It was Good Friday 1970. Suzanne had come home early from school, and we had just put the Easter eggs we had colored on Thursday night in a big yellow basket filled with shredded paper grass when the phone rang. A voice on the other end of the line said, “There’s been an explosion at the Faust garage. Ronnie Garner was badly burned. He got out of the building just before it blew apart. But he isn’t expected to make it through the night. Some of us are gathering at the church to pray. Call someone else, ask them to pray, and to keep the prayer chain going.”
I hung up the phone and called Bill at the office. Suzanne and I prayed together for this young father from our church. Then I called a few others I knew would join us in prayer.
Only later did we get the rest of the story. Ron was working overtime because he and Darlene needed extra money to pay for heart surgery for their daughter Diane. He was alone at the car dealership and repair shop, cleaning engines with a highly flammable substance without thinking to open a window for ventilation. He was working below a ceiling furnace with an open-flame pilot light. When the fumes from the solvent reached the flame, the whole garage blew apart. When he heard the first roar of the furnace, Ron tried to open the garage door, but it was jammed. By some miracle, with his clothing on fire, he managed to squeeze through a tiny space before the big explosion.
From Methodist Burn Center in Indianapolis we heard that the doctors had decided not to treat Ron; it was no use. There was little chance of success, and the trauma of treatment itself could push him over the edge. But friends who gathered at the church prayed all the more fervently for Ron, for Darlene, and for their two little girls. All through Friday and Saturday night, the church prayed. With part of our hearts we believed, but, to be honest, with the other part we braced ourselves for the predicted news.
A weary and somewhat tattered group gathered for church on Sunday morning. We lacked the optimism typical of an Easter celebration. The pastor wasn’t even there at first; we knew he was with Darlene and the family. No one felt like singing songs of victory. Resurrection seemed a million light-years away. But as the music began, a few weak voices sang less-than-harmonious chords of well-worn Easter songs.
As we were making an effort at worship, our pastor entered from the back and made his way up the center aisle to the platform. His shoulders were slumped, his suit was wrinkled, but there was a glow on his stubbled face as he motioned for us to stop the hymn.
“Ron is alive,” he said. “They said he wouldn’t make it through Friday night, so they’re amazed he’s alive today. The doctors don’t understand how he’s hanging on, but we do, don’t we? And because he’s still alive, they’ve decided to start treatment.”
A chorus of “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” rose from the congregation. We all straightened in our seats like wilted plants that had been watered.
“We’re going to thank the Lord,” Pastor McCurdy said, “and then we’re going to see this thing through. This is just the beginning. There will be many needs. The family will need food brought in. Darlene may need help with the kids. They may need transportation back and forth to Indianapolis. Ron will need gallons of blood for transfusions. And they all—the doctors too—need prayer. Let’s think of how each of us can help. We are, after all, the family of God. Now let’s pray.”
We stood and as one voice thanked God for answered prayer and for the reality of the Resurrection. Sunshine streamed in through the windows to warm more than our faces and the room. It seemed that the light of the dawn of the very first Easter morning had come to our weary souls.
What a service of rejoicing we had! No sermon could have spoken as articulately as the news that Ron was alive and our feeble prayers had been answered. We sang the old hymn:
Low in the grave He lay—Jesus, my Savior.
He tore the bars away—Jesus, my Lord!
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph o’er His foes! (Robert Lowry)
My, how we sang! And then,
You ask me how I know He lives?
He lives within my heart! (A. H. Ackley)
We were full of joy and victory as we left the church that noon, loading up our families into cars for the trip home.
In the car Bill and I said to each other, “You know, the amazing thing is, they’d do that for us, too.” We weren’t model church members, Bill and I. We were gone virtually every weekend, barely getting in from a concert in time to make it to church Sunday morning. We were never there to bake pies for the bake sales or to attend the couples’ retreats or to teach in Bible school. If you had to pull your share of the load to get the family of God to take care of you, we would surely have been left out. “But they’d do that for us,” we marveled.
When we got home, I checked the roast in the oven, changed the baby, and sent Suzanne off to put on her play clothes. Bill went to the piano, and I heard him toying with a simple, lovely tune. “Honey, come here a minute,” he called from the family room.
He sang a phrase, “I’m so glad I’m a part of the family of God. Dah, dah, dah, la la la-la, la la la-la.”
I grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pencil. The roast was forgotten as we were both consumed by the beauty of “the family,” and I tried to write our gratitude to the music Bill was playing.
We finally did have Sunday dinner, though the roast was a little overdone. On Monday I deviled our Easter eggs, and our life went on, but we were never quite the same.
Pastor McCurdy was right: that Sunday news was only the beginning. But, then, the Resurrection was only a beginning too! There were months of trips to Indianapolis. Many gave blood and made casseroles and babysat and cleaned Darlene’s house. Most sent cards of encouragement and notes assuring the Garners of continued prayer.
During the next nine months in the hospital Ron had many skin grafts and experienced much pain, but finally he came home to their house on John Street. Eventually, he went back to Anderson College and finished his degree in athletics. He became assistant coach at Alexandria High School and fathered two more children. Diane got her heart fixed and became a high-school teacher. And one of the children, not yet born at the time of the fire, was one of the top female athletes in the state of Indiana.
And we were filled with joy that the same family that stood by the Garners in a thousand ways has stood by us, too. We don’t deserve it; we haven’t earned it. We were just born into it. They treat us like royalty, because we are! We’re children of the King!
You will notice we say “brother” and “sister” ’round here;
It’s because we’re a family and these folks are so near.
When one has a heartache we all share the tears,
And rejoice in each vict’ry in this fam’ly so dear.
I’m so glad I’m a part of the fam’ly of God!
I’ve been washed in the fountain,
Cleansed by His blood.
Joint heirs with Jesus as we travel this sod,
For I’m part of the fam’ly,
The fam’ly of God.
From the door of an orph’nage to the house of the King,
No longer an outcast; a new song I sing.
From rags unto riches, from the weak to the strong,
I’m not worthy to be here, but praise God, I belong!
Lyric: Gloria Gaither and William J. Gaither
Music: William J. Gaither
Copyright © 1970 Hanna Street Music (BMI)
Last week our friend Hugh Phipps invited Bill to go with him to a morning meeting of a group of praying guys who get together each week here in our town. Ron Garner was there to tell for the first time the whole story of his experience. Ron is now 78, and not only did he live, but went on to teach science, coach, and become Athletic Director in our local high school.
Aluminum Tumblers
Last week I sent for a set of aluminum tumblers. I admit the motivation was mainly nostalgic; my grandmother had a set of these colorful glasses, and so did my mother. But another reason I wanted to find a set was deeper than that.
I was born in the March after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor in December 1941. I don’t remember World War II, but my uncle served in that war and was wounded in New Guinea. About every family we knew had some family wound from the war.
But I do remember having to have government stamps to buy gasoline. I remember what we called “butter” was really Oleo, a white shortening like Crisco to which we added a tablet of yellow coloring (like the tablets for coloring Easter eggs) that we mixed into the shortening to look like butter.
I remember that my beautiful mother wasn’t able to buy sheer hosiery, and that we had to peel the foil attached to our gum wrappers to use to cover the cardboard cut-out shapes of bells, stars, and pine trees for trimming our Christmas tree. We saved the Gold Stamps and S & H Green Stamps we got when mother or daddy bought groceries or gas until we had enough to fill stamp-books we traded for a new toaster or a tricycle. Metal was used for the “war effort”, because evidently we were pounding plow shears into swords (or guns or tanks or airplanes).
We did all this saving and scrimping because a mad terrorist dictator and several other madmen were eating their way across Europe and the United Kingdom intent on taking over the world and destroying every democracy where people had a voice enough to insist on personal liberties.
When the war was finally over and the allied countries got a chance to begin the long process of rebuilding, we were finally able to get things like fine fabrics and metals. One of the easiest metals to access was aluminum because it is the most widespread metal on earth (more than 8% of the earth’s core mass) and the third most common chemical element (after oxygen and silicon). Coating alloys of this common metal made it safe to use, and families were drawn to glasses and bowls made of this metal, maybe because metals had been so scarce.
Coated cookware of aluminum became available, too, and my mother had for years an incredible “waterless” cookware set called Miracle Maid. I had a set of my own when Bill and I got married and still have it at our log cabin in the woods.
But as a little kid I was drawn to the tumblers because of their bright colors and shiny metallic surfaces. I loved that they would keep iced drinks (cherry Kool-Aid) cold, and cool my hot summer hands, too. After the drab years of the war when the world was building back and trying to flourish again, I felt like a princess holding these ice-filled sparkling tumblers of hot pink, blue, purple and yellow!
A few years ago, I found colorful ice cream dishes made of this metal, but it was just this week that I got delivered to our door this set of the tumblers of my childhood. I love them! And because of the shortages of the war years, I will never take for granted the resources we have now at every turn: copper pots and pans, multi-layered cookware, yards of aluminum foil for grilling and wrapping, bins full of nails and bolts in every size, pewter candle sticks and decorative pieces....
We have buildings and bridges built of steel girders that hold tons of vehicles of transportation and metals so fine they can be pressed into the thinness of a fingernail are easy to take for granted. I study the discoveries and inventions of new metals and alloys that can handle the smallest and finest of jobs. I don’t know why they all work, but I will never forget the days when we had to save the foil from our gum wrappers. I will tell my story to my grandkids who will smile politely and drink lemonade from these jewel-toned tumblers and never understand why they are so precious to me.
Bless This House
The house where Bill and Gloria began their married life together.
The establishing of a home takes more than a house, but a home certainly needs a place to be, and that place is very important. If it is a place where someone else has lived before the new occupants move in, what has taken place in that space is mostly unknown. To begin fresh, no matter the history of the place, it is a good idea to dedicate and celebrate the new place with good friends and family who will be there to share and enjoy the space in the years to come. A blessing of this new home is the best way to clear and christen the rooms, inviting God to be the center of all activities and relationships to come. Joy and laughter, music and good food might follow to set the tone for future expectations.
CLICK BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN TO GLORIA READ THE BLESSING
If you want to share this blessing with a new home owner, it is available in gift book below.
Christmas in the Country
I believe there is a homing device in every human heart. Even if we’ve never had a good home to go home to, there is an innate yearning for one where we are cherished and understood. In our yearning, we see this as a place of peace where there is no pretense and where we are accepted for who we truly are – not for what we’ve accomplished or how we look.
And there is no time like Christmas for pulling us back to such a place. Usually, how much we love and look forward to Christmas as a holiday is in direct proportion to how close to this ideal home really is. Sadly, for many the reality of the holiday is one of the most painful experiences of the year.
Perhaps the reason we cling to the ideal at Christmas more than any other time is that this celebration is in honor of the One who came to bring true peace, joy, love, and a place to belong. And the truth is that no family home and no human relationship can ever totally give us what we need. Every parent fails sometimes. Even love falls short. Every child disappoints and turns prodigal at one time or another. No sibling is totally supportive or faithful to protect the secrets with which he or she has been entrusted.
Even so, home is the nearest thing we have to a metaphor for belonging. The imperfection of us all keeps us yearning for another place – that place that will truly be Home.
Thankfully, our memories tend to preserve the good and forgive the flawed. I’m sure my Grandma’s house in the country was not as good as I remember it. The “front room,” as she called it was not as big, the kitchen not as warm, the snows not as white or as deep as I remember trudging through to get to that farmhouse with the fieldstone porch.
As I recall, she and grandpa opened the big double doors to that front room only for special occasions. The piano was in there, and she would always have the old itinerate piano tuner come just before Christmas so we could sing carols around that piano when we all crowded in.
The Christmas tree she put in that room was not a pine, but a cedar tree Pa would cut fresh from the woods behind the barn. The ornaments were of World War II vintage and before – scenes painted on clear glass balls – and there were strips of foil we called ice sickles, big lights of every color and real candy canes. Grandma would always make fresh popcorn balls with sorghum molasses, wrap them in a new thing called Saran Wrap® and hang them on the tree for us kids to “snitch” when no one was looking.
Grandma baked for days before Christmas: pies of apples and cherries from their orchard, fudge, taffy, and “divinity” layered in boxes between buttered sheets of waxed paper, cinnamon rolls for breakfast and homemade bread. These were all prepared before the real cooking started.
To this day I find myself running my fingers over mixing bowls in antique shops that have brown and gold sheaves of wheat on them or picking up green Fire King baking dishes and pie pans longing to take them home to see if they would somehow turn things I make into the magical tastes of my childhood for my grandkids to remember.
Country life always seemed to separate the boys and the men from the women and girls. The guys would “mosey” out to the barn to talk to Pa while he milked the two cows they always kept to supply them with milk and butter. The boys would help him throw down hay for the night, feed the cats and gather the eggs from the henhouse. On summer mornings gathering eggs was Grandma’s job, but in the winter when she was less sure of her footing, Pa brought in the eggs.
Meanwhile, the women would take up stations in the kitchen peeling potatoes, opening jars of green beans Grandma had canned the summer before and cutting up squash, onions, brussel sprouts, and turnips. The girls would set the table in the living room, then work on the puzzle that became a family project all through the days of Christmas.
I don’t remember much about the gifts. They were simple, practical and usually handmade. I do remember hugs and thank you’s. I remember Grandma loving whatever I gave her as if she’d been wanting it all her life. I have a picture of someone in our family holding up a string of pearls – probably ordered from the Sears catalog (“the wish book,” we called it) – and looking as if this necklace was as precious and rare as diamonds.
There was never any doubt why we had Christmas. Since Grandma had lost most of her eyesight, my daddy read the Christmas story from Luke while the children sat on someone’s lap or on the floor leaning back on some seated grownup’s knees. We all knew the words by heart, but familiar as they were, they always brought tears to our eyes – like we were hearing this wonderful story for the first time.
Grandma would pray, and when she prayed, the angels quit fidgeting around, swishing their wings and got still. We knew that sooner or later every one of our names would be specifically mentioned; Grandma would thank the Lord for the gift of each one of us and ask His tender care and guidance as we grew and changed and became what He intended for us to be.
After prayer and presents, the music would begin. Grandma played both the piano and the guitar; Pa played the “fiddle” and the “mouth harp.” We all knew sooner or later he’d grab Grandma by the arm and try to make her dance around the room; she’d say, “Oh, Pop, quit!” And we’d all laugh.
The children would ask for their favorite of the songs that Grandma had always sung to them: “Redwing,” “Mockingbird Hill,” or “Listen to the Mockingbird.” It never seemed strange that all our favorite songs were about birds.
We also sang Grandma’s favorites: “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “I Must Tell Jesus,” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms.”
It seems to me now, looking back, that I was the most adored of children, and I know all the grandchildren would say they thought they were. Truth is we all were.
As night fell and the kerosene lamps were lit, it seems to me that the love in that house could be touched – like soft velvet or the smooth fur of a kitten. The snow could pile to the eaves for all we cared. We were home, we were fed and we were loved.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
When Bill and I started thinking about recording a video for Christmas with the Homecoming Friends that would come to be called Christmas in the Country, it was the images of Christmas at Grandma’s house that came to mind. To that, I added the memories of my own childhood home and the rituals that have been now handed down first to Bill and me then to our children, and now to their children.
Someday there will be a new celebration in a new Country. There will be no gap between the ideal and the reality; the relationships around that circle will be perfect and totally beautiful. There will be songs of thanksgiving and praise for Christmas completed, for the One who brought heaven to earth will have then brought earth to heaven, and we will all finally be home.
