The Lord's Name on a Street Sign?

“Should the Lord’s name be used on a street sign?” I wondered, after I saw a newspaper article about a strip of road in Fayetteville, N.C., that was recently named “Jesus Christ Way.”

“Drive down Dudley Road, deep into rural Cumberland County, and there it is: a brand new, bright green street sign proclaiming a short stretch of sandy road as Jesus Christ Way,” wrote Chick Jacobs of The Fayetteville Observer newspaper (July 22, 2011).

Jacobs said that Jesus Christ Way is simply a sparse, sandy strip running from the pavement of Dudley Road to Bethel Elelohe Israel Missionary Baptist Church, a small, brown wooden structure. Warnette Patterson pastors the church, and her husband Samuel is co-pastor.

“When I was ordained, the Lord gave me a vision,” Warnette Patterson, 67, said. “He told me to put his name before men.”

Jacobs wrote, “Of the 8,000-plus named streets in Cumberland County – and of the hundreds of thousands across North Carolina – none were named for Jesus Christ.”

Warnette Patterson said she called the Cumberland County Courthouse. The name wasn’t used on a street in N.C., so Jesus Christ Way was approved, Jacobs wrote.

Warnette said she wants to make Jesus’ name known, because of what he did for her.

“I’m not proud of my earlier life,” she said. “I did a lot of things. The Sunday I was saved, I was out drinking the Friday before.”

Jacobs wrote, “Her husband was serving in the military and stationed in Korea. Patterson says she was living on Fort Bragg, hiding from bill collectors and creditors.”

“They couldn’t get to me there,” Warnette said. “But the Holy Spirit could. I began feeling worse and worse, like I was going to die right then. I had to get to a church. Any church. I didn’t think I’d last long enough to get off base, so I ended up at the chapel on Smoke Bomb Hill and fell down and started praying.”

Warnette came forward a few weeks later at Mount Olive Missionary Baptist Church on Raeford Road in Fayetteville. She became the first woman pastor ordained by that church. She organized a church called Bethel Elelohe Israel. The name means “the house of the Lord of Israel.”

I’m glad Warnette promotes Jesus, but I wonder about putting his name on a street sign. Folk from other religions may want their leaders’ names on street signs, too. What about religious names on street signs paid for by the government?

We often think of “taking the Lord’s name in vain” as hearing someone curse and use God’s name. Using Jesus’ name in a funny or offhand way might also be “taking the Lord’s name in vain.” If a person does something “in vain,” that means it “amounts to nothing.” Is having Jesus’ name on a street sign an example of “taking the Lord’s name in vain”?

The third Commandment states, “Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain” (Exodus 20:7 KJV).

The New English Bible translates that: “You shall not make wrong use of the name of the LORD your God; the LORD will not leave unpunished the man who misuses his name.”

Doug Knigthon, a retired military chaplain, says misusing the Lord’s name has more to do with how we live than what we say. In comparing “taking the Lord’s name in vain” with marriage, he says, “If you take the name of God, at a ceremony, and tell the world that you are now part of the ‘bride of Christ’ as the church is called, yet you do not live like a ‘bride of Christ,’ you have taken His name in vain, and you will not be considered guiltless.”

Beth Scotch, a kindergarten teacher, shared with me a story that goes like this: Beth’s daughter was in elementary school and got into trouble. Her teacher wrote the daughter’s name on the board. Beth’s husband Dave learned about his daughter’s misbehavior. He asked his daughter, “Did you get my name put on the board?”

“No,” the daughter said, “I got my name put on the board.”

“But your last name is the same as my last name,” her father said. “When you get your name put on the board, you get my name put on the board.”

Perhaps having a Fayetteville street named “Jesus Christ Way” is not a problem. Maybe I should stop worrying about that street sign and spend more time thinking about how to avoid taking the Lord’s name in vain by the way I live. I don’t want my name and His Name “put on the board.”

'Over Home,' 'Over There'

Rex Parker (pictured) of the Sandy Flat Community of Greenville, S.C.


In June 2011, I talked with my Uncle Fred E. Crain, 86, of Greer, S.C., about the Parkers who once lived on Keller Road in the Sandy Flat Community of Greenville, S.C.

Fred’s maternal grandparents, Jesse and Hattie Parker were members of Enoree Baptist Church. They had five children: John, Lillian, Hovey, Lucille and Rex. John died around age 18 in the 1917 flu epidemic. Fred’s mother, Lillian, married Carl Crain and had two sons: Fred and my father, J. B. Crain.

Here is the story of Rex in Fred’s words:

Rex died around age 21. He worked somewhere, maybe at Southern Worsted Mill. He played the guitar and sang. Then, people sang songs like “Let Me Call You ‘Sweetheart,’” “John Henry,” “Nellie Blythe,” “Down in the Valley,” “It’s Lamp-Lighting Time in the Valley” and “Red River Valley.”

Rex went with Hovey and Genelia and their baby Marian to make music. 

(Hovey's Uncle Pinckney "Pink" Parker, a banjo player, was also in the car with them, according to Mr. John Collins. Mr. Pink Parker was John Collins' grandfather.) 

They were coming home, going south on Locust Hill Road (Hwy. 290) around 11 p.m. on a Saturday. They came around “Dead Man’s Curve”; it’s been rerouted since then. Rex was driving. The left front tire blew. I understand they went off the road to the left. It was a convertible, a 2-seated touring car, around a 1930 model. This was Hovey’s car, black with a canvas top. Genelia was in back. 

The car rolled and threw Genelia out over a gully onto a bank of a field. She held Marian in her arms, didn’t turn her loose. Marian didn’t get a scratch. Genelia wasn’t injured. Hove neither. The car flipped to the left onto its side, and the running board on the left came full across Rex’s chest and stomach area. 

(According to John Collins, his Uncle Pink Parker broke his neck and "spent a long time in Chick Springs Hospital." Collins adds, "I don't think he traveled to pick again afterwards.") 

Grandpa Jesse couldn’t sleep that night; He got up and walked out in their yard. He saw the car’s headlights light up the night sky as the car flipped. He was far enough away – a mile or more – not to hear the sound, but he saw lights shine in the sky. He wondered what it was. In a while, someone came and told him. Somebody carried Rex to the Greenville Hospital. He didn’t gain consciousness.

I remember Daddy and Mama, me and J.B. going over to the hospital early on Sunday. We eat dinner before we went. They wouldn’t let me and J.B. in. I was five; J.B. was eight. We stayed around the car on the street. About 4:30 (p.m.), Mama came out with Daddy and said, “He’s gone.”

Grandma cried, couldn’t sleep, walked the floor. They had a time with her. Rex was her baby. I don’t think she ever got over it. Grandpa just clammed up. He couldn’t talk about it. He’d walk around like he was studying about something. He’d tell about them lights in the sky, though.

Mama was very sad. She’d want to go to see Grandma very often. She called it “going home.” She’d say to Daddy, “Carl, let’s go over home.”

After hearing Fred’s story about Rex, I wondered how many families past and present have experienced the heartache of losing a young loved one, taken “in the prime of life.”

The family circle will sooner or later be broken here on earth. Time will see to that. We may enjoy moments, perhaps during a family reunion or at a church fellowship gathering, when we feel “this is perfect; I wish we could always feel the togetherness we feel right now.” But life goes on, and if our hearts are in tune with God, we will sense the truth of these words found in an old gospel song: “This world is not my home. I’m just a-passing through.”

The writer of Hebrews tells us, “For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come.”

Paul wrote to Christians in Corinth, “For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling….”

After her brother’s death, my grandmother often wanted to “go over home,” but “home” for the Parker family of the early 1930s had changed.

D.W.C. Huntington wrote about a “home” for those who accept Christ. He penned these words to the old hymn “O Think of the Home Over There”:

“O think of a home over there / By the side of the river of light / Where the saints all immortal and fair / Are washed in their garments of white / Over there, over there / O think of the home over there / Over there, over there / I think of a home over there.

“My Savior is now over there / There my kindred and friends are at rest / Then away from my sorrow and care / Let me fly to the land of the blest / Over there, over there / My Savior is now over there….”

Perhaps you can no longer “go over home” and visit loved ones who have departed, but you can trust Christ and “think of a home over there.”

'With Meaning, Many Things Are Bearable'

Have you ever felt as if you wanted to give up because life’s pressures piled up? “With meaning, many things are bearable,” someone said.

Perhaps you’ve heard this old expression: “That’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Some people shorten that saying to “That’s the last straw.” An expression such as that is called an “idiom.” According to Wikipedia, an idiom is an expression, word or phrase whose sense means something different from what the words literally imply. There are an estimated 25,000 idioms in the English language.

Wikipedia states that the idiom “the straw that broke the camel’s back” comes from an Arabic proverb about how a camel…is loaded beyond its capacity to move. “This is a reference to any process by which cataclysmic failure (a broken back) is achieved by a seemingly inconsequential addition (a single straw).”

As a child, I heard that expression and visualized a camel standing while someone placed one last straw on a heavy load of straw already on his back. In my mind, he suddenly went down, uttering an anguished bellow as he “bit the dust.” That last straw broke his back, finished him, did him in, caused him to kick the bucket, buy the farm, give up the ghost or whatever other idiom could be used to describe the camel’s demise.

There are many irritations in life. Irritations are like flies buzzing around an old horse standing under a tree. Mr. Horse tries to rest, but flies continue harassing, as he flicks his tail to keep them away. He sometimes raises a rear hoof and hits the ground with it to ward off flies.

There are also “vicissitudes of life” which are defined as “difficulties or hardships attendant on a way of life, a career, or a course of action and usually beyond one’s control.” Vicissitudes include pain, sickness, flat tires, problems with relatives, money problems and even death. Vicissitudes concern life in general.

The statement “With meaning, many things are bearable“ rings true. If a person believes there is meaning to life beyond present circumstances, that person can “take the heat” and “weather” difficult times or suffering much better than the person who believes life is mere “existence” and “then you die.”

Some people seem to have little patience to deal with the irritations and vicissitudes of life. A few years ago, a young lady interviewed at Gulistan Carpet, the carpet manufacturing company where I work. The lady had a 2-year degree in something from a college near our mill. Our customer service department hired her, but she was assigned to work in product development, where I work, until the next customer service training cycle began – a matter of a few days. Our office manager gave the young lady a job of stuffing envelopes with letters going to our sales force.

Near lunchtime on the lady’s first day on the job, our office manager looked for that lady who had been inserting letters into envelopes. She was missing, so our office manager called the personnel department. The personnel manager said the young lady came by his office and said, “I didn’t go to school to stuff envelopes.” She left in a huff. If she had waited a few days, she would have begun training for what I consider a pretty good job. She seemed to have little patience for a “better tomorrow.” She appeared to have minimal tolerance for delayed gratification.

Many people can’t take much frustration, because they don’t believe there is a God, a Jesus or a heavenly reward. They don’t believe God is in control. There are times when we should make changes, but sometimes we give up too quickly. Comedian Bob Hope said, “Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.”

Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery. He was falsely accused by his owner’s wife and went to prison. He trusted God through it all and was, in time, chosen to be second-in-command in Egypt. I believe that if he had died in prison with no justice or recognition given to him, Joseph would still have trusted God. He had “meaning” in his life, and he could bear many things.

The writer of Hebrews tells us we should keep our eyes fastened on Jesus, “the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God” (Hebrews 12:2 KJV).

Jesus believed in his reward, “the joy (the prize) that was set before him,” and he endured the cross. “With meaning, many things are bearable.”

Fruitful - Are You?

Christine Parsons, a lady in our Grace Writers Group at Grace Church in Southern Pines, N.C., recently brought a basketful of fresh Sentry peaches to share among seven other folk attending our Wednesday night writers gathering.

Christine, in her early forties, works with her husband on their fulltime farm in Candor, N.C. They have two sons (one is in college) and a daughter, Katie, 16, who is also in our writing group. Their youngest child, Jacob, 13, operates a tractor and does lots of plowing, I hear.

At home, I tasted the juicy Sentry peaches. Those peach slices were music to my taste buds. A Sentry peach is a nice-size, firm, semi-freestone variety and one of the earlier maturing peaches; it has a red-orange skin. The Parsons family has other peach varieties that will mature later.

Summertime is a busy season for Christine. Her family has a produce stand, and she’s missed some writers group meetings, because crops are “coming in.” I’m sure her family spends lots of time caring for and pruning trees in order to see a good harvest.

Jesus talked about fruit. He said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful” (John 15:1-2 NIV).

Jesus also said, “You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit – fruit that will last…” (John 15:16).

One of Christianity’s core beliefs is that we were made to serve God by serving others, someone said. That means we are to care for those in our local churches and also to “bear fruit” by “giving ourselves away” in our communities and the world.

Jesus said, “This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.” (John 15:8).

James said, “But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness” (James 3:17-18).

One writer says about fruit-bearing: “In John 15:5,8,16, Jesus says that a disciple must bear fruit, but he does not say what this means. From other passages, we learn that bearing fruit includes all a Christian does to the glory of God. In John 4:36 we read: ‘And he who reaps receives wages, and gathers fruit for eternal life, that both he who sows and he who reaps may rejoice together.’ Gathering fruit refers to bringing people to Christ. Notice the difference between bearing fruit and gathering fruit. All disciples are to bear fruit (do good works to the glory of God) but not all disciples gather fruit because ‘One sows and another reaps’ (John 4:37), but all rejoice together.”

Paul, writing to the Galatians, says about fruit, “So, I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh. For the flesh desires what is contrary to the Spirit…The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery; idolatry and witchcraft; hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, selfish ambition, dissensions, factions and envy; drunkenness, orgies, and the like…But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:16-23).

Joseph of Old Testament fame irritated his brothers by telling them of a dream he experienced. That dream indicated his brothers would bow before him. They sold him into slavery, and he was imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit. He continued to trust God and was made second-in-command over Egypt.

When Joseph’s sons were born, he acknowledged God in their names. He called his firstborn “Manasseh,” saying, “It is because God has made me forget all my trouble and all my father's household.” “Manasseh” is an Ancient Hebrew male name, meaning “causing to forget.” He named his second son “Ephraim,” saying, “It is because God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering” (Genesis 41:51-52). “Ephraim” means “double fruitfulness.”

Later, Joseph’s brothers, looking for food during a famine, visited Egypt and bowed down to Joseph. Joseph forgave them for their sin against him.

Jacob, nearing the end of his life, said of his son Joseph, “Joseph is a fruitful vine, a fruitful vine near a spring, whose branches climb over a wall” (Genesis 49:22).

Today, be fruitful in the “land of your suffering,” and you may soon see your branches climb over walls that surround you.

While Dad Was Dying

Steve Crain, age 64 in 2011, says, “Tony Hemphill and Tony’s little sister and parents lived across the street from my family when I was a teenager in Greer, S.C. Tony and I are graduates of Greer High School. Tony, now 54 (in 2011) and a minister living in Cleveland, S.C., shares the following story":

While Dad Was Dying...
by the Rev. Tony Hemphill, May 2011

My father was diagnosed with throat cancer in September 1997. He was single, again, and since my only sibling lives out of state, the primary responsibility of caring for Dad fell to me.

I took him to 72 radiation treatments and five rounds of chemo. Dad and I had been close all my life. He was truly my best friend, so there was nothing that needed to be said that had been “smoldering” for any length of time. When something needed to be discussed, we hashed it out. Dad did pretty well during these treatments, and, much to the chagrin of some of his friends who had predicted a bald head, he didn’t lose a single one of his beautiful gray hairs.

All the radiation burned up his larynx. In June 1998, Dad was admitted to Allen Bennett Hospital in Greer to have it removed. While there, Dad began to become confused, not knowing where he was or the day of the week. Blood tests showed an extremely elevated calcium level which had to be coming from bone being “dissolved.” It was determined that the cancer had metastisized and was in his spine. He was transferred to Greenville Memorial, basically to be made as comfortable as possible until his inevitable death. Doctors couldn’t say whether it would be days or weeks, but they were clear that Dad was terminal. Dad’s living will included the provision that no “heroic” procedures should be used to prolong his life.

Within a couple of weeks his condition deteriorated significantly. He was rarely lucid. A feeding tube was inserted; I couldn’t let him starve or thirst to death. On July 4, I brought a large American flag and hung it on the wall opposite his bed. Later in the day, I saw his eyes open and a slight smile as he saw the flag.

It had been several days since dad had opened his eyes or made any effort to communicate. I stayed by his bed from early in the morning until midnight or so. I was trying to sell my home, wrap up my job and finish preparations to move to Wake Forest to attend seminary. One afternoon, I was standing by his bed. I had laid my Bible on his stomach and read some Scripture passages that he appreciated. Two of his friends and I were singing a hymn as we surrounded his bed.

When we finished singing, I turned around to see a young “Candy Striper” standing in the room, not so close to the bed as to be intrusive in such a private, poignant moment family moment. I had not heard her enter the room, and she was crying. I asked her if she were OK. She replied, “I’ve never seen so much love in one of these rooms. You don’t know how bad I needed to see this.” I told her that since my dad knew Jesus as his Savior, he was going home. As much as we would miss him, unless God chose to perform a miracle, he was going to die, but his death was just a home-going.

Later that afternoon, as I walked past the nurses’ station, a grizzled, veteran of a nurse asked me, “What happened in your father’s room today?” I wasn’t sure what she meant. So she explained, “That young volunteer who came into his room earlier is new on this wing where terminal patients are cared for. She has been having a rough time coping with everything she has been seeing. She came from a terrible home life that included neglect and abuse. Today is the first day we have ever seen her happy.”

I went back into Dad’s room and told him, “evidently, God still has stuff for you to do. I’ve been praying for God to end your suffering and take you quickly and peacefully. Dad, I’m going to change the way I pray. I want His will to be done in your life. The Lord’s not going to bring you home until He is finished with you.”

I have no idea whether or not Dad heard me. But, two days later, my best friend from Savannah drove up to see him. I had told Pat that Dad wouldn’t recognize him and probably would not even be aware of his presence. Dad and Pat had also been very close. Because Pat and I had been friends for twenty-plus years, Dad thought of him as his second son. Pat went to his bedside, took my father’s hand and said, “Let’s go fishing.” To my amazement, Dad opened his eyes and he mouthed the word, “Low Country." That was my dad’s nickname for Pat.

Dad died on July 8, 1998. I gave his eulogy and preached a brief gospel message. After the service, Pat (who was a non-practicing Catholic) said he’d never been to such a funeral where the Bible was preached. He also said, “I’ve got a lot to think about.”

Fast-forward ten years. Pat stood for me as my best man when I married my childhood sweetheart and love of my life. I had always meant to talk with Pat about his relationship with the Lord. I was hoping my example would suffice until I built up my nerve to actually confront him. I waited too late. A year after my wedding, almost to the day, Pat died of a massive coronary in his home while getting ready for work. He would have been 51 years old a couple of months later. We had made plans to get together in Savannah to celebrate.

The Lord continued to work His will through my dad, even with Dad on his deathbed. I pray that the young “Candy Striper” saw a family that showed the love of Christ. I pray a seed was planted that someone else watered later. I never saw her again after that day, but I think of her often and hope she is coping well. I also pray that my best man, Pat, who had “a lot to think about,” found a relationship with Jesus before his death. It’s a rare day that I don’t think about him and feel so guilty for not following up with the work the Lord began while my dad was dying.

Dr. James H. Thompson - 'The Young Pastor'

Pictured at my five- or six-year-old birthday lunch (after Sunday morning church service) are (from left) my Uncle Fred Crain, my Grandmother Lillian Crain, Pastor Jimmy Thompson, me (as a boy), Shirley (my young sister), Eva Crain (my mother), my Grandfather Carl Crain and Jesse B. Crain (my father). Place: our home on Groce Meadow Road in Taylors, S.C.

I wrote in 1998 the following poem for Dr. James H. "Jimmy" Thompson, former pastor of Faith Temple Church in Taylors, S.C., and founder of WGGS-TV16 in Greenville, S.C. Pastor Jimmy was my pastor during my childhood and teen years. I worked part-time for seven years (during my school and college years) for him at Faith Printing Company, which he also founded. I read this poem in June 1998 at the Faith Temple service honoring Pastor Thompson’s 50 years of ministry. I read it, again, at his funeral on June 2, 2011. He was 82 years old when he passed on.

The Young Pastor

I remember you,
Double Springs Community boy,
Son of a dairy farm man with big hands,
Son of a gentle, loving mother –
In Christ, a son of God.

Diligence, steadfastness, kind compassion –
Those are the traits that come to my mind
As I remember you,
The young pastor who stood before me when I was a boy.

You had a heart for the hurting,
A passion for the printed Word,
A simple eloquence in the spoken Word.
You were a scholar, but fellowshipped easily
with those less-learned.

My heart was touched by your preaching;
You made Bible stories live.
And with a catch in your voice,
You often read a favorite poem that contained these lines:
“…I complained I had no shoes,
until I met a man who had no feet….”
How often those words have come to my mind
When I have felt self-pity…
And those words are always spoken
from the echoing halls of my memory
by your voice.

There are images in my mind of you, the young pastor,
Bringing people to church in your car,
Taking time for the poor and aged…
Taking us boys, sons of mill workers,
to a camp where, usually, only rich people go.

In my mind there is an image
Of you, the young pastor, with your lovely bride,
Moving on through life…
Steady…faithful…someone to believe in…
Bringing Christ to Christianity.

You’ve reached many goals and played many parts
Since those days when you were a young man.

Double Springs Community boy,
Son of a dairy farm man with big hands,
Son of a gentle, loving mother –
In Christ, a son of God,
I will always remember you as the good and faithful servant
Who stood before me as my pastor
When I was a boy.

###

Rev. James H. Thompson’s wife of 56 years, Joanne U. Thompson, passed away on March 3, 2011. They worked together in ministry throughout their life together. Survivors include three sons and their wives, one grandson and his wife, two granddaughters and one great-granddaughter.

After expressing my sympathies to Pastor Jimmy Thompson’s family at his funeral service, I was honored to deliver a condensed version of the following tribute to Pastor Jimmy during his funeral, held at Faith Temple Church, Taylors, S.C., at 3:00 p.m. on Thursday, June 2, 2011. I spoke briefly before the Rev. Coy Barker and the Rev. Raymond D. Burrows spoke.

By Steve Crain: A Tribute to Pastor "Jimmy"

Dr. James H. “Jimmy” Thompson has gone to be with the Lord. He was my childhood pastor. He left a Christ-mark on my life.

My wife Carol and I have lived in Southern Pines, N.C., since 1989. Our daughters, Janelle and Suzanne, are now grown. I, a Christian layman, still work in a carpet-making mill, and I still often think about things I learned from Pastor Jimmy.

Jimmy grew up on his father’s dairy farm, across from Double Springs Baptist Church. His father Lawrence and mother Esther Rosella Wood Thompson raised five children (listed in birth order): Jimmy, Nell, Betty, Tommy and Judy.

Ms. Nell was my beloved first-grade teacher. She says about Jimmy, “One of my earliest memories was sitting with him at Double Springs Church. I think we were five or six years old. He went up to put his birthday offering in, and I went with him. It was not my birthday, but wherever he went, I thought I was supposed to go, too.

She says, “We used to pick cotton and sing ‘Jesus Saves.’ Neither Jimmy nor I were blessed with a talent to sing; we just made a joyful sound, and it echoed in the valley.”

Jimmy once said he was 15 and sitting at his family’s Sunday-after-church, mid-day meal, that he was “called to be a preacher.” After that meal, he and his father sat on their front porch; his father told Jimmy, “I had rather you be a preacher of the Gospel than be president of the United States.”

Ms. Nell and Jimmy rode together when both were day students at Furman University.

“Before he married Joanne, I used to go with him through the countryside to pick up children for Sunday school when he pastored Gum Springs,” Nell says. “We filled his car full of children (no seatbelts then). This was Jimmy’s little bus.”

My Uncle Fred Crain, 85, attended Mountain View School with Jimmy.

“He was in the eighth grade; I was in the eleventh,” Fred says. “He was nice, clean-cut, polite, every hair in place. He was smart and studied. He later drove the Double Springs school bus part of the time and, I believe, managed the candy store at school.”

Fred says that, as far as he knows, Jimmy was one of the few Mountain View students who went on to college in the 1930s and ’40s.

“About the only place they could go was to Holmes Bible College,” Fred says. “They could go there ‘on faith’ (paying whatever they could).”

My parents, sister and many of our extended family attended Gum Springs Pentecostal Holiness Church in the Blue Ridge area of Greenville, S.C., when Pastor Jimmy, a Holmes Bible College and Furman University graduate, accepted the pastorate of that church in the mid-1950s.

Jimmy became a pilot. I recall working outside at the church with my Grandfather Carl and some men, when Pastor Jimmy flew low over the building. The story goes that after he began dating Joanne Upton, Jimmy flew over her mother’s house (where Joanne was living) and yelled down to Joanne, who was watching, “I’ll see you tonight at 7:00!” They married on April 22, 1955.

Jimmy envisioned the Full-Gospel message reaching beyond denominational lines. He left the Gum Springs church, and on Sunday, December 16, 1956, he preached to over 200 people gathered in an old building on the Ben Paris farm in the Blue Ridge area. I was there. That day, the group donated $7,000 in gifts and pledges to create an interdenominational church, which became Faith Temple Church of Taylors. Mary Beardon donated land, and Pastor Jimmy and his leaders broke ground on Sunday, December 30, 1956.

During Faith Temple’s early days, Jimmy often took the church’s young people to a park in Greer to play softball, and he organized yearly 2-day trips to Camp Arrowhead (for boys) near Tuxedo, N.C. Most of us who attended that camp were mill-worker’s kids who’d never seen a real camp. Jimmy played ball and swam and ate with us.

My old friend, Dr. Jerry R. Robertson, now living in Myrtle Beach, is a Southern Baptist minister and also worked as a college administrator. He recently retired from college duties and fills pulpits as an interim pastor.

As a teenager, Jerry held weekly summer afternoon meetings at his Grandmother Pauline’s house near Mountain View. I sometimes lead the singing at those meetings. The audience was usually made up of Jerry’s grandma, my grandma and maybe Mrs. Rob Butler. Pastor Jimmy often took time from his busy schedule to attend those meetings. He also gave Jerry opportunities to preach at Faith Temple.

After learning of Jimmy’s death, Jerry e-mailed me this message:

“Jimmy was my mentor in ministry. I have always been indebted to him for his love and support as I began preaching at 16 years old. I remember the days at Faith Temple with great love and appreciation for how those experiences molded my life. He will be missed but not absence from my memory."

I learned much from Pastor Jimmy’s preaching and from how he interacted with people.

Some folk I knew years ago may have thought Jimmy was too nice to people, that he too often gave folk the “benefit of the doubt,” that if he made a mistake in dealing with people, he tended to err on the “kindness side.” I liked that trait in him.

My late mother, commenting on some squabbling going on behind the scenes at Faith Temple during the 1960s, said at that time, “Jimmy is so good, he doesn’t believe people can be mean.”

Years ago, I thought of Pastor Jimmy when I found this poem written by an unknown author: “I have wept in the night / For the shortness of sight / That to somebody’s need / Made me blind; / But I never have yet / Felt a tinge of regret / For being a little too kind.”

A while back, I quoted that poem to Pastor Jimmy and told him it made me think of him. He said, “I’d like to have a copy of that.”

I worked part-time at Faith Printing Company, during my high school and college years. While working at Faith Printing, I never saw Pastor Jimmy lose his composure. I consider him one of the most consistent and disciplined men I’ve known. He influenced (and employed at times) many salt-of-the-earth folk, but he moved easily among people of various backgrounds and abilities.

Pastor Jimmy was “there” to offer a prayer and an embrace when I said “so long” to my wife and boarded a plane for one year of U.S. Army service in Vietnam.

One night, years later, when I was a patient at the Greenville hospital, all visitors had departed. At 9:30 p.m. I heard footsteps approaching my bed. Pastor Jimmy was making his rounds.

I feel that most people would have collapsed under the heavy slate of endeavors and duties Pastor Jimmy shouldered. He always seemed to exude a kind of quiet patience that, to me, evidenced deep faith.

Jimmy’s brother Tommy recently wrote to me, saying about Jimmy, “He is the greatest brother.”

Ms. Nell’s and Ms. Judy’s tears evidence their love for their brother who has gone to be with Jesus.

My Uncle Fred Crain stayed close to Jimmy over the years. They often dined together before Jimmy’s health declined. Fred says Jimmy, in recent times, told him, “Fred, you’re my best friend.” Jimmy sometimes asked Fred, “You’re still my buddy, aren’t you?"One night, after a meal together, they were riding, and Fred, who plays several stringed instruments, was playing a CD he’d made in his garage room. As Jimmy listened, he said to Fred, “If I could play like that, I’d shout all the way home.”

I believe Pastor Jimmy is home, now, and I imagine he is doing some shouting.

A Mother's Smile

Photograph: My mother, Eva, and I wade in a creek on my paternal grandparents' farm.


Mother’s Day is not a pleasant occasion for everyone, but it’s a good day for me; my late mother, Eva, gave me a hefty dose of love.

Though I’ve never been incarcerated, I often think about an old song called “The Sweetest Gift, a Mother’s Smile.” Here are the words to that song:

“One day a mother came to a prison / To see an erring but precious son / She told the warden how much she loved him / It did not matter what he had done.

“(Chorus) She did not bring a parole or pardon / She brought no silver no pomp or style / It was a halo sent down from heaven / The sweetest gift, a mother’s smile.

“Her boy had wandered far from the fireside / Though she had pleaded with him each night / But not a word did she ever utter / Her heart was flowing, her smile was bright.

“She left a smile you can remember / She’s gone to heaven from heartache’s grief / Those walls around you will never change you / You were her baby and e’er will be.

“(Chorus) She did not bring a parole or pardon / She brought no silver no pomp or style / It was a halo sent down from heaven / The sweetest gift, a mother’s smile.”

Most mothers I know of love their children and empathize with them as they experience successes and failures. T. DeWitt Talmage said, “Mother – that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries.”

Abraham Lincoln said, “I remember my mother’s prayers, and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.”

My mother, Eva, brought me into the world over three years ahead of my sister, Shirley. My first memories are of living with Mom and Dad in a white-shingled frame house on Groce Meadow Road in rural Greenville County, S.C.

Mom encouraged me but said she didn’t want to make me into “a mama’s boy,” so maybe she wasn’t quite as huggy as some mothers. Perhaps that’s why I tended to squirm and resist my Great Aunt Lucy’s wet kisses and enveloping embraces.

Mother read books from “The Sugar Creek Gang” Christian-themed, mystery series to my sister and me. She also showed me how to draw. My first drawing lesson I remember happened this way: I was probably four or five years old and sitting on a hard church pew during a Sunday night service at Gum Springs Pentecostal Holiness Church. I grew restless, and Mother took a small notepad and a pencil from her pocketbook.

“I’ll show you how to draw a mule,” she whispered, as the preacher expounded.

She drew a capital M for ears. She then drew a capital U, connecting the top-left side of the U to the bottom-left side of the M. The U became the mule’s muzzle. She added an eye, a mouth and a nostril to complete a side view of a mule. To the right side of the mule’s head, she drew a neck and a close-cropped mane on that neck.

She handed me the pad, and I began with an M and a U. Soon, I had a mule. I think I even added a body to my mule. She couldn’t have chosen a better animal to inspire me. My paternal grandfather had two mules, and I sometimes sat on Pete’s back; he was the gentler and older of the two critters.

I drew lots of mules in the days that followed. Vacation Bible School arrived that year, and, on one night, each person in my class received a large piece of paper and was asked to draw a picture. I drew a mule, a big one that filled my paper. They said they were going to show our pictures on commencement night. I knew I’d be proud.

On the following Sunday evening, our Bible School commencement night, my mother, who was a helper in my class, was asked to show the drawings we had done as part of my group’s presentation to the church’s small congregation.

The time in the service came for our drawings to be shown. Mom began holding up pictures, one-by-one, and telling the name of each artist: Steve Babb, Don Hill, Linda…Boyce…and so on.

“Mine must be at the bottom,” I thought.

Finally, Mom lifted up the last drawing. My large mule was easy to see from almost anywhere in the sanctuary. I waited for Mom to call my name, but she just smiled a big smile and held up my work. Most people in our church knew who drew that mule. A lot of them laughed and clapped. I wondered if Mom didn’t call my name because she was trying to teach me not to get too proud or if she was thinking about not wanting me to be a mama’s boy. She didn’t have to call out my name, though. Her facial expression communicated her love for me. Perhaps there are few gifts sweeter than a mother’s smile.