When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure...by Tony C

This week, your Kingdom Bloggers are posting about the legacy of a grandparent or even a great, grandparent. I've been picking the themes for each week (with the help of Linda, thanks!), and I have to be honest and admit this one is a little self-center on the timing. I look forward to the stories all week.




My beloved grandmother passed away this week, and I'm honestly having a difficult time being sad about it...

Affectionately know by the Southern appellation of Mamaw, she was 98 years and almost 8 months old (months really matter at both ends of a person's life). Until the very end, she had lived a pretty healthy life and had a sharp mind too. But her body was tired. She had lost a lot of her hearing. Her heart and lungs were just tuckered out.

She passed with three of her four remaining children by her side while one rushed from Florida and was no doubt shortly joined by the one that went Home over 35 years ago after losing a battle with cancer. My sister had stayed with her that last night in the hospital and says she was alert yet very much aware her time to go was drawing near. She loved God for His mercy and grace. She knew Jesus...and today knows what He actually looks like.

I find it hard to be sad about Mamaw Cradic passing after she lived a long, blessed life. My memories are quite fond and drift back to a time when playing ball in her front yard was a weekly (daily in the summer) ritual for my cousins and other neighborhood kids. Some would come from up to a mile away leaving moms that only worried if their child would return with torn or badly stained clothes. A few teeth were also left in her yard from games of tackle football. We didn't need Title IX to make play fair and equal for the girls because they participated in all the games too.

Mamaw Cradic could remember dates and lineages to the very end. I can't help but laugh because that skill has abandoned my generation and beyond as we are bombarded daily with useless and unnecessary information at scales never before known in human history. In her time, weddings mattered. Birth and death dates mattered. Events were measured and marked by the impact they made on families. If only we could recapture that focus today and forsake our narcissistic driven culture of how does that really affect me?

Mamaw Cradic was my last living grandparent. My mom's father passed when she was still but a child. I have faded but loving memories of her mother who past when I was only 5. My dad's father passed the year my oldest daughter was born in 1995. She had the opportunity to spend time recently with Mamaw Cradic. Something teenagers today have gotten away from doing... no... something we all have gotten away from doing. It's not fair to point an accusatory finger at a generation that only follows the lead we've provided for them.

My middle daughter will be hard pressed to remember much about Mamaw Cradic, and the two-year old...well...she will see pictures of herself with her great, grandmother. I will make sure of that fact along with telling all three of them stories about each of their ancestors who have already gone Home. If their legacies die, I will have no one to blame but me.

Spend time with your living loved ones this weekend. Share and listen to stories about your roots.

There's not a better education available anywhere else in the world.

Time Square? No thank you...I'd rather celebrate in Sullivan Gardens. By Tony C

First, let me apologize for missing two weeks. Sometimes, we let the holiday season overwhelm us, and I'm guilty this year for sure. Nature slowed me back down though as I've spent the past three days in bed with bronchitis and an upper respiratory infection. I'm feeling much better today, so let's kick the week off with a memorable New Year Celebration from each of your Kingdom Bloggers.

Wow. There have been so many memorable ones for yours truly. Some I'd be glad to share, and some...well...not so proud. In the understanding that our total life experiences make up who we truly are and that all things are used for God's glory, I can say that while I may be down right ashamed today recapping some of those memories...my Father has separated the not so nice ones from me as far as the East is from the West. Hallelujah!

With that in mind, I think my choice for a most memorable New Year celebration is also an honoring of someone very deserving. My Aunt Kay is the very definition of a godly woman. Sweet and mild mannered. Humble and pious. She walks the walk our Savior often spoke of during His earthly ministry.  My mom and her sister were two of the younger siblings in a clan that saw eleven of thirteen children survive to adulthood. My grandfather was a pastor, but he died while they both were still young,  forcing all the kids to grow up a bit faster than would have been normal even in those days.

When I was in my preteen years, my sister and I  spent several New Year's Eve nights with my Aunt Kay. Mom and dad made a tradition of spending that time together without children, and I honestly don't want to even try to imagine why. Somethings concerning parents are best left undiscovered despite what Sigmund Freud tries to sell us.

Aunt Kay has two sons younger than me and my sister, but not by much. Her husband is a witty fellow that I've always enjoyed being around. They still live in the same house today that I remember with such warmth and affection. It is a home, and the love my Aunt Kay radiates is a large reason why. She would laugh at our antics and comfort my sister (who was both a mama's girl and homebody). We would stay up and watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV and blow horns while wearing our party hats to welcome the New Year.

No. It wasn't grandiose or pomp...but I've done those things too, and honestly, I'd take an evening celebrating with my Aunt Kay and her loving manner over any of those empty, fanciful celebrations any day. Her godly influence lives in me today and will be passed on to my children and hopefully their children too.

Happy New Year to my Aunt Kay and her family...and to my Kingdom Blogger family too.

I warmly remember...and for that I'm very thankful. by Tony C

Welcome to December! All this month on Kingdom Bloggers, we will each be taking a weekly trip down Memory Lane and sharing some of our fondest moments/people. We start the month by posting about one of our favorite Sunday School classes/teachers.

I really can't complain because I picked the theme for the month, but this week's subject is particularly difficult for me. I've had a number of influential Sunday School teachers and memorable classes, and thinking through the multiple choices brings a warmth of memories flooding to my heart. Just this weekend alone, I spoke of two very influential people from the topic. Since I have to pick one, here it goes...

Some people can make you laugh just reading the phonebook. Paul Rector was one of those guys.

For several years, I just had to look directly across an aisle on Sunday mornings and nights along with Wednesday nights to see Paul sitting in his normal spot at church. Often when we dismissed church with a closing prayer while joining hands across the aisles, my hand would end up in his. He would make a joke about me standing on the pew, so I could reach his hand, and I would fire back with warnings of lustful thoughts during church services.

We had that type of relationship...and I loved it.

Part of the camaraderie we shared stemmed from being kindred spirits. Paul loved God very much, but God hadn't always been first in Paul's adult life. Paul loved music and had played in a number of bands. He loved to teach and speak on Biblical subjects and didn't often mince words. God blessed Paul, much like his namesake, with a tremendous testimony...and he wasn't afraid to share it with anyone who would listen either.

Like my friend Paul, I understand and appreciate the limitless bounds of God's grace from a standpoint of someone who oft tested those limits. We had a number of great conversation just on that subject matter alone. When I was approached about teaching a Sunday School class, I called Paul for guidance because I knew he was a wonderful example. He was teaching the class I attended and had been nationally recognized for his efforts (great story here).

Over his last several years, diabetes robbed my friend of many things we take for granted. He lost his eye sight then much of his mobility. This is where it gets tough for me...

Paul never, ever let those things get him down. He continued to teach Sunday School and praise his Father through the storm. He would always send a whisper of encouragement my way as I would take my seat across from him after worship music had concluded. Great job little buddy. Hot drumming today. Way to wake these people up brother. He would always take time to talk to anyone about God's word even on his worst days.

My friend had a stroke early in 2011 that eventually took him Home. He left behind a loving, tireless wife who has been a family anchor for so long, a son I'm honored to call my dear friend, and a daughter that completely adored him. He never saw/heard his son in the pulpit or got to hold his grandson, but he would be immensely proud of both.

I miss my friend and mentor, and I think of him often. Right after he passed in April 2011, I thought of a way to make him laugh given the opportunity again. So Paul, from the bottom of my heart, this one's for you brother...save me a seat close to you please.

My Imperfect Influencer

“Blessed is the influence of one true, loving human soul on another.”  George Eliot.

Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance. Proverbs 1:5.

In these uncertain economic times, we may not leave a healthy financial legacy to our children. But something we can leave to our children or to others within our sphere of influence is...influence.

I think about this a lot, especially since my children are young adults. When they were toddlers, elementary students and pre-teens, the hope of parental influence was forming, vibrating. But, there came a day—quite recently—when I realized that the future is NOW.  Scary thought. I realize there is so much more I could have done better, could have prayed for, could have worked toward.

I hope I will have influenced them—as imperfect as I am—to live lives that honor God and that offer hope and encouragement to others. Imperfect influence can work a good work. It has to. My dad was my imperfect influencer.  He was a man who was honest about who he was—a man who loved God, books and working in prison ministry, and who was also a recovered alcoholic introvert who fought depression and heart disease.

Whenever I am tempted to feel sorry for myself, I can hear my father, whose heart condition greatly affected his quality of life, quoting his favorite life-giving scripture: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).

My father had a corny sense of humor and kept us laughing, but he was not the life of the party. Working a crowd or attention-getting was not his style or preference. He also wanted to understand the workings of the world and he read about science, history, religion and current events. Both the Bible and the Wall Street Journal were in his hands every day. He was not a smooth talker when it came to politics: he had strong opinions and tempers could flare. But where he excelled was in telling others how God had changed his life, healed him and set him free—that was his greatest joy. He told me that God was real, and I believed him because I saw real, evident change, and then I believed in God.

Despite the many obstacles life—and people—threw at him, my father persevered and pressed on, very much emulating the words of Paul: “One thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:13-14).

My father entered heaven in 2005, but his influence thankfully remains earth-bound. Very often, I can hear his encouragement, his honesty in his struggles, his expressed faith, his bad jokes. And I smile. My imperfect influencer.

Don't tell me what I want to hear, tell me what I need to hear...by Tony C

Through several years of blogging, I've written about a number of  people who have had an impact on my spiritual life in a big way. From learning an example of humility from my pastor as a teenager to seeing the light of God's love through my long-distance friend David Johndrow, I've been blessed with a number of people in my life that have helped me be a better man for the Lord.

This week, each one of the Kingdom Bloggers will share a person from our lives that has played a significant role in our spiritual walk.

Actually, I'm going to share with you someone that plays a significant role for me today. A huge mistake we often make as Christians is holding to the fallacy that our spiritual maturation actually has a ceiling. Ridiculous sounding, but too often a common sentiment that leads to our church elders bowing from an active role in ministry at some point.

Let me clarify the reality of this situation. We never reach a stopping point of growing as disciples for God...no matter how old we are or how much Bible we know. There is no maxed-out for Jesus this side of Glory, so get over yourself if you think you are actually there now.

I say that in the kindest, most gentle way possible...

I'm fortunate to have a someone currently in my life that keeps me both grounded from any delusions of grandeur while pushing me to continue to grow and learn while serving the Kingdom. We talk or text on a daily basis about any number of issues or subject matters. We often dialogue through email on doctrinal or theological muses that I would akin to something like thinking out loud.

One of the best attributes of our friendship is being able to agree to disagree on some of those non-essentials subject matters of our faith that are fun to discuss and debate but may be beyond a definitive definition in our current finite and limited state of being. I absolutely love those discussions because I'm always lead to a deeper study of God's word in search of defending my given (and mostly undefendable) positions.

He is a deacon where I attend church, and he takes the role with utmost urgency. Many people would look at him and try to characterize him in the light of his professional position. That would be easy to do because he is a Vice-President at a Fortune 500 company. However, I have never heard him try to define who he is in that light. He genuinely conveys an air of appreciation for how God has blessed him.

I'm very confident in stating if you met my friend Keith and didn't know any of the things I've told you to this point, you would quickly recognize he is a man of impeccable character and strong convictions. Both intelligent and confident with the greatest quality of humility. A godly husband to an equally godly wife.

He is a man that not only truly believes what he professes to believe...he can also eloquently explain to you why. That...to me...is the best of the many reasons I've given on how blessed I am to call him my friend and brother in Christ.

'You really know how to make me laugh young man...'

I originally posted this piece in December 2009. After reading back over it several times this week, I knew reposting my words right after the passing of this very important man in my life was the right thing to do. To this day, I miss him...the way I remember him. I look so forward to our reunion on the side of Glory where he now resides.



The Rev. R. Rye Fleenor, age 91, of Kingsport, TN passed away peacefully surrounded by his loving family and entered into rest with the Lord at 9:08 p.m. Thursday (October 22, 2009) at his residence following a brief illness.

Born in Sullivan County, TN on July 23, 1918, a son of the late J. B. and Mary Netherland Fleenor, he has resided in this area his entire life. Rye married Mildred Unavee Barker on June 18, 1940.




Composing this installment stirs a tremendous amount of diverse emotions in me. Sadness, joy, regret, shame, and heart-felt warmth. Time for reflection...cause for celebration...genuine appreciation.

Rye Fleenor, or always Preacher Fleenor to me, was not only a tremendous influence on my early spiritual walk , he lived a life that set a shining example for me to pattern. A loving, humble man that seemed to physically tower over most, Preacher Fleenor died 6 weeks ago...and I hadn't seen or talked to him in over 20 years. For that I'm both sad and regretful.

Being a teenager is tough business. Probably more so today than in my teenage years of the late 70's and early 80's...but I think being a teenager has probably always been a hassle. During those conflicted years for me, Preacher Fleenor was always a steady, calming vessel. He had a way of correcting and encouraging simultaneously I wish I could duplicate today.

I vividly remember his infectious laughter. He would listen to my cornball jokes, many I'm sure he had heard a hundred times again but would always laugh as if it were a Tony C original. I also remember the exact day he said the words that title this post...I was wearing a dress and acting like an unseen version of the Church Lady from SNL which wouldn't come along for another dozen years.

The man absolutely loved competition. During a brief exploration for me into the sport of boxing, he would light up as he gave me pointers and coached outside the ring. I think he was somewhat disappointed when I gave it up because he loved the purity of the sport...not necessarily the violence. As I stated in a previous post, he was at most every football or baseball game I played from around 1976 until I graduated high school in 1982. He was my most loyal fan, and I loved him like he was my own grandfather...who actually never came to any of my sporting events.

It bothers me profoundly to think about the disappointment I might have caused him during my dark years. I say might because I lost contact with Preacher Fleenor after 1984 which is totally my fault because I think I avoided him out of shame. In 1988, I was awarded a state honor in Hawaii for services during a natural disaster, and the story made local papers back home. I received a glowing note from him in the mail...but that was the final time we had contact. I remember reading that note and finding a quite corner out of the way to break down and sob at the pride he conveyed...and how disappointed he would be at how I had let me spiritual life stumble.

I was never close to another pastor until today, when I'm glad to say my current pastor is also my dear friend. He would like to have met Preacher Fleenor...I'm sure of that. Men like Rye Fleenor are rare and true gifts from God. I'm not saying perfect...just rare. My fellow Kingdom Blogger, Joyce, shared a phrase on Tuesday that I absolutely adored. Preacher Fleenor has been promoted to glory...and for that I celebrate and thank God for the time He gave me with him.

As I strive to be as much like Christ as humanly possible, I have a Father who walks with me and guides me through His Spirit. When it comes to being the best man I can be, Preacher Fleenor will always be an important role model in my life...no matter how old I am. I look forward to our reunion when my promotion finally comes.



Note: After posting this in December 2009,  I was contacted by Preacher Fleenor's great grandson, Andrew Glover, who had read the post. We are Facebook friends today, and Andrew actually preached a sermon from the very pulpit in the picture above just last year...as his great, grandparents smiled on him from Heaven I'm sure.

It's not just a thrift store

This is a repeat but many of you weren't reading Kingdom Bloggers when I wrote this in 2009.  I have since learned that Girli Johnsen moved to California and has indeed gone home to be with the Lord.  Her influence is very strong in my life.

Christmas isn’t Christmas without Salvation Army bell-ringers and red kettles. When I was a child in Brooklyn, those bell-ringers were usually Salvation Army (SA) officers in full uniform. Sometimes there was a small brass ensemble playing Christmas carols rather than a simple bell. They were usually outside of the Woolworths on Fifth Avenue BROOKLYN (not Manhattan).

I knew the Captain of the local Salvation Army Corps. Like most everything we associated with in the neighborhood, she was Norwegian. My first memory of the leader of the local corps was walking with my father and coming across a street meeting in progress. Street meetings had a little music, a short sermon, an invitation to receive Christ right there or to the local church.

Captain/Major Girly Johnsen

When I was five or six, I first met Captain Johnsen. It might have been Lieutenant Johnsen then but mostly I remember her as Captain. While we were not Salvationists, my father loved to go to different churches when there was a service in Norwegian. My father was an immigrant from Norway. So with my hand tightly in my father’s we walked the 3 ½ blocks to the SA Corps once afternoon. I was to become a Sunbeam.

Sunbeams are a scouting type program connected with the SA. I met Captain Johnson. She knew my dad and this was pre-arranged. She smiled at me and welcomed me with her strong Norwegian accent. I remembered her from the images of her in uniform, standing on the curb, Bible in hand, preaching. Captain Johnson was a single woman who was Pastor and leader of that Norwegian SA Corps in “Norwegian” Brooklyn NY.

I got my drab grey Sunbeam uniform with the complementary beanie. Soon my sash was filled with badges for my mother to sew on my uniform. When I was seven, Captain took me to Manhattan with her. I do not recall how we got there, probably the subway. As every true New Yorker knows, you do not drive in Manhattan.

We walked into a big auditorium with a full brass band playing the songs of spiritual war. My uniform was freshly pressed and every badge straight. Soon an impressing SA officer announced that they were giving the Commissioners medal to me. He further explained that normally you had to be 8 years old to receive this medal but that I had completed all the requirements. They were making an exception for me. I walked to the front of the auditorium and saluted the officer. He returned the salute and pinned the metal on my uniform. I was the only Sunbeam from our Corps to receive this medal.

Captain took me to summer camp in the van, drove me back. She took me to rallies of various sorts. I went to VBS all through my childhood there and later was a helper. My reward for helping was a SA flag and American flag on a small stand. She took me to the officer training school. I wonder, did she see the call of God in me? Did she think I should be an officer? It was never spoken, but I think she did.

Later when I was old enough to be a Girl Guard (GG), the scouting program for older girls, I was asked at times to lead the meeting. Captain didn’t lead the Girl Guard’s. Kari, her young assistant, fresh from Norway, led it. She was amazing with the tambourine with streamers. She tried to teach me but I never excelled.

One GG meeting I decided we had become too “worldly.” I took it upon myself to preach a short sermon from John 3, Ye Must Be Born-Again. I must have been 11 years old. I even gave an invitation. At the end, Kari smiled at me and prayed. She thanked God for the reminder of God’s love for us. That was my first sermon.

I have so many wonderful memories of Captain (and later Major) Girly Johnson. I imagine she has been promoted to glory as they say in the Salvation Army. When asked what ever gave me the notion that a woman could serve in ministry I mention Captain Johnson.

Girly Johnsen is in the bad row, just under the picture of Jesus.
This is the Sunday School at the Corp where she ministered
as Pastor.

Give me warm weather and Attie Gene's lemonade anytime...

What's not to love about Summer! If I sat down and made a list of my Top 10 best memories from my youth, I'm sure at least 6 would come from the summer months. Like Tracy, Vacation Bible School was a big part of the break from regular school. The adults always made sure each year was memorable and exciting...and I greatly appreciate that fact to this day.

As a teenager, I was always looking for ways to make money in the summers. Opportunity usually came in either a hay or tobacco field. Growing up in East Tennessee, both types were in abundance. It wasn't unusual to gain a day of work by word of mouth. My dad would say 'so and so' needs help with hay on Saturday or 'so and so' needs to top his tobacco tomorrow...and there you go. The going rate was usually $20 for an entire day which was a fortune for a teenager back then. Once you got the rep for being a good worker, you'd stay busy most all season.

Putting up hay was hard labor in those days because everyone 'square-baled' back then. For you urban types and kids born after the Reagan Administration, a square bale of hay is a near extinct commodity that was neither light nor square.


These days, square bales are usually limited to Fall decorative displays...well...and erosion controlling devices in some of the poorer counties. Farmers got away from baling this way because it was labor intensive...and labor for such task has gotten both scarce and expensive.

The process involved a tractor, trailer/wagon and a dozen or so workers. The weak link usually drove the tractor. Stacking the bales on the trailer required the most skill, so the process wasn't a perpetual repeat of throwing bales on the wagon, stacking, bales falling off the wagon, throwing bales on the wagon...

Everyone else was a thrower, and I was usually in that group. We would work, share stories, and laugh at people who picked up a bale with an unfortunate tortoise or unusually slow rabbit who got in the way of the baler and ended up mauled. It was hard work, but at the end of the day, the $20 was very real to me. I wasn't about to run out and spend it frivolously on something that would be a distant memory by the next weekend.

Later in college, I worked  in the warmer season as the gardener for Judge Thomas A. Shriver, a former member of the Tennessee Court of Appeals in Nashville. Judge Shriver liked to help local college students where he could, and through a stroke of totally blind luck, I got the gig to work at his home when he needed things done around the grounds. Now it was my responsibility to contact the Judge or his wife, Attie Gene, to see if they needed me for work. I would check in a couple of times a week with each call always resulting in a few moments of encouragement from both of them on my school efforts.

But working at the Shriver's became much more than just a paying job for me. The day would start with meeting the near 90 year old judge 'out back', where he would be in his yard hat and boots. There I would get my marching orders for the task at hand with each list always ending 'and turn the compost pile.' Often Judge Shriver would point at a tree or bush he wanted trimmed, but the shaking of his hand would leave me wondering which of the 3 or 4 plants he was referring. So not to embarrass him, I would walk over to the area and placing my hand ask, 'This one Judge Shriver?'

Lunch was always educational and more adventurous than the yard work. Mrs. Shriver would call us in by literally ringing a bell. The Judge would change footwear and put his hat up for lunch. We would wash up in the basement and proceed upstairs where lunch was served on the Shriver's silver settings. Not to paint a wrong picture here because the Shrivers were obviously well off financially, but their home was modest and seasoned. Judge Shriver would eat his lunch in front of the television from a TV tray after his wife got him situated and served. She would then join me at the table where the lunch spread was both diverse and plentiful. I experienced my first crumpet at that table and hot tea poured from a silver pot. It all seemed so...surreal.

Mrs. Shriver: So you found a snake in the yard? Was it the poisonous kind?

Young Tony C: No ma'am, just a black snake. I took care of it.

Mrs. Shriver: More blackberry preserves? Could they get into the main house?

Young Tony C: No thank you. I don't think so. We've got the doors around back sealed pretty good.

Mrs. Shriver: Thank heavens. I would just die if one got in the house. God made the woman and the snake mortal enemies in the Garden of Eden...you remember.

Young Tony C: Yes ma'am I do. But don't worry. That one will never bother you. That I'm sure.


By the end of lunch, Judge Shriver would be well into his afternoon nap in his reclining chair. I would go back to the yard to finish my list and any other task I could see needed to be done that day. By the time the turning of the compost pile got around, the Judge would be awake and back in the yard with me. Then came my favorite part of the entire job. Getting paid? No, not quite. Judge Shriver and I would clean up and go to the front porch where Attie Gene's famous lemonade would be waiting. No matter how busy I was or what I needed to get back to at school, we would always sit and talk over at least one glass of lemonade. He would share with me a story from his past that was actual living Tennessee history or a favorite story from the Bible.

Don't ask me how I knew the magnitude of those stories as a naive, brash college student in Nashville looking more for the fun side of carpe diem than the philosophical significance...I just knew. I needed the money, and that's why I took the job. But no matter how hard I worked, the payout I received in time spent with the Shrivers combined with the actual wage always outweighed my efforts. It was an experience in my education that I consider invaluable.

I've never been on any court that didn't involve a ball. I'm pretty sure there are no silver serving trays in my house...well...at least to my knowledge. My home is modest at best. But I truly hope to share the same experience with some young person at some point in my life.  I have a ton of stories, know a bit about biblical life application, and Mrs. Tony C makes a pretty decent pitcher of lemonade too...

The words of wise men are like goads...(Ecclesiastes 12:11a)

I was very blessed to have Rye Fleenor as a pastor growing up in a small country church.

Affectionately known to most everyone as Preacher Fleenor, I did a post on him shortly after his passing in late 2009. That's him in the picture holding his now teen-aged great-grandson Andrew, who coincidentally preached this past Sunday at that same small country church. I hear he did a wonderful job too. What an impact and legacy my beloved preacher left behind after his promotion to Glory.

During an annual Bible School one summer in my own pre-teen years, I was introduced to our new pastor, Rye Fleenor. At that time, Bible School was a week-long event and brought kids to the church from all over the local area. Now I'll admit...I was never a shy kid, and my mom would probably goes as far as to say never met a stranger. Meeting Preacher Fleenor was no different for me. While the political posturing to gain any type of influence with the new pastor was ongoing among the adults that week, I took right up with him and Mrs. Fleenor for my own reason...they were both very, very nice people who listened to my stories and opinions.

For a kid, being listened to and taken seriously is pretty important stuff. By week's end, I found my place sitting right between the Fleenors at the closing picnic of Bible School. She cut my corn off the cob for me, and he made sure I got my fair share plus of the homemade ice cream. I had certainly made two new friends and become a big fan of them both.  

So common in most Southern churches, there were many dozens of additional picnics, cookouts and covered dish dinners at the church through those years I was growing up. And let me tell you this too...the ladies at that church could cook (and still can)! As I reflect back over those years, I realize now that Preacher Fleenor had a very unusually long stay as pastor of that little country church. The United Methodist Conference doesn't leave a pastor in the same place for much past a few years, and they have almost complete control over the placement of pastors within the denomination. I'll leave that subject matter alone for now despite my rather strong feelings, and since I attend and belong to a church of a different denomination today.   

I guess God had different plans for Preacher Fleenor, and after all, He still ultimately calls the shots in all church matters (Oops...bet I just offended a few people with that statement).

When I think back across the many memories of sharing a slice or two of watermelon with Preacher Fleenor while we discussed any number of topics (but most always included sports), I realize just how much of an influence he has truly been in my life. No... I've not seen or talked to him in well over 20 years, but the memories are so strong and the positive impact has been...eternal.

Thank you Father for your love and for sharing that love with me through people like Rye Fleenor. I ask you bless the path of Andrew with Your ever righteous and holy touch so that he may have an impact for You on others, like his great grandfather, and always for Your glory. In the precious name of Jesus, Amen.  

You just never know who's paying attention...

Can you think of a story from your past that involves a friend who left a lasting, positive impression just because of who they were? You probably thought of several, like me. A story came to mind today that happened while I was in college (a long time ago). My freshman year, I lived on an upper-classman floor of a dorm due to overcrowding. It was an uninviting situation at first, but I quickly adapted and started making friends within a few days due in large part to one of my new friends named Marlin, a true Southern gentleman from Alabama. He must have been from a pretty influential family, since they shared the same last name as the county where he lived. Marlin was about as laid back as a person comes, especially for a business major. His demeanor was deceptive and made Marlin seem less sophisticated than he was actually. Looking back, I believe his humility played a big part in his popularity. Marlin was just a good person, and it showed not only in his attitude but also in his actions.

Now to the story. Marlin owned one of 'the cars' of the time, a 1979 Firebird Trans Am. That's right old timers…right out of Smokey and the Bandit fame. Unfortunately, he had a minor accident that had disfigured the classic car's signature hood decal. Not to be discouraged, Marlin completed most of the car's body repairs himself over a couple of weeks, and then he had a beautiful paint job done on the car that restored the Trans Am to near mint condition…except for one detail. The firebird emblem that made the difference between another nice muscle car and 'the car to have' was still missing. Marlin's plan to fix this was sound. He purchased the decalcomania through a mail-order catalog, saving nearly a hundred dollars (keep in mind college students are always broke), and he would put the decal on himself with help from his friends. I need to insert an important detail at this point. You see, Marlin may have come from a family with money, but he had worked in a rock quarry for several years to pay for the car and his education. It was important to Marlin that he did his own part.

The day came that the famous foul was to reclaim its distinguished place on the hood. For those of you too young to remember the distinctive decor, the decal nearly covered the entire hood, which greatly added to its 'way cool' appeal. Several of Marlin's friends went along to help with the task. First, we washed the car and dried it. Then Marlin applied a special solution (okay, rubbing alcohol) to prepare the hood. Moving to a shady spot, he carefully unfolded the decal, meticulously marked the location of each wing tip, and then double-checked everything again. At this point, we are at least two hours into the process. Next came the point of no return. While two people held the decal taut, Marlin removed the stickers backing. In order to do this, the decal was lying face down on the hood making it necessary to flip the whole thing over once the backing was off. As the flip occurs, just enough wind starts to wrinkle the decal sending Marlin into an uncharacteristic panic, and his attempt to stabilize from beneath the giant sticker cause the whole thing to fold in on itself…you guessed it, sticky sides together.

For the first and only time in the three years that I knew Marlin, I heard him utter a single profanity.

Marlin didn't curse, even though he lived in a men's dorm full of guys who did. But, I certainly didn't think any less of Marlin that day, not in the least. He lived a Christian lifestyle each and every day while staying one of the guys. He didn't drink, do drugs, tell dirty jokes or give in to any of the negative peer pressures that high school and college kids face. And, he was still a great guy. We really rode Marlin hard about the whole incident, but he took it in stride as he did everything else. I think the fact that such a big deal was made about his slip of the tongue bothered him way more than the $77.48 wad of sticky mess he now owned. The whole incident spoke to his true character. Marlin was a representative of his savior, Jesus Christ. Was he perfect? He never claimed to be, but he followed the example in his daily life of someone who is perfect. Marlin made everyone around him…well…just better people.

Christians slip up too. We all fall short of God's glory. When you do make a mistake, don't dwell so much on the mistake, but how you handle yourself after the mistake. Ultimately, that's what people are going to remember and be influence by for the glory of God.

Marlin was an excellent influence on me. I sure miss my friend from Alabama...

'You really know how to make me laugh young man...'

The Rev. R. Rye Fleenor, age 91, of Kingsport, TN passed away peacefully surrounded by his loving family and entered into rest with the Lord at 9:08 p.m. Thursday (October 22, 2009) at his residence following a brief illness.

Born in Sullivan County, TN on July 23, 1918, a son of the late J. B. and Mary Netherland Fleenor, he has resided in this area his entire life. Rye married Mildred Unavee Barker on June 18, 1940.

Composing this installment stirs a tremendous amount of diverse emotions in me. Sadness, joy, regret, shame, and heart-felt warmth. Time for reflection...cause for celebration...genuine appreciation.

Rye Fleenor, or always Preacher Fleenor for me, was not only a tremendous influence on my early spiritual walk , he lived a life that set a shining example for me to pattern. A loving, humble man that seemed to physically tower over most, Preacher Fleenor died 6 weeks ago...and I hadn't seen or talked to him in over 20 years. For that I'm both sad and regretful.

Being a teenager is tough business. Probably more so today than in my teenage years of the late 70's and early 80's...but I think being a teenager has probably always been a hassle. During those conflicted years for me, Preacher Fleenor was always a steady, calming vessel. He had a way of correcting and encouraging simultaneously I wish I could duplicate today.

I vividly remember his and Mrs. Fleenor's infectious laughter. He would listen to my cornball jokes, many I'm sure he had heard a hundred times again but would always laugh as if it were a Tony C original. I also remember the exact day he said the words that title this post...I was wearing a dress and acting like an unseen version of the Church Lady from SNL which wouldn't come along for another dozen years.

The man absolutely loved competition. During a brief exploration for me into the sport of boxing, he would light up as he gave me pointers and coached outside the ring. I think he was somewhat disappointed when I gave it up because he loved the purity of the sport...not necessarily the violence. As I stated in a previous post, he was at most every football or baseball game I played from around 1976 until I graduated high school in 1982. He was my most loyal fan, and I loved him like he was my own grandfather...who actually never came to any of my sporting events.

It bothers me profoundly to think about the disappointment I might have caused him during my dark years. I say might because I lost contact with Preacher Fleenor after 1984 which is totally my fault because I think I avoided him out of shame. In 1988, I was awarded a state honor in Hawaii for services during a natural disaster, and the story made local papers back home. I received a glowing note from him in the mail...but that was the final time we had contact. I remember reading that note and finding a quite corner out of the way to break down and sob at the pride he conveyed...and how disappointed he would be at how I had let me spiritual life stumble.

I was never close to another pastor until today, when I'm glad to say my current pastor is also my dear friend. He would like to have met Preacher Fleenor...I'm sure of that. Men like Rye Fleenor are rare and true gifts from God. I'm not saying perfect...just rare. My fellow Kingdom Blogger, Joyce, shared a phrase on Tuesday that I absolutely adored. Preacher Fleenor has been promoted to glory...and for that I celebrate and thank God for the time He gave me with him.

As I strive to be as much like Christ as humanly possible, I have a Father who walks with me and guides me through His Spirit. When it comes to being the best man I can be, Preacher Fleenor will always be an important role model in my life...no matter how old I am. I look forward to our reunion when my promotion finally comes.

Becoming a Dad

Growing up, my Dad's love was very conditional and constantly volatile. Insults and blows were more common than hugs and affirmation. The reason I mention that fact is because when I came to Jesus, I viewed God in the same light as my Dad. God had to be hard to please, quick to punish and constantly disappointed by all my shortcomings.

I mean, He is Father God, so of course He will have the same temperament, compassion and touch as my own dad, right? Somehow I was unable to completely shake this errant view of God many years into my Faith.

I became a Dad in 2005, when I met my son Logan. He was 14 months old on April 16, 2005 when I saw and held him for the first time. In the state of Iowa's eyes I was already a dad because they required that I pay back child support since January 14, 2004. However, at the advice of some family and friends, I did not become involved in Logan's life until DNA verified my fatherhood. Interesting, how Iowa could take months to confirm me as Logan's Dad but only took days to garnish my wages.

Anyways, after becoming a Dad, I began to see my Dad in heaven a lot differently. I began to understand how God could love me when I messed up, even when I messed up intentionally and no matter how big mess I could make. Sorta like the time I woke up to hundreds of post it notes all over the carpet.  I started to understand the concept of 'a thousand years from now, will this really matter?'. I accepted the fact that I could be patient and caring even when Logan did something stupid. Like the time he shoved a lego up his nose.  Initially I was baffled by the request and then annoyed by his anxiety when he pleaded for my help but I managed to be comforting as we worked together to dislodge the piece of plastic. If I can be that way in during an episode of stupidity, then how much more care and patience would a Holy Dad give me during one of my thoughtless episodes?

I have also realized how important my love and affection for God is to Him. When my young son could outta nowhere declare "I love you, Daddy!" and then flip his attention back onto the coloring book. I understood how my spontaneous praise or a wanting to just rest in His presence could bless Him. Similar to the time I was washing dishes and without any words Logan made me feel so loved by walking up to me and thrusting his arms up in the arm, 'begging' me to pick him up. I didn't hold him very long, 90 seconds at most, but it is still a memory that brings a smile to my face when I reflect upon it.

Most of all, how my son as been influential in my relationship with God has been learning that God is slow to anger and quick to forgive. Now, I aint gonna front, the only one with a quicker temper in my house than Logan, is me. But it is through some of my greatest weaknesses and the weaknesses of those around me that I see God at His strongest and most loving. One time in particular in which Logan was melting down, that I felt overwhelmed with love and compassion for him. My thoughts and feelings of anger and annoyance were washed away with peace and love. I felt the little guy's pain and frustration as he couldn't put words to his emotions and confusion. I understood how God could love me in spite of the nasty tantrums I had thrown and the horrible things I said to Him out of my own inability to put words to my emotions.

After becoming a Dad I can understand and appreciate why God persists in a relationship with me and it is after becoming a Dad that I can appreciate the Love and Mercy He gives me.

The Lord is like a father to His children,tender and compassionate to those who fear Him. For He knows how weak we are; He remembers we are only dust.

Psalm 103:13-14