pretty bad and Eddie cut his big toe bad on the spokes of the bike. We probably would have both cried if we had been alone, but we had to be “men” around each other. As we both bled into the gravel of the road it was decided, unanimously I might add, that we should become blood brothers. So, Eddie mashed his big toe onto my elbow and we became blood brothers. I still think about Eddie several times a week.
Through the years I lost my grandmother and some aunts and uncles. I also think about "lost loves" from time to time. I have only truly been “in love” twice. I also "thought" I was in love a couple of other times. I was married to my ex-wife for 27 years. I never thought I would be divorced. It's a long story and not for the telling here. Suffice it to say, I still have some very fond memories of her and I wish her only the best. Divorce wasn't something I ever wanted, but in the end it has proven to be what was best in our case.
As for the other "love" of my life she was my first “love”. I have remained close friends with people who we both knew way back when and both still know to this day. So, I know a little about her life. I am truly happy for her that she has had a good life with a good Christian man who loves her and that they have had the blessings of three children, now all grown. But, there are still moments, usually when a song comes on the radio that was a hit record when we were dating, when I am taken back to that feeling of being in love for the first time. I will always be thankful for those days. I sincerely hope she feels the same way (if she ever thinks of me at all - I would hate to be ANYONES bad memory). I had never been kissed before kissing her. No, we were “good kids” and didn’t do what some of you no doubt are wondering about. I learned how to treat a woman by knowing her and more importantly how NOT to treat a woman. If I could tell her, then I would tell her that I am sorry for any heartaches I might have caused her. No doubt they would mean nothing all these years later, but it would mean a lot for me to say it.
By now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m taking you on this little trip down memory lane. Well, the point is we are about to celebrate Thanksgiving. We are supposed to give thanks for our blessings. I have many blessings to be thankful for. My parents, my sisters and their husbands, my children and grandchildren, my handful of friends that I have known for over 4 decades, a job, my health (even if it could be a little better!), and, as Bob Hope used to sing, I truly can say “thanks for the memories”. We all go through life and face the twists and turns of a road that can only be seen clearly from looking back as we go forward. We just have to be careful not to take our hands off the plow (Numbers 12:7) and not to spend too much time looking back. I am excited about the future. I am thankful for whatever future time I am given here on Earth. We never know what is over the next rise or around the next corner. Be thankful for what you have, for what you once had, and for what you will have in the future.
Have a Happy Thanksgiving!
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
"The Nutty Locksmith and His Tidy Whities"
We’ve all had them. Moments in time when we are totally embarrassed. Most of the time the embarrassment wears off in fairly short order, but then there are a handful of times that you cringe every time you think of “that” embarrassing moment in your life. For me, there are two that stand out. I’m cringing as I write this. Why write about it and tell the world you ask? Therapy. Self-diluted perhaps, but therapy nevertheless.
The first of these two acts of dubious repute came in August of 1977. I was working as a locksmith trainee for a company in Houston, Texas. Now, for those of you who have never been to Houston in August let me explain something. It is incredibly hot and equally humid. Well, it’s just miserable is what it is. So, the dispatcher asks me if I’m ready to go on my first job by myself. It’s suppose to be a simple job. Of course, I said yes. Mistake number 1. The job was to go to a little gas station in Montrose (a part of Houston well-known for some pretty strange people) and change out a lock on a the men’s room that had been damaged when someone couldn’t hold it anymore. Sounds simple enough. I figured, as did the dispatcher, that I should be able to get it done and be back within an hour. Huh!
So, I get there and it’s a rather filthy disgusting place. An hour was too long and it was my intention to get out of there as quick as possible. Some very strange people kept wanting to use the restroom and became aggravated that it was “out of order” for the moment. Montrose people were always ahead of the curve where fads were concerned. If you wanted to see what all the teeny-boppers would be wearing in 5 years, then go to Montrose. Guys and girls with orange or pink or lime green Mohawks wearing rings in their noses and who knows where else walked by the station in droves. Well, it was a parade so far as I was concerned.
Anyway, I took the beat-up old lock off the door and quickly saw that a new lock would not fit back on the door without some pounding on the door around the hole. I won’t go into a longer than needed explanation, but what happened was I dropped a tool inside the filthy, steaming hot, disgusting restroom and when I bent down to pick it up the door closed. No problem, right? I mean there wasn’t even a lock on the door. Well, the door opened into the filthy restroom and the beat up old door had snagged a nail in the jamb when it closed. The door wouldn’t open. I pulled on that door as best I could, but remember there was no lock. I only had a screwdriver (all my other tools were on the other side of the door for anyone to walk up and steal while I watched through the hole in the door where the frigging lock was supposed to be). There was NO ventilation in that room other than the previously mentioned hole in the door. I tried everything I could think of to get that door open. It was hung up on that nail and the only thing that was going to get it open was for someone to kick it open from outside. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in sweat. I mean was a soaked. At one point I even prayed that God send someone to quietly set me free with as little fanfare as possible. God had other plans.
Finally, after becoming convinced that I was incapable of getting that door open myself I did the only thing possible. I started to yell for help. I bent down and started to yell “Help!” through that hole where the stupid lock was supposed to be. Oh, did I mention the station was on the corner of a busy intersection? Lots and lots of traffic. Nobody could hear the idiot who was yelling for help in the men’s restroom of that little gas station. At one point, one of the few “normal” looking people walked by and when I yelled for help they looked at me like I was a pervert or something. Or something. Finally, after about an hour in the hot box I caught the attention of a man who had come to use the facility. I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth at that point. This is where the embarrassment meter spiked and then broke. I looked up through that hole in the door where the blasted lock was supposed to be and I said to the man, “I’m the locksmith and I’m locked in here. Can you go get the manager?” Well, as he walked away laughing and holding his sides I realized that I had really sunk to the bottom that day. The manager did come around and with me standing back from the door he kicked that door in. I stepped out into that 98 degree, 95% humidity and it felt like wintertime.
I got the lock on the door quickly after that and given I had lost half my body weight in sweat I spied a Chicken place across the street. I went in there and asked for a large Coke. They were out of Coke. Of course they were out of Coke. It was that kind of day. In fact, they only had one flavor working at that time. That’s how I capped off the afternoon with a large Strawberry soda. I don’t even like Strawberry soda, but I did that day.
Now, for the second of the embarrassing moments. This one is much shorter, but it ranks up there with the other one. It was sometime in 1982 and a Saturday morning. I woke up feeling pretty energized and ready for a fun day off. My ex-wife (we were happily married in year 6 of 27 years at that time) had gotten up earlier and was in the kitchen. I jumped in the shower and when I finished I put on my underwear and then, in my typical nutty behavior, I started to sing (very loudly, I might add) “We’re off to see the wizard.” I continued to sing loudly as I quite literally skipped down the hall (clad only in my underwear) and into the kitchen only to come face to face with my wife and a female neighborhood friend sitting at the table drinking coffee. I then proceeded (so I was told) to turn a deep shade of scarlet while my wife and her friend looked on in complete befuddlement and horror (well, my wife was horrified for sure). I quickly retreated and hid in the back of the house until I was sure the friend had left. Just in case, I got completely dressed before going back to the scene of the crime. She was still there. All I could think of to say was, “Don’t look Ethyl!” But it was too late. She’d already been incensed.
The first of these two acts of dubious repute came in August of 1977. I was working as a locksmith trainee for a company in Houston, Texas. Now, for those of you who have never been to Houston in August let me explain something. It is incredibly hot and equally humid. Well, it’s just miserable is what it is. So, the dispatcher asks me if I’m ready to go on my first job by myself. It’s suppose to be a simple job. Of course, I said yes. Mistake number 1. The job was to go to a little gas station in Montrose (a part of Houston well-known for some pretty strange people) and change out a lock on a the men’s room that had been damaged when someone couldn’t hold it anymore. Sounds simple enough. I figured, as did the dispatcher, that I should be able to get it done and be back within an hour. Huh!
So, I get there and it’s a rather filthy disgusting place. An hour was too long and it was my intention to get out of there as quick as possible. Some very strange people kept wanting to use the restroom and became aggravated that it was “out of order” for the moment. Montrose people were always ahead of the curve where fads were concerned. If you wanted to see what all the teeny-boppers would be wearing in 5 years, then go to Montrose. Guys and girls with orange or pink or lime green Mohawks wearing rings in their noses and who knows where else walked by the station in droves. Well, it was a parade so far as I was concerned.
Anyway, I took the beat-up old lock off the door and quickly saw that a new lock would not fit back on the door without some pounding on the door around the hole. I won’t go into a longer than needed explanation, but what happened was I dropped a tool inside the filthy, steaming hot, disgusting restroom and when I bent down to pick it up the door closed. No problem, right? I mean there wasn’t even a lock on the door. Well, the door opened into the filthy restroom and the beat up old door had snagged a nail in the jamb when it closed. The door wouldn’t open. I pulled on that door as best I could, but remember there was no lock. I only had a screwdriver (all my other tools were on the other side of the door for anyone to walk up and steal while I watched through the hole in the door where the frigging lock was supposed to be). There was NO ventilation in that room other than the previously mentioned hole in the door. I tried everything I could think of to get that door open. It was hung up on that nail and the only thing that was going to get it open was for someone to kick it open from outside. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in sweat. I mean was a soaked. At one point I even prayed that God send someone to quietly set me free with as little fanfare as possible. God had other plans.
Finally, after becoming convinced that I was incapable of getting that door open myself I did the only thing possible. I started to yell for help. I bent down and started to yell “Help!” through that hole where the stupid lock was supposed to be. Oh, did I mention the station was on the corner of a busy intersection? Lots and lots of traffic. Nobody could hear the idiot who was yelling for help in the men’s restroom of that little gas station. At one point, one of the few “normal” looking people walked by and when I yelled for help they looked at me like I was a pervert or something. Or something. Finally, after about an hour in the hot box I caught the attention of a man who had come to use the facility. I couldn’t believe the words that came out of my mouth at that point. This is where the embarrassment meter spiked and then broke. I looked up through that hole in the door where the blasted lock was supposed to be and I said to the man, “I’m the locksmith and I’m locked in here. Can you go get the manager?” Well, as he walked away laughing and holding his sides I realized that I had really sunk to the bottom that day. The manager did come around and with me standing back from the door he kicked that door in. I stepped out into that 98 degree, 95% humidity and it felt like wintertime.
I got the lock on the door quickly after that and given I had lost half my body weight in sweat I spied a Chicken place across the street. I went in there and asked for a large Coke. They were out of Coke. Of course they were out of Coke. It was that kind of day. In fact, they only had one flavor working at that time. That’s how I capped off the afternoon with a large Strawberry soda. I don’t even like Strawberry soda, but I did that day.
Now, for the second of the embarrassing moments. This one is much shorter, but it ranks up there with the other one. It was sometime in 1982 and a Saturday morning. I woke up feeling pretty energized and ready for a fun day off. My ex-wife (we were happily married in year 6 of 27 years at that time) had gotten up earlier and was in the kitchen. I jumped in the shower and when I finished I put on my underwear and then, in my typical nutty behavior, I started to sing (very loudly, I might add) “We’re off to see the wizard.” I continued to sing loudly as I quite literally skipped down the hall (clad only in my underwear) and into the kitchen only to come face to face with my wife and a female neighborhood friend sitting at the table drinking coffee. I then proceeded (so I was told) to turn a deep shade of scarlet while my wife and her friend looked on in complete befuddlement and horror (well, my wife was horrified for sure). I quickly retreated and hid in the back of the house until I was sure the friend had left. Just in case, I got completely dressed before going back to the scene of the crime. She was still there. All I could think of to say was, “Don’t look Ethyl!” But it was too late. She’d already been incensed.
Monday, November 7, 2011
"The Computer Desk, The Monkey, and Me"
Last night I was reminded again why I don’t make my living repairing or building things. My mind just doesn’t work too well where these kinds of things are concerned. In this case, I was putting together a computer desk. You know the kind. 18,000 parts and instructions written by some deranged disciple of Charlie Manson or worse yet - a fan of Alex Baldwin. OK, so I’m exaggerating a little, but you know how it feels to have to put together a piece of “furniture” like that. Speaking of the person or persons who really do write the instructions for putting together such a mind-numbing project, let’s consider a few salient points on such a person. First, it’s obvious that they are not actually writers. Second, they must be psychopathic misfits bent on making other people who are mentally healthy individuals into people who lose all rational thought processes and themselves become babbling basket weavers, generally drooling into the baskets they are making. Third, they have willing partners in crime.
These partners include an illustrator, a packing “specialist”, and a monkey who’s sole job it is to intentionally leave out at least one essential part. Usually it’s the part that holds the whole thing together. The “illustrator” must be a frustrated artist who, after finding no willing buyer for his “artwork”, resorts to drawing the plans for building the said project and takes his frustrations out on the poor unsuspecting and soon to be drooling fool. The packing specialist is actually quite talented. This person manages to stuff more parts, nuts, bolts, and so forth into a box that will weigh roughly the same as an aircraft carrier, but is deceptively small for its weight. Which reminds me. When you see “WARNING!” on the box accompanied by a picture of a guy holding his back in pain - heed the warning!
So, last night I put together the computer desk. It was quite a workout. I could lose weight doing such a project. There were moments when I sat down and could feel the drool building up. There were moments when I realized that I had put half of the thing together backwards resulting in me having to take it apart and do it again. There were moments when I felt like a contortionist tied in knots on my living room floor. There were triumphant moments when I put something together and it actually looked like the picture on the box. By the way, have you ever noticed they don’t put an anticipated time for putting one of those things together? It took me roughly 3 hours. Sad, very sad.
You no doubt are asking why I’m telling you about all of this. Surely there must be some profound lesson learned that I feel compelled to share with you. Nope. I’m just proud as heck that I survived the ordeal and as I sit here writing this I am gazing fondly at my shiny new computer desk that I put together. Oh, and not a word about the 3 bolts leftover that I have no idea where they came from. Some things are better left a mystery!
These partners include an illustrator, a packing “specialist”, and a monkey who’s sole job it is to intentionally leave out at least one essential part. Usually it’s the part that holds the whole thing together. The “illustrator” must be a frustrated artist who, after finding no willing buyer for his “artwork”, resorts to drawing the plans for building the said project and takes his frustrations out on the poor unsuspecting and soon to be drooling fool. The packing specialist is actually quite talented. This person manages to stuff more parts, nuts, bolts, and so forth into a box that will weigh roughly the same as an aircraft carrier, but is deceptively small for its weight. Which reminds me. When you see “WARNING!” on the box accompanied by a picture of a guy holding his back in pain - heed the warning!
So, last night I put together the computer desk. It was quite a workout. I could lose weight doing such a project. There were moments when I sat down and could feel the drool building up. There were moments when I realized that I had put half of the thing together backwards resulting in me having to take it apart and do it again. There were moments when I felt like a contortionist tied in knots on my living room floor. There were triumphant moments when I put something together and it actually looked like the picture on the box. By the way, have you ever noticed they don’t put an anticipated time for putting one of those things together? It took me roughly 3 hours. Sad, very sad.
You no doubt are asking why I’m telling you about all of this. Surely there must be some profound lesson learned that I feel compelled to share with you. Nope. I’m just proud as heck that I survived the ordeal and as I sit here writing this I am gazing fondly at my shiny new computer desk that I put together. Oh, and not a word about the 3 bolts leftover that I have no idea where they came from. Some things are better left a mystery!
Friday, November 4, 2011
"Lessons Learned From Mr. Stump"
When I was 11 years old our family moved into the house that I would live in until I was grown and that my parents lived in until I had been out of the house for three years. In many ways that house is still considered by my family as “the house we grew up in”. None of us has been back in that house since March of 1979. Oh, I’ve driven by it many times when in town just to see the old place, but like everything it and the neighborhood have changed drastically in over three decades. Thinking of that house last night I was reminded of one of our neighbors. His name was Mr. Stump. In the eyes of an 11 year-old he was ancient when we moved there. Most likely he was considerably younger than I am now. Although I lived next door to Mr. Stump for 10 years I barely new the man. I know that he had a grown son who lived far enough away that he and his family rarely came to visit. I know that there was a Mrs. Stump, but I never actually saw her. We knew she was there and occasionally there were signs of her such as a wheelchair on the front porch, but if I ever saw her I don’t remember it. And I have an extremely good memory.
My parents didn’t have much interaction with the Stumps. I don’t know if that was because they were all busy or whatever the reasons might have been. I do know that we all thought Mr. Stump was a little strange. It has taken me a lifetime to fully comprehend the lessons I learned from Mr. Stump even though I didn’t realize I was learning anything at the time. When my friends and I would play catch in the backyard a ball would almost always end up in the backyard of Mr. Stump’s house. That meant two things. Someone was going to have to climb over the chain link fence to get the ball and when they did they were going to have to search for it in the nearly foot high grass. Mr. Stump didn’t seem to have much time to mow his grass.
On one occasion when I was about 14 I threw a fastball to a friend who decided ducking would be preferable to catching the ball. Well, that ball sailed over the fence and right into one of the windows of Mr. Stump’s house. Being the good kids that we were and acting in the way that our parents would expect us we both ran like scalded dogs in the hopes that somehow Mr. Stump would have no idea how a baseball ended up in one of his bedrooms. Oh, I felt guilty and I nearly confessed my sin to my parents, but alas I failed in the attempt. Two days later I was throwing darts in the back yard at the dart board when I heard a voice say, “Have you told your parents what you did?” It was Mr. Stump. I sheepishly replied in the negative and to my surprise he said, “Well, the window had a crack in it from a long time ago and I’ve been needing to replace it. You boys be a little more careful next time, Ok?” All I could think was “Wow, I dodged that bullet.”
Mr. Stump had an old 1958 Desoto Sedan. It was gray and white and had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t his daily driver though. I guess he just didn’t know what to do with the car. It mainly sat in his driveway and once in awhile Mr. Stump would start it up. It could be heard for blocks away and the blue smoke that poured out of it probably killed every mosquito in a 5 block radius. When I was about 18 I happened to pull into our driveway in my car and noticed that a tow truck was hooking up to the old Desoto. Mr. Stump was standing by it with his hands on his hips and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. There must have been some happy times in that old car somewhere in Mr. Stump’s past. The old Desoto was taken away and Mr. Stump slowly walked back into his home with his head down.
One day when I was about 20 and not long before I moved out on my own an ambulance pulled up in front Mr. Stumps’ house. There was a large tree that blocked the view of the back door of the ambulance so I didn’t get to see Mrs. Stump even then. I do know that she was taken to a hospital. A couple of days later Mr. Stump’s son and his family came for a short visit and I’m sure it was so that they could see Mrs. Stump in the hospital. Mrs. Stump was brought back home about a month later, but I wasn’t there to see it and shortly thereafter I moved out. I would stop by my parent’s house many times over the next three years, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to Mr. Stump. I do remember my mother complaining that bees had apparently built a huge hive in one of the outer walls of Mr. Stump’s house. They became quite a problem when you would go in the backyard. Eventually, the bees were removed.
I’m sure by now you are asking why I felt the need to talk about Mr. Stump all these years later. Well, it has to do with the lessons I learned from him. I don’t know all of the sorrow and heartaches that he must have faced during those years. I can only imagine what it must have been like. What I do know is the character of that man was something special. I know that he was a Christian because it happened that my uncle knew Mr. Stump well due to my uncle was his attorney. My uncle would always refer to Mr. Stump as a “good Christian man”. Mr. Stump probably had more trials and sorrow than most of us ever have. The evidence? He had a wife that he obviously loved very much who was severely ill for many years. There was never a nurse there so that means Mr. Stump did things for his wife that many husbands would never do. Mr. Stump also had to work. Can you imagine keeping your mind on a job with all he had to deal with? But he did. His anger could have boiled over when I broke his window. Can you imagine how some people would have reacted? What I have learned from Mr. Stump is that he knew the so-called “Love Chapter” from the Bible in 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 well. The verses are:
“4. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8. Love never fails . . .”
Most likely Mr. Stump has passed on and is in heaven now. He would likely be in his 90’s if he is alive. I would believe that Mr. Stump and his wife are now without sorrow or pain and that they are in heaven with God. I believe that when Mr. Stump passed from this life and into the presence of God that he heard Jesus say, “Well done good and faithful servant" - Matthew 25:21.
My parents didn’t have much interaction with the Stumps. I don’t know if that was because they were all busy or whatever the reasons might have been. I do know that we all thought Mr. Stump was a little strange. It has taken me a lifetime to fully comprehend the lessons I learned from Mr. Stump even though I didn’t realize I was learning anything at the time. When my friends and I would play catch in the backyard a ball would almost always end up in the backyard of Mr. Stump’s house. That meant two things. Someone was going to have to climb over the chain link fence to get the ball and when they did they were going to have to search for it in the nearly foot high grass. Mr. Stump didn’t seem to have much time to mow his grass.
On one occasion when I was about 14 I threw a fastball to a friend who decided ducking would be preferable to catching the ball. Well, that ball sailed over the fence and right into one of the windows of Mr. Stump’s house. Being the good kids that we were and acting in the way that our parents would expect us we both ran like scalded dogs in the hopes that somehow Mr. Stump would have no idea how a baseball ended up in one of his bedrooms. Oh, I felt guilty and I nearly confessed my sin to my parents, but alas I failed in the attempt. Two days later I was throwing darts in the back yard at the dart board when I heard a voice say, “Have you told your parents what you did?” It was Mr. Stump. I sheepishly replied in the negative and to my surprise he said, “Well, the window had a crack in it from a long time ago and I’ve been needing to replace it. You boys be a little more careful next time, Ok?” All I could think was “Wow, I dodged that bullet.”
Mr. Stump had an old 1958 Desoto Sedan. It was gray and white and had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t his daily driver though. I guess he just didn’t know what to do with the car. It mainly sat in his driveway and once in awhile Mr. Stump would start it up. It could be heard for blocks away and the blue smoke that poured out of it probably killed every mosquito in a 5 block radius. When I was about 18 I happened to pull into our driveway in my car and noticed that a tow truck was hooking up to the old Desoto. Mr. Stump was standing by it with his hands on his hips and I could swear there were tears in his eyes. There must have been some happy times in that old car somewhere in Mr. Stump’s past. The old Desoto was taken away and Mr. Stump slowly walked back into his home with his head down.
One day when I was about 20 and not long before I moved out on my own an ambulance pulled up in front Mr. Stumps’ house. There was a large tree that blocked the view of the back door of the ambulance so I didn’t get to see Mrs. Stump even then. I do know that she was taken to a hospital. A couple of days later Mr. Stump’s son and his family came for a short visit and I’m sure it was so that they could see Mrs. Stump in the hospital. Mrs. Stump was brought back home about a month later, but I wasn’t there to see it and shortly thereafter I moved out. I would stop by my parent’s house many times over the next three years, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to Mr. Stump. I do remember my mother complaining that bees had apparently built a huge hive in one of the outer walls of Mr. Stump’s house. They became quite a problem when you would go in the backyard. Eventually, the bees were removed.
I’m sure by now you are asking why I felt the need to talk about Mr. Stump all these years later. Well, it has to do with the lessons I learned from him. I don’t know all of the sorrow and heartaches that he must have faced during those years. I can only imagine what it must have been like. What I do know is the character of that man was something special. I know that he was a Christian because it happened that my uncle knew Mr. Stump well due to my uncle was his attorney. My uncle would always refer to Mr. Stump as a “good Christian man”. Mr. Stump probably had more trials and sorrow than most of us ever have. The evidence? He had a wife that he obviously loved very much who was severely ill for many years. There was never a nurse there so that means Mr. Stump did things for his wife that many husbands would never do. Mr. Stump also had to work. Can you imagine keeping your mind on a job with all he had to deal with? But he did. His anger could have boiled over when I broke his window. Can you imagine how some people would have reacted? What I have learned from Mr. Stump is that he knew the so-called “Love Chapter” from the Bible in 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 well. The verses are:
“4. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8. Love never fails . . .”
Most likely Mr. Stump has passed on and is in heaven now. He would likely be in his 90’s if he is alive. I would believe that Mr. Stump and his wife are now without sorrow or pain and that they are in heaven with God. I believe that when Mr. Stump passed from this life and into the presence of God that he heard Jesus say, “Well done good and faithful servant" - Matthew 25:21.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)