My dad had a vivid memory, from his earliest childhood years to his late eighties. I must have inherited some of that ability from Daddy,
When I was five or six, our nearest neighbor was an old man whose wife had passed away. Barely getting by on the income gained from the watermelons he grew and sold, many afternoons he would appear at our house at dinner time. My mother would ask if he would like to come in and eat. I don't think he ever did, but Mama would fill a plate with food for him to take home for later. Often when the plate was returned, it would be refilled and sent again.
I called our neighbor Mr. Tom. I doubt Mr. Tom's house ever had a coat of paint, outside or in, but the beautiful wisteria draping the front porch was its one redeeming feature. There is no sweeter smell than blooming wisteria.
It's possible I was in Mr. Tom's home more than once, but I only remember one time. He was very sick, dangerous for an old person who was already in poor health. Mama and I walked the quarter mile or so to his house to check on him. I'm sure the door was unlocked. I doubt many country people locked their doors in the late 1950's. We must have just knocked and walked in. The room was dark and quiet, except for the ticking of a clock. Everything smelled old and musty and Mr. Tom was in bed. It was a huge bed...at least it seemed huge to a little girl.
But my most vivid memory, one I have thought of over and over throughout the years, is seeing our pastor, Z. Miller Freeman, on his hands and knees. But... he wasn't praying by Mr. Tom's bedside. He was in the old man's kitchen, with a pail and a brush, scrubbing the dirty floor. I didn't understand then, but I do now. That day I witnessed something special...uncommon humility, a shepherd's heart, and a picture of Christ!
What Pastor Freeman did, he did from a heart of love and compassion. The events of that day, witnessed by God and a little girl, set a high standard for pastors. Whenever you read the account in John 13 of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples, envision a simple country pastor...on his knees, ministering without words.
Luke 1:47-49 "And my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name."
Copyright 2011 Charlotte Laney
When I was five or six, our nearest neighbor was an old man whose wife had passed away. Barely getting by on the income gained from the watermelons he grew and sold, many afternoons he would appear at our house at dinner time. My mother would ask if he would like to come in and eat. I don't think he ever did, but Mama would fill a plate with food for him to take home for later. Often when the plate was returned, it would be refilled and sent again.
I called our neighbor Mr. Tom. I doubt Mr. Tom's house ever had a coat of paint, outside or in, but the beautiful wisteria draping the front porch was its one redeeming feature. There is no sweeter smell than blooming wisteria.
But my most vivid memory, one I have thought of over and over throughout the years, is seeing our pastor, Z. Miller Freeman, on his hands and knees. But... he wasn't praying by Mr. Tom's bedside. He was in the old man's kitchen, with a pail and a brush, scrubbing the dirty floor. I didn't understand then, but I do now. That day I witnessed something special...uncommon humility, a shepherd's heart, and a picture of Christ!
What Pastor Freeman did, he did from a heart of love and compassion. The events of that day, witnessed by God and a little girl, set a high standard for pastors. Whenever you read the account in John 13 of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples, envision a simple country pastor...on his knees, ministering without words.
Luke 1:47-49 "And my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name."
Copyright 2011 Charlotte Laney
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