My brother, hero, and friend

Thanks so much to those of you who prayed for Brad during his health scare and for Blake while he served in the Middle East. Brad has been able to continue mission work in Peru and is now back in the States for a few weeks. Blake has also made it safely home. And - so hard to believe - my brother Tom has gone home to Heaven.

He became critically ill very suddenly, and for more than two weeks, we asked that God would heal him if it were His perfect will.

"Our prayers have all been answered. I've finally arrived.

The healing that had been delayed has now been realized....

My light and temporary trials have worked out for my good,

To know it brought Him glory, when I misunderstood.

Though we've had our sorrows, they can never compare.

What Jesus has in store for us, no language can share.

"If you could see me now, I'm walking streets of gold.

If you could see me now, I'm standing strong and whole.

If you could see me now, you'd know I've seen His face.

If you could see me now, you'd know the pain is erased.

You wouldn't want me to ever leave this place,

If you could only see me now." - Kim Noblitt

There is an emptiness that will never be filled here, but such thankfulness for the person he was, for the relationship we had, and for the blessed hope of seeing him again.

My memories of Tom begin when I was around three or four and he was twelve, but I don’t remember the life-and-eternity-shaping event that took place in his life at that time, just his retelling of it. Our family had moved to Lake Charles, LA, and our dad took Tom to visit the Church of the Nazarene on Easter Sunday evening, 1959. In that service, Tom felt his heart touched with conviction, and he asked permission from our dad to go forward and pray. “I’m not living the way I should,” our dad told him, “but I don’t want to hold you back.” Tom’s heart was changed that night as he was saved and called to preach.

Tom was a wonderful big brother. My special times with Tom were when he would take me to church. I always wanted to go, and until he left for college he was almost always willing to take me with him.He was a leader in the youth group, the “preacher boy” who preached in nursing homes and on the corner by the bus station. He was my hero.

Until he married, Tom was “Tommy,” and many of his hometown friends never stopped calling him that. The feelings they have shared during the past days have been so strong, the memories so powerful. “Tom modeled Jesus for so many of us,” one wrote. I know that he modeled Jesus for me.

Tom left home when I was only nine, so our times together were reduced to Sunday night phone calls, Christmas vacations, and a few weeks in the summer. He married the love of his life, Carol Keithley, just before his final semester of Bible college, and I finally had a sister! They began their first pastorate many miles away. Visiting them, or having them come home, was always a highlight. As a senior in high school, I was privileged to live near them. Tom and I discovered that in many ways we were kindred spirits, and the bond that we forged during that year has been a deep source of joy ever since.

Tom loved a good laugh. He would latch on to some small joke and tell it again and again, enjoying it more each time. When someone talked about how much milk they had to buy for their family, Tom would say, “We spill more than that!” It was probably true. If a girl had on a trendy pair of shoes, he might ask, “How long is the doctor making you wear those?” When he saw a large man getting out of a small car, he’d say, “Let me help you get that thing off.”

Some of my most treasured memories were made when Tom took me - and later me and my children - on long horseback rides through the open ranges of Idaho and Montana. But any time with him was special. We could talk about almost anything together - and we did, but not as often as we should have as life crowded in and we were both so busy with our own families. Still, I could always expect a phone call on my birthday, Mothers' Day, and holidays. And I cherish the times when we were able to travel together, filling the miles with conversation and laughter - and sometimes a few tears. His insights and wisdom made my life so much richer.

When Tom walked through dark times, he seemed to always emerge sweeter and more Christ-like. He was wise beyond his years, in part due to the adversities of his life. In his late twenties, he encountered a series of storms that tested his faith to its very limits. As he leaned hard on God’s grace, those trials – like others that followed them - only served to make him more understanding and more compassionate.

Tom never came across as “holier than thou.” To the contrary, he was always vulnerable about his weaknesses. But being around him made us somehow want to be better. He always saw the best in us, saw through eyes of mercy and hope what we could be. And he loved and enjoyed us just as we were, unconditionally. Tom was special.

Although I can’t imagine life here without him, Heaven is sweeter because Tom is there.

His Banner Over Me

The package in the mailbox this past Saturday morning was lagniappe in a week of blessings.

I had basked in the restful and renewing atmosphere of Family Camp. Brent was home after a five-month deployment. On the same day Brad, Michelle, and Tyler had arrived back in the city after their jungle adventure. Knowing they were all safe had lifted a weight I hadn’t realized I carried.

And now the package. The return address bore Blake’s name along with that mysterious military code which reveals absolutely nothing about his whereabouts. But the postmark proclaimed that he had been safe and sound on June 1. The green contents label read simply, “Flag,” a birthday/ Father’s Day gift for his dad.

I wanted Steve to experience the same delight I had felt when I opened the mailbox. Knowing that he would be coming home to an empty house while the rest of us were enjoying camp, I placed the package on his pillow.

The next morning when I drove up from the campgrounds and met him at the doors of the church, his first words were not, “Honey, you’re late again!” (Amazing, I know!) His face was working with emotion, and his eyes were glistening. “Did you see what Blake sent?” he marveled.

The certificate accompanying the flag told the story: “[This flag] was flown in the face of the enemy aboard a Special Operations aircraft through the skies of Iraq during a Tactical Combat Mission by our nation’s leading Task Force targeting Al-Qaeda in Iraq.”

Blake’s card and personal message added even more meaning to what will certainly be a family heirloom: “When I flew the flag for you I was reminded that there are indeed things worth fighting for. That flag, flown with you in both mind and heart, forced me to think about just what we are defending, and how precious those things really are.”

I researched the missions flown by the Air Force in Iraq on that date, and wondered which of them was Blake’s and what story that piece of cloth might tell. I tried to picture how it might have made its flight. I gave thanks that its mission was accomplished successfully that day, yet I will feel so much more grateful when Blake’s missions are all behind him and he is with us again. I picture him and his brother folding that flag into its proper military fold before it is placed in its own special display case.

I feel such pride in knowing that two of our boys are engaged in service to our country, taking on the enemies of our flag and all it stands for. At the same time, there is comfort in knowing that the resources of the U.S. Military, as represented by the flag, are available to come to their defense if need be.

But even an American flag has its limits.

On Monday the phone rang with news we couldn’t have imagined hearing. Brad had been admitted to the hospital with stroke-like symptoms. To be so far away when our children were facing such troubling circumstances in a foreign country, with so much uncertainty about the outcome….

Yet even in this dark news, there were things to be thankful for. Thanks that Brad was in a large city rather than the jungle. Thanks that Michelle’s job meant that she had already researched medical options. Thanks that Brad’s symptoms had abated after a few hours. Thanks for a supportive missionary family to come alongside to care for Tyler and give support and encouragement. Thanks that, though difficult, there was a way to communicate with family in the States. Thanks for God’s children who went to prayer as soon as they heard the news. Thanks for a doctor determined to be deliberate and thorough.

I’ve thought about the flag again. It would be great if Brad and Michelle could be on American soil, communicating with American doctors, and cared for in American facilities. But in spite of what they don’t have, I feel overwhelmingly grateful for what is theirs – the grace of God that is going before them, providing for their needs, guiding and overshadowing them.

The early Jewish nation knew it tangibly as a pillar of fire bringing warmth to the desert by night and a pillar of cloud bringing shelter by day. King David, though, envisioned a flag. As he prayed for deliverance in Psalm 60, he comforted himself in God’s promises with these words, “You have given a banner to them that fear You, that it may be displayed because of the truth.” Said most simply, “His banner over me is love.”

I love to think of God flying that banner in the face of our enemy and announcing, “This far, and no further. My protection starts here! I will defend what is precious to me.” For Brad, Michelle, Blake, and all those I love, I can’t think of anything more comforting.

A Few "Aunt Frankie" Stories

Aunt Frankie’s memorial service last Saturday lasted for almost two hours and would have gone even longer if my brother Tom had not cut the sermon short.

If we could all put our stories of Aunt Frankie into one volume, what a book it would make! Here’s one I never heard until last Saturday:

Back in the early 60s, Aunt Frankie and her pastor’s wife were calling for the Sunday school when they found themselves driving behind a vehicle whose driver was obviously drunk. As he approached a railroad crossing, he made an abrupt turn onto the tracks. The bumpy ride got his attention, and he quickly came to a stop. Aunt Frankie had pulled off the road and jumped out of her car. “What are you doing, man?” she called. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Walking up to his car door, she demanded, “Move over, I’m driving you home.” She instructed her astonished young pastor’s wife to follow them. Fortunately, the drunken man knew his address, Aunt Frankie lived forty-plus more fearless years, and the pastor and his wife had a great story.

On the way home last week, I thought of this long-forgotten story to share with my children: Back in the day, single gals were advised to use only their initials for telephone directory listings. One of my roommates had not “gotten the memo,” and believe it or not, there really are losers who have nothing better to do than to go through the phone book looking for women’s names, so we got a few obscene phone calls. We always slammed the phone down. One night I even slammed the phone down on a caller with a slurred Southern drawl who turned out to be my housemate’s boss calling about work. I was zealous!

During this time, the early 80s, Aunt Frankie received an obscene phone call of her own. Apparently no one had ever told her to slam the phone down. When the voice on the other end of the line whispered, “Do you want to go to bed?” Aunt Frankie whispered back, “Do you?”

Excitedly, the voice responded, “Yes!” Now Aunt Frankie stopped whispering and said, “Well, go to bed!” Then she hung up the phone.

Aunt Frankie told my mother that story, and my mother told me. She told me not to tell anyone, but it was way too good to keep.

One evening in the late 80s Aunt Frankie and I were together in a little seafood restaurant. We bowed our heads in prayer before we began to eat. At the table next to us were four or five guys relaxing with beers after a day’s work. If you’ve ever been in a restaurant in South Louisiana, you know how loud it can get. It wasn’t difficult to hear one guy grouse, “Oh great, we’re sitting next to a freaking Sunday school!”

That was all Aunt Frankie needed to start a conversation. Wagging her finger, she said, “That’s what you need!”

The guy couldn’t believe she was for real. “Pardon me?”

“You need a Sunday school,” she admonished, smiling.

Now in Politically Correct School, I had learned that it’s never okay to begin a sentence with “You need,” no matter what you might think. Aunt Frankie never went to PC school. She just pressed ahead and made four or five new friends that night. They conversed throughout the meal. She invited them to church –mine – since hers was in another town (and one of them actually showed up a few weeks later). By the time we got up to leave, they were begging to buy her dinner.

The thing about Aunt Frankie was that she was neither impressed nor intimidated by anybody’s titles or lack of them. Their reputations, good or bad, meant absolutely nothing. The fact that someone was a stranger was no obstacle. She was simply and completely a people person.

“Everyone loved your mother,” she would tell me, “and my sister Grace.” She knew she was more abrasive. Aunt Frankie was nothing if not confrontational. But when it came to loving back, no one could out-love Aunt Frankie. She loved so well. Everyone felt it.

You would think ninety-nine years would be enough for a life, no matter how well-lived. Somehow it’s not. But for all of us who find it hard to say goodbye, there are many more who are welcoming her home. I can just imagine the stories they are telling.

Christmas Potpourri

I hope you’ve had a beautiful Christmas. For me, it has come in bits and pieces this year: quiet moments of reflection in the midst of our busyness.

It came - as it always does for me- in the music. The carols played in my classroom throughout the days of December, and I don’t think my students will ever forget learning “A Song of Peace” for we all felt God’s Presence among us during that lesson!

There were the times of Advent worship at church, always so thought-provoking and meaningful. Each Sunday was a gift. And the special traditions of our church body, especially the annual Christmas supper, were times of warmth and joy.

Christmas Eve candlelight services have been a long-standing tradition for our family whenever possible. This year, we attended two services on Christmas Eve.

One was a homegoing service. When we got the news that Becky Dzieken had lost her battle with cancer just a few days before Christmas, my first thought was, “What a tragic loss for her family. And why now?” But as I reflected on the radiance of Becky’s life, I was reminded of John 1: “In Him was Life, and that Life was the Light of men.” I’ve never known anyone who reflected that Light any more clearly or transparently than Becky did. Besides her gift for communicating joy and faith, Becky was blessed with an incredible voice, and her memorial service closed with her own rendition of “Cornerstone.” It felt like Christmas.

Later that evening, we attended a simple, unhurried service in town. In the quietness and darkness of that candlelit sanctuary, the message and meaning of Christmas settled into our spirits. For us four busy Hunts, Christmas had come.

On Christmas Day, as we talked to family scattered across the country, someone must have asked Brooke if she had had a good Christmas. All I heard was her reply: “Yes, and it’s not over!” All the packages had been unwrapped. Christmas dinner was done. But Brooke was still having Christmas.

So was I. I still am. And I hope that you are too.

Cure for the Common Life

I was privileged to attend an unusual birthday celebration last week. The birthday girl is a single mom, and her life was hard even before she became a paraplegic about eighteen months ago. She is on our church's outreach list, but only a few people in our group knew her. We discussed what we might do to get better acquainted, and hit on a plan to visit her for a cook-out. Christy gave us her enthusiastic permission, and last Friday evening we loaded up a grill, ice chest, tables, chairs, food, and birthday gifts and carpooled to her home.

It wasn't a typical way for the young adults in our class to spend a Friday evening, but they participated whole-heartedly. Maybe it's because we've been working our way through Max Lucado's book Cure for the Common Life, but what I took away from that evening was how beautifully each individual's gifts and talents sparkled in their ministry to Christy. Each person made a unique and indispensable contribution to the evening. Christy said it was the best birthday she'd ever had.

That is how the body of Christ is supposed to work. It was a moving thing to witness.

Brooke and Brayden at Lake Arthur, LA Camp Ground. My mother attended church camps here in the 1930s.

Footprints of Faith

Today I joined a host of old friends in paying tribute to a life well-lived at the homegoing service of Dan Hoffpauir. Dan and Edith were two of the heroes of my youth. Dan was instrumental in leading my oldest brother to the Lord, and Edith played a vital role in my own faith journey, especially during my teen years. Like a lot of kids, I had a sharp eye for anything phony, but these two never disappointed me. Their faith was an integral part - the ultimate definition - of who they were and how they lived. They were the "real deal," and the care and encouragement they poured into people was always authentic.

Their generation is slipping away from us so quickly. It is humbling to realize that my children and their friends must now search for role models of faith among my peer group. I could never hope to fill the shoes of the saints of my youth. But today, as I've reflected on the life and faith of Dan Hoffpauir, I've been asking God to help me follow the footprints.