Today is Good Friday.  I've been thinking about it, and how I hope I never take for granted the meaning of this day.  The day Jesus Christ, my Savior, willingly poured out His life for me.  I came across a little piece I had written about my earthly father some time ago, now slightly updated, and I thought I would share my thoughts with those who read the Blog.  Because of Jesus' death, we have a Heavenly Father.

My father, Claude Gray, Sr., was a simple man who lived a simple life.  Born in the piney woods of East Texas, daddy was a tomato farmer and also a constable for as long as I could remember.  Once the tomatoes began to ripen, he would sell them in the grocery stores in Henderson, Texas.  They always brought top dollar, because they were always among the earliest and they were always of top quality, as well.  My mother’s job was to sort the perfect from the less-than-perfect, which were called culls.  These culls were sold at a small price to individuals, or given away.  Some of my fondest memories are of going with my daddy to Jacksonville, TX where we would choose the young, very tiny plants and bring them home where they would be placed in the ground, in a protective frame, covered by some type of fine white netting to protect them until they matured enough to be transplanted into rows in the field.  Oh, I forgot to mention that a special treat was devouring a pint of strawberry ice cream (well, it seems like I remember eating the whole thing!) after a tomato delivery to Safeway!  (I was the youngest of 5 surviving children, so I was probably really spoiled rotten and get whatever I wanted - or what was available in those days of depression!  Three babies were stillborn or died shortly after birth.)

Daddy was a good daddy.  He took us to church at the Primitive Baptist Church* on the Sundays that church services were held in the community of Chalk Hill, a few miles from where we lived.   Fulltime preachers were scarce during those times and probably most were bi-vocational, as the country folk could hardly support a fulltime pastor.  On the Sundays when the foot-washing service was held, there was always a holy hush as the brethren – the important elders of the church, in my child’s eyes - were robed in white sheets and washed each others feet in an act of servanthood and sincere humility.  The reverence of this service made an impression on me, in addition to the questions the service itself raised.

There was not only foot washings, there were plenty of occasional shouts which erupted from some of the “sistren” of the church and from perhaps some of the brethren, too.   As I remember, the services were followed by dinner on the ground – well, it was on long tables, actually - spread with all kinds of delicacies.  Prominent among the displays from the country cooks was a large variety of meringue pies, decorated with the occasional fly or two, which really always bothered me!  “They don’t each much,” someone would probably say today.  Of course, that was before the days of Cool Whip, and it would have been impossible to have real whipped cream because access to ice was limited and the whipping surely would have melted before lunch time, which could be rather late, depending on how carried away the preacher got.

Before the days of paper towels, fried chicken was sometimes brought shrouded in newsprint or brown paper bags.  Tupperware had not yet come into its own.  Regardless, there was always a feast after a rousing sermon inside the little white country church at Chalk Hill.   Simple services for simple folks, yet so rich in the qualities that really matter.  Oh, and the music was always sung accapella from musical scores known as sacred harp.  As I recall, the melodies revolved around only five notes.  There was no pitch pipe available, and as far as I could tell, whoever led the singing had perfect pitch!  I don’t remember growling or shrieking in order to reach the right notes.  One of my favorites was Brethren We Have Met to Worship, and worship, we did.  Baptisms were held at a nearby lake, which to this day, is still a lovely, serene place.  The baptismal candidates were immersed in the cool clear waters of the lake while the host of viewers kept watch at the shore.  Bro. E. S. Morrisett was the pastor and he lived in Tyler, Texas, a barber by trade.

 My favorite and consistent memory of my daddy is of him reading his Bible all the time.  I cannot remember an evening when he did not read his Bible.  I can still see the merthiolate (a medication no longer available) or mercurochrome stains on its pages where he had doctored his weather-beaten hands while reading his Bible.  Frequently, he would beckon us to listen while he read his favorites such as Ephesians 2:8-9, and of course, the ones that emphasized predestination, one of the major tenets of the Primitive Baptists.  If God wanted to save the heathen, He surely did not need our help.  After all, if you were among the chosen, then that was that.  He was passionate about what he believed, and he lived what he believed.

 I loved my daddy; he died in 1959 as a result of a malignant brain tumor.  He was first operated on in 1950 at the Veteran’s Hospital in McKinney, TX, after the cause of his illness was finally determined.  He had suffered periodic seizures from time to time, and on occasion he would become disoriented and have trouble finding his way home.  I have troubling memories of daddy having seizures when we lived at the old Gray place, and mama would go outside and holler as loudly as she could, hoping that someone at Uncle Ned’s place, a half mile or so away, would hear her cry for help.   That was real voice mail.  Thankfully, the seizures didn’t last too long, but they were very frightening at the time to me.  I can only imagine now how terrifying they must have been to Mama.

Also, I remember one time he was checking his traps (he set traps during the winter for anything furry, I suppose, whose hides could be sold, but primarily for mink), and he got lost in the woods and had trouble finding his way home.  He was never quite the same after his surgery, and the malignancy recurred a few years later.  He was operated on again in the fall of 1958 by the surgeon who was famous for being General Patton’s doctor, and remained comatose until he died in February of 1959 at the Veteran’s Hospital in Dallas, Texas.  Recently, we were in Dallas and passed over Ledbetter Street.  An arrow pointed to the Veterans Administration.  Just seeing the sign evoked all kinds of emotions of that time in my life.  He was the youngest and last survivor of eight children.  He served in World War I.

I’m thankful my daddy knew and believed in God’s amazing grace:

Ephesians: 2-89

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast.

April 10, 2009