Did he know we were there?

 Do my blessed ancestors in heaven know us? Are they aware of what we are doing here? Prayers to these saints are heard, we know, but do they know anything else about us. Scripture hints that they do, but also hints that they don't. 

This month I walked through five cemeteries and stood at the graves of ancestors who lived and died in the hollows and highlands of eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina. Graves from the late 1700s to near present day. 

On Saturday September 5, 2026 I took my family to the grave of my Great great grandfather, Troy Jones and his wife, my Great great grandmother, Candace Pruitt Jones. Montezuma Cemetery in Montezuma, NC. I have a bed that he made in my home with a picture of him beside it. I did not know him, but knew his daughter, Clara Greene, my great grandmother. 

Around his grave this day were a great great grandson, three GGG grandchildren and five GGGG grandchildren, and three of their spouses. 9 direct descendants. Perhaps the most that ever stood at their grave at any one time, at least the most in a long time. She died in 1926, He died in 1923. I would like to think that a hundred years from now my descendants will visit my remains. Perhaps tell some funny story that has been passed down. Maybe my GGG granchildren will run on top of me and rattle my bones a bit as my grandchildren did on them. That would be nice. Thank you Troy and Candace. You are not forgotten. 

Journey to 1922

This was written on November11, 2021. Forgot to post it until today, August 27, 2026. 

During the past week I have taken a stroll to an earlier time. 1922. November. The time of the birth of my father. Questions have been answered. Answers I thought I had have become questions. 

I thought I knew where my father was born. I don't. I only know that he was born in Texas. My father's birth mother, Josephine, said that he was born in Eastland, Texas on November 25, 1922. The records of the adoption agency state this. The Texas Department of Vital Statistics states he was born in Dallas, but only because that is the location of the orphanage. His certificate of adoption from the Goliad County, TX Courthouse, says the same. All are wrong. 

An anonymous letter in the files of the adoption agency hints that the mother was with a sister in Amarillo during the pregnancy. Possibly he was born there. Today I was at the Eastland County Courthouse and found there is no record of any child being born in that county on that date. From meetings with newly found relatives I know that Josephine had an older sister, Louise, who was married and lived in Amarillo.

I have learned new things about his abandonment. His mother left him in the back seat of a doctor's car in downtown Dallas on Saturday night, December 16th of 1922. Earlier in the day she had visited Hope Cottage Orphanage, but did not leave him there. Until this weekend that was all I knew. But an 80 year old cousin told the story as she heard it from her mother, another one of the eight sisters of Josephine.  Another sister, L.E., was with Josephine when my dad was placed in the seat of the car, and waited with her to make sure the child was discovered. And L.E. must shared with others the story which has been passed down, of Josephine beating her head against a telephone pole and crying after leaving him behind. When I was told this story by my cousin I almost cried, and hugged her, for now the abandonment made sense. She must have thought, "If I leave my child at the orphanage, and he is adopted, I'll never know who has him, where he is, or if he is in a good home. But if I leave him in the back of this doctor's car, I'll know who has him. Perhaps he'll adopt him. I'll know where he is. Maybe someday I can see him. Maybe. Just Maybe. A little bit of hope on a chilly November night. 

When she returned home to Roxton, she read the report in a Dallas newspaper of the child she left there. She learned that the doctor had not kept my father., but had taken him to where he had been earlier that day, to Hope Cottage Orphanage. The Orphanage eventually located Josephine, though she gave false information about where she was from. Someone in Roxton must have also seen the article, for an anonymous letter in the orphanage files told them about a pregnant girl who left town for Amarillo and where they could find her. 

Find her they did. The records hold a series of letters between a caring orphanage director and a distraught and troubled young woman. There are letters from Josephine's mother as well, a woman overwhelmed with the care of eight daughters and one son, most of these still at home. Josephine tried to figure a way out of the situation, a way to keep the baby, or postpone an adoption, but in the end there was no way. The orphanage saw that long before she did and placed my father in a most loving home. That is another story.   

I went to the town of Roxton, on Monday of this week. I walked the streets. Poked my head in the abandoned stores downtown. Peeked in the window of the old drugstore. Had lunch in a building that once housed a gas station. Drove by their church. Walked the grounds of the vacant lot where the family home once stood. Saw the creek Josephine played in, trees she might have climbed, the school she attended. Walked where she walked. Hugged people she had hugged. I stood where she stood and thought about the same person she did. She thought of a baby, I thought of a man who was my dad. 

I visited the grave of Josephine yesterday. It is in Fort Worth, where she lived most of her life. Where my dad lived while in seminary. 

In May of this year I was at his grave. I filled a coke bottle with dirt from his grave and brought it home. It's been in my sock drawer until this week, when dirt from his grave was place on the graves of his biological father and mother. Weird perhaps. But a little token that means something to me. 

I love my dad's mom. Both of them. 

about Dad's ring

 When i was young, my dad had a gold ring. one with his initials on it. I thought it was beautiful. Strong, understated, elegance. His initials, TBW, graced the head. 

Its beauty appealed to me, as did the design. As his namesake my initials were the same. 

When I was about 14, I asked if I could have it. "No, not yet, but you can wear it for a few days." But it was a man's ring, for a man's hand, something I did not yet have. I wrapped scotch tape around the shank to make it a little tighter and proudly showed it off to friends. 

The first day I wore it to school, I lost it. Playing football during PE. Walking toward the locker room I realized it had come off my hand. There was that pass, when I reached high for the spiral, was that when? Or was it when Randy knocked me on my butt. 

I went back to the field but knew it was a lost cause. Where we played was a mosaic of sod and clods and mounds and divots, clete prints and shoelaces, mouthguards and soda straws. Nothing orderly about it. 

I think I waited a day or two before telling dad. Maybe a year. It was so long ago. But what I remember is that he did not get angry. Just a look of sadness and disappointment, the details of which he kept to himself. He was hoping, really hoping, that his teenage son would start to show signs of responsibility. That I would sense importance without having to be told, or lectured, as a child. Nope. Not yet. Not this year. Not this guy. 

I don't even remember what he said. I'm sure there was a story about the ring that he had waited to tell me. How he got it. Gift? Purchase? Was it his Dad's? (we all had the same initials). That story is lost to time. All I know is that the ring was very very important to him and the moment I was entrusted with it, I let him down. 

I learned a lesson about Dads and sons and the highs and lows of parenting. I thought about this ring often during my parenting years. There are times to let emotions show and times to keep them buried. Times when they do good and times when they don't. Some times you just keep the hurt or the joy inside, locked up, to be released in another time. 

Later, somebody found a gold ring in a field at Everitt Junior High in Panama City, Florida. 

That time I described my life history to an alien being

 Today  I am in Little Rock, America and am pondering how to describe my existence should an alien being approach me and ask about my life. 

I was created 69.5 years ago. I do not recall this nor how it was that I came to be. The ones who created me cared for me until I was of the approximate size and intellect that you see today. This took about 20 years. 

After this period my human creators (not my divine or ultimate creators, that is another story) bid me farewell. I traveled a far distance from where I lived to come to this same city. I walked into an old building and met a female human (we have two kinds. I am male). We met many times. As I write this I am standing on a sidewalk outside that same building. 

I told her I had amassed powers of persuasion and could bend other humans to my will, particularly in commercial transactions. She told me she had the power to create small humans. My assistance would be required, which she would allow in exchange for an extended period of support in the form of shelter, food, money and other materials that she might require. 

I was skeptical but agreed, having difficulty shaking a spell she had cast upon me. She employed her creation power three times over the following twelve years. As these small humans grew larger she required greater support in the form of material goods. I provided this by exchanging knowledge I had acquired into money. This I then converted to cars, clothing, baseballs, bandaids, and larger shelters. This project took over 30 years until we finally bid the youngest human farewell. (Over time these created even more humans, five so far.)

We have now rested from this work and spend our days in play with the newer humans and traveling to distant lands sharing our story. No one believes us. 

I still write letters on paper and pen

 I have something at my house that the current generation will not have. Love letters. Specifically the ones from my wife. The generation of marrying age, late teens to late twenties, have abandoned marriage and have abandoned writing love on paper. 

I have something at my house that the current generation will not have. Letters from their grandparents. My grandchildren are an exception of course. Children have stopped writing to their grandparents the big news of their lives, and perhaps they never did it much. In college I wrote letters to my grandmother and grandfather. They wrote me back. My grandfather only made it to third grade, my grandmother to the eighth. My grandmother wrote letters quite often, especially to far flung loved ones, like her daughter Audrey, my mother. My grandfather almost never wrote to anyone, thus the two letters I have from him are particularly treasured. 

A hundred years from now your great -grandchildren may have an old email or two that someone told them was from you. How will they really know. My grandchildren, ages 4-11, five of them, all have a lot of letters from granddad. The ones who live close and the ones that are far away. So do my grown children.  

One of the failings of this age is the depersonalization and coding of our communication into an electronic form. Go ahead, send your grandkids or kids a nice email. It will look just like the ones I have sent. Exactly. Identical. But my letters are known. They recognize the handwriting. How it is folded, The coffee cup stains that show up from time to time. How I switch from  print to cursive as they get older. A lot of them will survive this century. 

Recently my wife and I read some of those old love letters, From 1978 and 1979 I kept most of hers and she kept a few of mine. Dozens of them. They speak of events and family and a wedding and money and jobs and car repairs and babies yet to draw a breath. They dream of a future that turned out in a way that would would have amazed them. The real was better than the imagined, in many ways. I know this because I have a written record. 

I also have letters from my brothers in their teens, when I was away at college. One is dead and the other very much alive and well. It is good to revisit our lives back then. The things brothers share only with each other. I have letters from my parents and they are the type of letters a parent should send. Mom chiding me about bad grades and Dad giving me some practical advice about job hunting. One was task oriented, the other more forward looking. Mom and Dad. 

I have a letter from my Dad. He was responding to the news that I was engaged. "Please send me her home address, I want to write her a letter". 

It is well that we cannot see the future

 Today my wife busted the mailbox door when she got out of the car to check the mail. In closing the car door it hit the mailbox door and broke one of the plastic hinges. Clearly an accident. (Perhaps.) It could have been me. (But not likely). 

I was the one who got to go out in the snow with the temp a balmy 19F. Back and forth I went. To the tool shed, to the mail box, to the tool shed, to the garage, to the house for gloves. Dropped a screw in the snow, which can only be retrieved barehanded. Dropped it again. Dropped a wingnut. Finally I reverted to my first thought, wire. Drilled a couple of holes and macgyvered a solution. Hopefully will last til spring. Gotta get back in the house. 

With a big mug of hot chocolate I start working on this blog entry. My phone rings. My wife it is. "I'm at the mall. The dash says one of my tires only has 14 lbs". Gee, same as the air temp now. "Which mall?" "OK. I'm on my way"

Back to the title of this post. In the summer of 1979 had I known that this day was coming, especially the mailbox part, I might not have married her. It is well that I cannot see the future. 

I am a fan of the New York Jets

As I left mass this morning, I caught that second half of the Jets-Broncos game. It was one of those London games of the 2025 season, with a kickoff just as mass was starting. 

I have been following the Jets since Joe Namath took them to the Super Bowl so many years ago. They have never been my main team. That loyalty has belonged mainly to the Buccaneers, Rams and Vikings, when I lived in the same city as those teams. But for over 50 years, the Jets have been my second team, the team I always wanted to do well, and to someday return to Superbowl glory. 

If you dig around my house, you'll find some Rams stuff and a few Vikings things. but much more Jets. Jets hat, sweatshirt and coffee mug are the things seen most often. In 2023 I went to the NFL Hall of Fame in Canton. First stop, Kurt Warner's bust. Second stop, Joe Namath's bust. Rubbed Joe's nose for good luck like thousands of others. Didn't rub Kurt's nose. 

When my son was 12 his approach to the baseball plate mimicked the stance of Mark McGwire. Mark and my son lived for a while in the same city and were baseball players at the same time, though at different levels. 

When I was 12 and playing quarterback in my front yard with my friends, my stance as I dropped back to pass, mimicked that of Joe Namath. It was intentional, I really tried to hold the ball the way I thought he did, and release it as he did. In reality I was a poor imitation but in my mind I was pretty close. 

With today's result, Jets lost and are now 0-6, the season is likely over. I get to be one of the first fans to start thinking hard about the 2026 draft and what it means for my team. Perhas there is another Namath in next year's class. One who is a true student of the game, who has watched the old film footage from the 60s and marveled at the moves of Broadway Joe. Maybe. 

As I left Mass I did not have the Jets on my mind. But when I turned on the game on the radio, I no longer had the miracle of the Mass on my mind. What does that say about me. Perhaps nothing, just a normal human whose mind moves from one thing to another. Or, am I just a passing fan of both? I hope not. Christ has many fans, but very few fully devoted followers. 

My mother's last checkbook

 Today I am going through a few things of my mom's. I have all her last files. Funny how it is hard to throw away the most meaningless scrap of paper that is in her hand. That almost perfect cursive penmanship that flowed so easily from her pen. 

The last few entries reflect the day-to-day care of her widow's household. Once these entries were known only to her, her private and very secret money world. Groceries, gas bill, her monthly social security. At Christmas there was an entry of a check to me for "Christmas dinner". I do not recall what that was. Perhaps she sent me money to help pay for ours. I do not recall whether I spent Christmas with her or was with family here in Minnesota. Probably the latter. 

It's been over seven years since she died. I hope I always miss her and that throwing away her things is always hard. 

The best two sentences in "A Gentleman in Moscow"

 "...just remember that unlike adults, children want to be happy. So they still have the ability to take the greatest pleasure in the simplest thing. "

from the chapter "Ascending, Alighting", page 253. 

Bookends of Life

 I am a hospice volunteer and I am a Grandfather. Thus, I spend a lot of time with the very young and the very old. The struggles of their lives seem at times similar, though that is not real.  

I want that glass of water that I see across the room. How do I get it?

I understand what you just said to me. I want to reply but I don't know the words. Or, I know the words but cannot make my mouth say them. 

I should go to the bathroom. Too late. I am embarrassed or ashamed to tell you. 

I miss that person who comes to my room. Where is he? Will she be back today? 

I wait in my room until someone takes me somewhere and tells me what to do. Sometimes I do it. Sometimes I don't. 

It seems to you quite boring that I spend so much time staring out the window. I am learning, retaining, not retaining, thinking. thinking. 

The single best sentence in Anna Karenina

 "Then it was that he first clearly understood what he did not realize when leading her out of the church after the wedding: that she was not only very close to him but that he could not now tell where she ended and he began." Volume II, Part V, Chapter XIV.

I suppose that after 20 or so years of marriage I would have understood this line. But after forty six years I can begin to relate to it. Begin. Deeper than understanding. 

It was well worth a thousand pages of this great novel to find this little jewel of prose.  

The neck tells no lies

 A conversation with my four year old grandson, Ben. Christmas 2024. 

Ben: Grandad, why do you have that turkey thing on your neck. 

Me: That's because I'm getting old. 

Ben: You ARE old. 

Me: Yes I am, I guess. 

Ben: Why do you have that turkey thing on your neck?

Me: When you get old your skin gets loose. 

Ben: But why do you have it?

Ben: You're old. 

Me: Someday you'll have one and maybe your grandson will ask you why. 

Ben: (laughs) Un Uh!

Life on the Eights

 Last week I became 68 years old. Three score and eight. My grandaddy always said "I just want my three score and ten, like it says in the Bible" He got a lot more than that.

Anyway, looking back on the eights, here goes. Roughly as I told it to my kids and their kids after blowing out 68 candles (true). 

When I was eight it was 1964. I lived in Pensacola.  3rd grade. Had a younger brother who was almost six, and a new baby brother. I think my dreams/plans in life were vaguely to 1) be a good Christian 2) Have a good family 3)Not be poor 4)Be somebody. 5) Play for the New York Yankees. Simple difficult goals. 

When I was 18 it was 1974 and I had graduated from HS and moved to St. Petersburg Florida. Sacked groceries at Publix in the Northeast Shopping Center. Started college in early 75. 

From 74-84 I sold Kirby vacuum cleaners door to door. Sold Bibles and kids books door to door. Sacked groceries. Ran a gas station at night. Maintenance crew and dining room crew in college. Landscaping. Day Camp Counselor. Sold Iinsurance. Sold Investments. 

In 1984 I was 28 and one of the toughest periods of my life, thus far, was over. The Dark Years were past. I had written my last hot check. There was a little money in the bank and I owned my first house. Finally found something I could do, which was investment stuff. Started by selling it, later managed it. I was married and my oldest child was four. This was the year I paid off my $2000 student loan, $30 at a time. Doesn't seem like much until you're three months behind and the college is getting ready to turn you over to a collection agency. I was very involved in numerous political campaigns. 

In 1994 I was 38 and lived in St. Louis. My wife Robin and I now have three children. Daughter 14, son 8, daughter 2. A good happy time. My maternal grandparents and my parents were still alive. I had earned a difficult professional designation and had some letters after my name on my business card. Since 1984 a man I knew had been elected President and I had been a delegate to the national convention of our shared political party. Robin and I went to a Christmas party at the White House.  Around this time I stopped my political stuff and focused on family and career. The Soviet Union, that nemesis that had me scurrying under my desk in grammar school, was no more

In 2004 I was 48 and lived in Minneapolis. Career events I did not anticipate sent me north. It was wonderful, eventually. By this time my grandparents and my father had died. My oldest daughter was in Law School. my son was in college and my youngest daughter was in middle school. I was traveling a lot for work and for a professional organization of the investment world. 

In 2014 I was 58 and lived outside Minneapolis, on a lake and thinking about retirement. My son was married and I was a grandfather. My youngest brother had just finished year one of a five year war against cancer. 

In 2024 I am 68. My three children are all happily married. I have 5 grandchildren. I am even more happily married than my children for I have been able to convince a wonderful woman to stay with me for 45 years!!! I have joined the Catholic Church. I am retired. I play the banjo. My youngest brother has died of cancer (One might say the cancer beat him. Welcomed into the glory of his heavenly Father, I doubt he would put it that way.) As I write this I am canning green beans from my garden. 

Eclipse

 Saw the eclipse on April 8th. Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Amazing. No clouds. Clear sky. Totality for 4+ minutes. 

The advice on viewing was constant. 'Don't look at it or you'll go blind". This is true but something in me wanted to look at it, just to be sure. And so did my four year old grandson, Ben. Like his granddad, he did sneak a peek, but just a quick one and survived, as did I. 

Something about the way that advice is given. You are only told not to stare at the sun when an eclipse is upcoming. I guess that means that we assume people are smart enough on normal days, but somehow turn stupid under the power of the eclipse. 

On a bright sunny day, Moms of the current age might call out to their kids, "put on sunscreen", "don't stay out too long", "drink plenty of water", (in the 60s they said none of these) but she will never cry "Don't Stare at the Sun!!!"

A Gift from a two year old

 Johanna - This week you let me put you to bed. I wanted to and you did not object. What I really expected was for you to point to your Grandmother. Almost always this is what your brother and cousins would do. But you just went to my arms as if this was the most normal thing. We read both nights, The Lady with the Aligator Purse and Fox in Sox. Each three times. 

The most wonderful part was when it came time to rock you and sing to you. You nestled in my arms as I sang Jesus Loves Me, over and over. I thought of all the times I had held my own children in this wondrous routine. I felt your love and trust and comfort in my arms. I don't have good words for this. To be at your home, to be surrounded by one you trust and have the beginnings of this feeling we call love. To know the comfort that comes when fully cradled in the arms of a grandfather. 

Perhaps it will not happen in this life, but there will come a time when I will once again know this peace. I have long forgotten what this is like, but if there is any good in me, the seeds were planted at times like this. When my Dad, or my Grandad, or my mother held me. When my whole world loved me. It will come again. 

The things I do when my wife is out for the week

 1. Put dishes in the dishwasher without washing them first

2. Set the thermostat where I want it

3. Keep the TV on hoops all day

4. Leave house with the TV on

5. Watch Sharknado 2

6. Turn the living room into a banjo studio/sports center

7. Refreeze meat I've thawed to cook and then changed my mind

8. Eat her snacks

9. Drink too much coffee

10. Shave on the couch while watching hoops

11. Miss her

Independence Days Remembered Part II

In looking back over the years the thing that stands out from my youth is the absence of big fireworks displays. Growing up in Florida I do not recall ever going to a big fireworks event ever. That was something we saw on TV, but never in person. It's not that we didn't go, it just didn't happen. There were plenty of sparklers and firecrackers, cherry bombs and M80s, buzzing things and flying things, things that exploded and things that soared. But none of the really big stuff. 

Thus, I have no big kid memories of the 4th. Except for the time that Bill Leap and I soaked a bunch of cattails in gasoline and lit them as torches. I was about 13 or so. We soaked them for a week and they made a nice display in his back yard. 

Others. As an adult around 1982 I helped fire off the big stuff for the Pine Bluff Arkansas Jaycees event. It was fun launching them and seeing the fear and excitement on the face of my toddler daughter. 

Mid 90s. Richmond Virginia, with friends. One of the kids got sick, I recall. 

Mid 90's St. Louis. Watching at eye level from a conference room in the Boatmen's Bank building with colleagues and our families. 

2005 Approx. Lake Minnetonka. Excelsior Minnesota. Nice display and I remember the traffic and parking being not near as bad as expected. 

2010 I was in Buenos Aires on July 4th. Odd to be somewhere when this is just another day. 

2022 I better be able to remember last year's. Watched a nice display sitting in the back of my now gone Ford F150 with my wife. Parking lot of target store in Waconia, MN. 

Note: As I was writing this I recalled writing a similar post in the past. Here it is. https://midnightdiner.blogspot.com/2011/07/independence-days-remembered.html

Tranquility in the Airport Lounge

 Amex Lounge, Minneapolis Airport. 

Tranquility to me is simply being in a place that you don't want to leave. An airport lounge is usually not such a place. But on this day I am sitting alone, writing, drinking coffee, watching the day unfold undisturbed. I am on a trip to  Charlotte to wrap up a family business matter. It is without controversy or messiness. It is unfolding just as it was supposed to. Nearby are people to assist me with my travels but they keep their distance and are silent. If you were sitting across from me I would speak this now: "I could stay here all day". 

So as I write I am draw to other times and places when I had this same sort of sense, that temporary well-beingness. I know this will pass but it was worth the wait. This overwhelming desire that the day last very very long. 

Other times...

Once when sitting in the parking lot of a Best Western in Oregon. Cigar and crossword puzzle in hand. Why this always comes to mind is lost to me. 

An evening with good friends at Cajun's Wharf restaurant in Arkansas. 1980's. 

Fishing with my oldest daughter in the dawn of her adulthood. 

On the couch with my wife, watching the snow fall. Any winter. 

Listening to Jack Buck call a Cardinals game. Cigar. Back deck of my brother Kevin's house. Early 2010s. 

Driving across the Flint Hills region of Kansas with my youngest daughter. 

Throwing a baseball with my son, mid 90s, our back yard, 8pm. 

Roan Mountain State Park, When I am the only one there. 

Jackson Square, New Orleans. Cafe DuMonde. Early Morning. Katrina aftermath. 

Cornbread and Buttermilk and the unrolling of stuff

 When I was in my early teens or so my grandfather tried to feed me cornbread and buttermilk. Crumbled it in a tall glass and poured cold buttermilk over it.  Handed it to me, "try it, nothin better than cornbread and buttermilk." In my teens through present day, this seems a disgusting combination. I could take either separately, but not the combination. Like mustard and ice cream, Japan and Korea, Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln, lobstermen and opera - cornbread and buttermilk were two of God's gifts best left separate.

Yet, it is taxing to resist the touching of a family tradition. Doing things my grandparents did, and their grandparents did, has always had appeal. Not something of power or magic or mystical source of strength. Yet a thing with purpose that I often feel I should do. The past matters, my past, my ancestors past, my grandchildren's past. When I can touch it in some way that is not make-believe I do. 

It is Holy Week. My wife is in Arkansas, chasing tornadoes and siblings and the offspring of siblings. 

I made a pot of soup beans a few days ago. They are only available to me at times such as this. Solitary times. 

I also made cornbread, of course, to go with the beans. Used corn meal and Martha White flour and all the usual components. Baked it in my great grandmother's iron skillet. I had one hot slice after another, big wedges covered with butter, or mashed into a bowl of beans. While cleaning up I stared at the cornbread leftovers and a half quart of buttermilk, sitting side by side on the kitchen counter. I heard the voice of my ancestor, Houston Blevins, my mother's father, speaking a simple truth with his mouth full, drippings on his chin, "You ever had cornbread and buttermilk? Honey, it's good! "

After 50 or so years of resistance, I caved. Like the chicago cubs in August my strength of will faded before the still clear memory of his voice. 

If there is a Cornbread Church, this was the day I saw the light. The scales fell off my eyes. The sea parted, the rain stopped, the dove flew away, the fire fell and the lady turned to salt. This is day I walked the aisle and said "sign me up, and give me some more of that mountain stuff". 

That good mountain stuff. That good mountain stuff. 

Visions and Dreams and Johanna

 A note to my grandaughter who came to the earth on 3 March 2022. 

I may name my banjo after you, we'll see. I have been trying to contrive a name for it. It has five strings and you are my fifth grandchild. That is a stupid connection but it's all I have. 

Before you were born I was at your house, seeing your brother and checking on your mom. She was a day or two away from going to the hospital for your birth. As I was leaving she pulled me close in a hug and said, "Dad, would you say a prayer for me?". I stood there in the entryway, among a stroller, winter boots, scarfs with the woman I first held as a tiny baby decades ago. 

I don't know exactly what I prayed for that day when I put my arms around your mom. It was a bit about her and a bit about you. But I do know this. All of the deep things I have ever wanted for my daughter were realized in that little hall. My little girl, when deep into womanhood, asked me to pray for her. To that same Lord that she worshipped as a toddler. That is what I wanted when I first held her, when I first whispered the name of our Lord in her tiny ear. That when I was old that she would hold as tightly to Christ at 40 as she did at 4. As I was driving home I had this sense that every dream I ever dreamed and every prayer I ever prayed for her had been answered in that moment.  

On the 5th day of March, when you were two days old I held you for the first time. Like your mother, the first word you heard from my lips was "Jesus". The first time you felt my hand, it was to trace the sign of the cross on your forehead. 

Johanna, your safe arrival on earth was an answer to many prayers. Many more prayers are being lifted up for you now. It is my deep desire that when your mother and father are my age, that they will thank God for the faith they see in you. That does not waver. That does not tremble.