A Harvest.

Over thirty years ago, my dad was the pastor this church in Albemarle, NC.

It wasn’t big and it wasn’t fancy and there weren’t many people when he first arrived. In fact, one of the visitors who eventually became a part of the church recounted, “When I first walked through the front door of that church, I saw just six people--and four of them were on the platform!”

The four people on the platform would have been my two younger sisters and me (playing drums, bass and piano, respectively) and my dad, who led the singing and did the preaching. The two people in the pews would have been my mom and one other intrepid church attender. And at the very beginning that was it—the entire congregation.

It was most definitely not a day of big beginnings.

I was in my late teens when dad pastored there, and let me just say that when I was a teen and my view of the world was still shiny and unsullied, I didn’t tend to think about certain things.

I didn’t tend to think about the fact that it must have been discouraging sometimes to be in my dad’s shoes back then, to be in the prime of his life while pastoring just a handful of people.

I didn’t tend to think about how much fortitude and dedication it must have taken for my dad to go to that dreary, dilapidated church office day after day and labor diligently over sermons that only a couple of people would ever hear.

I didn’t tend to think about the fact that finances must have been very tight back in those days when Dad had a family to support that was—at the beginning, at least—bigger than the whole congregation.

There were a whole lot of things I didn’t think about back then.

Four days ago, when unexpected circumstances caused me to make a trip back to Albemarle to sing at a funeral, I made it a point to stop by the old church first. And when I pulled into the parking lot, I started to think about a whole lot of things because I suddenly saw that old church through different eyes.

I saw it through the eyes of a 49-year old woman whose dreams were no longer new and no longer shiny and I saw it through eyes that have seen disappointment and grief. I understood, in a fresh way, just what sort of gritty determination it must have taken my parents to stay in that place and faithfully pastor those few people.

And as I sat out in the parking lot and gazed at those long ago memories through older eyes, I wept.

I wept over old memories and new understanding and I wept because that building had encompassed the ministry of a father who is no longer on this earth. And for a few brief moments, I felt close to him, and I felt like I understood him better. I felt like a part of him was right there with me on that warm spring day—a day that was filled with the solemn quietude of long gone years.

I realized that even though my dad never pastored a large church, never lived in a nice house, and never had much money, he was still a success. My dad was faithful to what he was called to do and he did it with joy and with excellence.

My dad was also blessed to have a wife at his side who didn’t whine about not having extra money to go out clothes shopping. Instead, she cheerfully scrubbed church toilets with him, dusted pews while he vacuumed, typed his letters, and sat on the front pew and amened his sermons. And all along the way, she quietly invested her love and her life into her husband, into her children, and into those few parishioners who came through the doors of that humble building.

My dad was a flawed man in many ways. There is no doubt about that. But I sat in that parking lot and looked beyond his faults and I cried because he was no longer around to unlock that little white door and step inside the church to do the ministry he loved so much.

And throughout his long ministry, my dad always did so much more than just pastor a church. While we lived in Albemarle, my dad also opened a youth center and spent hundreds of hours reaching out to both troubled teens and “good kids” alike. He played pool with them, counseled them, listened to them and loved them unconditionally. My dad’s ministry has never been confined to a church’s four walls and for that, I am grateful.

But that’s not the end of the story.

After my dad had built that church up to about forty people, he left and another pastor came. In a few years, the church outgrew that old building and rented a theater to meet in. And then in 1986, a new building was constructed and a few years after that, another even larger building was built.

Today that little white church runs over six hundred people and continues to grow.

And this was the church that had invited me to come and sing at the funeral of one of its long time members, a woman who just happened to be one of the handful of people who had attended my dad’s church all those years ago.

After thirty-one years, I had the privilege of seeing her husband and her daughter and son once again. They told me how much my dad had meant to them and how they had never felt more loved than when they were attending his church. The son and daughter told me how my sisters and I had been their role models and how inspired they had been by our singing and playing in the services.

And then, one by one, other people (many of whom I no longer even recognized), came up to say that they had also known my dad, that they had been members of that small church, and that their lives had been greatly impacted by our family’s ministry.

In those brief, sweet moments following the funeral, I was reminded of the very thing that I had been grappling with earlier in the day while sitting in the dusty church parking lot. I was reminded that no act of kindness, no song, no sermon, no hug, no word of encouragement ever goes to waste, even though it may seem like such a very small thing at the time.

It might be five years later, it might be fifteen years later, it might even be thirty-one years later, but eventually, the good seed we sow into the lives of those around us will produce a harvest. Sometimes we never get to see that harvest, but other times? We do.

This past Monday night, standing in a thriving church in Albemarle, NC that was birthed out of my dad’s long ago ministry, I got to see a harvest. I got to experience a harvest. It was a harvest of hugs, a harvest of joy, a harvest of precious memories treasured.

And in the middle of the memories, and the stories, and the laughter, I caught a glimpse of my dad.

He was smiling. And I was glad.

Four Things

Thing One

Well, my big grocery store outing didn't quite work out yesterday because by the time it was time to go, I had lost most of my stamina and all of my motivation. So instead I made a quick run to our nearby, small grocery store and got some emergency items: cheese, bread and meat (for Sarah's lunches) and oatmeal.

But today is the Big Day. Very shortly I will drive twenty minutes down the beach to the really big grocery store and make up for three weeks of non-shopping. I was going to run a couple errands along the way but then I wisely reconsidered and figured that one mammoth grocery store outing was enough for one day for my newly recovered self.

So that's my excitement for the day. I bet you're going to have a hard time topping that!

Thing Two

We got a call a few minutes ago from a certain College Dude who wanted to let us know he was in Georgia and had his little car pointed straight toward North Carolina. (Be still my heart.) He's due to arrive about 10 pm. I will go to bed a happy woman, knowing that both of my chicks are in their nest where they're supposed to be.

And if Nathan thinks he's leaving in two weeks, well, he's got another think coming! Maybe if I hurry up and rob a bank in the next few days, I could have enough money to pay him for his new summer job called, "Staying Home With Mom."

It could work!

Thing Three

I was so happy to go by Sue G's site and see how many Smithellaneous people had stopped by and signed her guestbook. If anyone deserves to have her guestbook signed, Sue does. I can't tell you how many times I've been reading through different cancer websites and will go to sign the guestbook only to see that somehow, Sue G. has already been there before me. She spends a lot of time signing guestbooks and doesn't just say "Hi. I was here." No, if you've read her entries before, you know they're like something out of a book or a (well written) greeting card. She and her writing are amazing.

Thing Four

Many of you remember that my Dad passed away in August of 2009. Yesterday, was his first birthday spent in heaven--he would have been seventy-four years old. And in heaven, since there is no tallying of years, hours, or minutes, he didn't even know he was supposed to be seventy-four! All he knew was that he was very happy, and that he didn't hurt anymore, and that he could run faster in heaven than the fastest Olympian on earth. (His whole life he always said he couldn't wait to get to heaven so that he could run without pain or weakness.)

So what I pictured him doing on his birthday (instead of blowing out candles on a cake) was spending lots of time (hours, centuries, millenia?) just running. And then running some more. And then being happy that he was able to run, able to breathe freely, able to be at peace in a land infused with the most joyous joys imaginable.

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you!

I'll close with a few pictures of him . . .

This is after Sarah's bone marrow transplant. She enjoyed trying to beat her grandpa at air hockey.
Dad with our unofficially adopted brother, Ron. In this picture, Dad had to use a cane. In heaven? No canes allowed.
One of my favorite shots of him. This was taken when he was on the road with us as we traveled from state to state doing concerts and services. He was the kind of person who was always trying to find something helpful to do. I love seeing him in this act of service, with the cross and the sunset behind him.
Sarah and Grandpa. This one needs no words.
Dad bought this guitar for me a long time ago, when I first started guitar lessons. He really couldn't afford it, but he and mom were always my greatest champions and cheerleaders when it came to my music. After I switched to playing piano, he used the guitar himself and loved it so much. Unfortunately, it was stolen from his van about a year before he died.
Mom and Dad--singing on earth, practicing for the eternity that they will sing together.

Always

My Biggest Fans

Late last year, Steve said he felt like our family needed to make a trip to Wisconsin for Christmas. Although I had been with my parents and five siblings (who all live in Wisconsin and Minnesota) many times since I got married, it had been almost thirty years since I had been able to be with them at Christmas.

So we decided that it was time to go.

And as it turned out, it was more than time to go--it was also timely for us to go. Because Christmas 2008 was the last Christmas my dad would be us.

So we packed our bags and made the 2,500 hundred mile, round trip journey, creating a lot happy, snowy memories in the process.







Here I am at my parent's house, playing a game with my oldest brother Tim, and youngest sister, Debbie, and their families.




One evening during our visit, we went with Mom and Dad to one of their many nursing home concerts.




I did a couple songs with them, which was really special for me since they are the ones who gave me my love (and talent) for music. They encouraged me every step of the way as I became a guitar player, a piano player, a songwriter, and a singer. It is no exaggeration to say that they have always been my biggest fans.




And just to demonstrate that music is a great gift to pass down through the generations, Steve and I performed a song with Nathan.


At the end of the visit when we said our good byes, none of us knew that we wouldn't see Dad again.



But as much as I miss him, I know that Dad is healed, whole, and happy and that he's staying busy in heaven, telling all of his dramatic stories.


I also know that whether on earth or in heaven, he and mom will never stop being my biggest fans.

And I am blessed.

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From the Comments Section

There were a couple questions/comments about how old I was when I got married.

Steve was twenty-four and I was just nineteen. In fact, when I got married, I was younger than Nathan is right now. Yikes!

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Kathy asked if I had any family in Mount Holly, NC.

Kathy, Steve's parent's live in the Coulwood neighborhood, and his two brothers are both within fifteen minutes of Paw Creek church. None of them live specifically in Mount Holly, though.

A Hello To Heaven

It's been a week already since Dad was buried. Hard to believe. Hard to grasp. Hard to get used to.

A few days ago I was driving to the grocery store when the reality of his loss hit me anew and I suddenly just blurted aloud, "Dad is dead."

Almost instantly I felt my throat tighten and the tears well up.

After just a moment or two had passed I changed tactics a little and said instead, "Dad is in heaven!"

For him--what a lovely change of place. For me--what a lovely change of pace.

Sorrow to gladness in 4.5 seconds. How grateful I am for the hope of heaven.


We committed Dad to the hope and the hands of heaven last Saturday in the serene and lovely Shamrock Church and Cemetery.


For me at least, the small family ceremony we had there in the midst of that halcyon piece of heaven was the most meaningful, poignant part of the day.

First, as I've mentioned before, there was the graveside service. . .






And then we walked up the hill to the church so that we could spend a little extra time together. (My brother Phil is to the left of Mom; my brother Mark and his wife, Nancy, are behind them.)








On the way in the door, Mom gave the old bell a good pull which was a really nice way to send a hello to heaven.



The service in that diminutive sanctuary was not formal or excruciatingly well organized; we just meandered happily back and forth between the sharing of memories and the sharing of old hymns.



This is my oldest brother, Tim. His wife, Berit, and son, Andrew, are beside him.


Sarah said that her grandpa's nickname for her was "Bumpee" and that she remembered him coming to the hospital during her cancer treatment to cheer her up.



In between the memories shared, different people would yell out favorite hymns and away we would go on a song. Fortunately, I got cut my teeth on church hymns so I was quite happy to do the "piano honors."



One of the highlights of our informal gathering was when Randy invited the ladies forward to sing. Guess who played the piano for THAT musical number? Not me, that's who!


It was such an inspiration to witness a woman who had just buried her husband still be able to find the emotional strength to sit down at a piano and play, "What A Friend We Have in Jesus."

Although her husband and earthly friend was gone, her best Friend was very present in that room while we sang.



At the end of that lovely hour, we got ourselves organized for a family photo. I've always been the type of person who loves taking pictures before and after the "real photo" and so that's what I did.







Eventually, everyone got lined up and we photographed a memory.


Following the sharing of the pictures, the memories, and the music, all of us joined hands and said The Lord's Prayer together. To my mind, there are few sounds on earth any sweeter than family voices wending their way through the dusty sacredness of a tranquil, country church.

After the final "Amen," was said, some of the family members stayed around to chat.

This is my sister, Ruth, her husband, Arnold (on the left) and our cousin, Jonathan.


As a few of us walked back out to the cemetery, I happened to notice that my nepehws had developed their very own wonderful and wacky way of walking.


My siblings and I have grandparents, great grandparents and great great grandparents who are buried in that cemetery; after a bit of searching, we found some graves with familiar names.

This is the grave of my dad's parents. The last name isn't "Campbell" because Dad's birth dad died when my dad was just a couple days old. His mom later remarried.



Even though the afternoon at that church was so very special, the most meaningful part of the day for me was thinking back to when when I was a young girl and remembering how our family would occasionally drive half an hour or so from our home to the church. (The church was always unlocked back then. It is also also quaint enough that it still has "working" outhouses!) We would go and sit in the sanctuary during the week, just to enjoy its serenity and its beauty.

I remember so well how I would take my little girl self up to that platform (with mom playing the piano) and belt out songs to the empty pews, picturing in my heart the day when I would stand on church platforms and sing for real.

It's hard for me to even express how special it was for me to go back there for the first time in almost forty years and sing in that very same spot, surrounded by the members of my family and accompanied once again on the piano by a lovely, godly, musical mother. (The only difference is that Dad wasn't listening to me sing and cheering me on, which he did for me my entire life.)

During those magical moments last Saturday I kept saying to myself, "Don't rush through this. Don't think about tomorrow or next week. Don't worry about selling the house or finding a new church. Moments like these don't come very often and they're gone almost before they begin.

I reminded myself to honor the memories that brought me there, to honor the memories that were being made, and to honor the man in whose memory my family and I had gathered.

And most of all, I hoped that the memories, the music, and the prayers we had offered that day would all coalesce into a holy hello--a hello to both of my fathers who are in heaven.

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VIDEO NOTE

I wasn't able to type this info in the video entry below so I'll introduce the video here instead.

In the post below, you'll find a video of us ladies singing, "What a Friend We Have In Jesus," the song that I wrote about in the post above.

Halfway through the video, you will also see my "unofficially adopted brother" Ron looking like he is catching a fly by hand. (Ron has many ways of making our family smile!)

I would also like to add (concerning the video) that it looks like Phil is lending assistance to my Mom because she can't walk easily by herself. The truth of the matter is that Mom takes many walks a week on her own and the fact that Phil is being so solicitous is just a wonderful picture of how thoughtful and caring my big (tough) brother actually is. (Love ya, Phil!)

Dad Woulda Love It

I honestly think that our family sort of alarmed the funeral home people at the church where Dad's funeral was held. I don't think they were quite used to a semi-rowdy visitation. I think they probably went back to the funeral home and compared bewildered notes saying, "That family! They were so . . . so . . . loud! And . . . and . . . so cheerful!"

Our family is large and our family is loud. And even at Dad's visitation, we were pretty much prone to conversation and laughter.

Dad woulda loved it.

At his funeral, the sanctuary was reserved for the casket and a quiet meditation area and the lobby was set aside for a "visiting with each other" area. During the time right before the funeral, the lobby was full of people who hadn't seen each other in a very long time. In fact, Sarah and Nathan were introduced to so many previously unmet relatives, their heads were no doubt spinning.

"Sarah, this is your Grandpa Campbell's sister's son-in-law's daughter." (Or something like that.)

She and Nathan gamely smiled and shook hands with oodles of Wonderful Relatives Who Were Hitherto Strangers. They hugged and chattered and chatted for ninety minutes straight and seemed to enjoy every moment of the cheery familial chaos.

Sarah actually happened to know these particular relatives--my brother Phil and his daughter, Jessica.



Phil, Sarah, and our "adopted brother," Ron.



Ron loves to act goofy and get other people to act goofy with him.



At one point during the morning, I went into the bathroom which was just off the lobby. I stood for a minute and listened to the hullabaloo going on beyond the bathroom door and I thought to myself, "That doesn't sound like a funeral visitation. It sounds like a party!"

Dad woulda loved it.


The funeral included two 15-minute sermons; one by Steve and the other by my brother-in-law, Rev. Randy Mantik.



The funeral also featured drums (with playing duties shared by Debbie and Nathan), electric bass guitar (Steve), electronic keyboard (me), great harmony, (Debbie and I, singing with Randy) a couple hymns and one really rockin' praise song.

Here's Debbie, in her natural habitat. (This was during rehearsal the night before the funeral.)



And here's Debbie's big sister, doin' her thing.



Randy, filling in on the bass during rehearsal until Steve could get there from the airport.



Steve and Debbie goofing off together after the rehearsal. After traveling seven years together, the two of them are as close as blood brother and sister.


It was so wonderful to make music with my family again. It was great to have a wonderful blend of traditional music (It Is Well With My Soul) mixed in with a kickin,' fast song. And it was especially heartening to see people on their feet, clapping, smiling and singing with the greatest gusto,

When we all get to heaven
What a day of rejoicing that will be
When we all see Jesus
We'll sing and shout the victory.

Dad woulda loved it.

Dad loved music. In fact, he and Mom spent the eight years before he died faithfully making the rounds of twenty-two nursing homes in the area, singing and playing their instruments. (Even when failing health should have kept them home.)

He was all about music. He was all about sharing his love of music and his love of the Lord.

We got to join them on a nursing home visit when we were visiting them at Christmas. What a treasured memory.







Immediately following Dad's funeral, my children happened upon this particular item in the youth hall at the church.



I found it especially appropriate that they would be playing Foosball on the day of their grandpa's funeral because for seven years (back when I was a teenager), Mom and Dad ran a youth center in Sparta, WI. It was a place for teens to hang out and listen to Christian music, read, talk, and play games like Foosball, pool and table tennis. (Dad loved Foosball but was especially good at pool. )

His Place attracted a wide variety of people--soldiers from nearby Fort McCoy, drug pushers, church kids, troublemakers, high school sports heroes, troubled kids, good kids--at one time or another, most of the kids in our small town made their way into His Place.

In fact, I got an email yesterday from a dear "lifetime friend" who grew up in Sparta and was often at His Place. She had these memories to share:

I remember your Dad fondly for all of the hours he put into His Place. His love and concern for the youth in Sparta was amazing. I couldn't fully appreciate it at the time, but I look back and see nothing but the unselfish giving of himself and his finances so that others would hear the Word of God, be saved, and walk in new life. His heart and his passion was to see people come to know the Lord.

God used your Dad to make a huge impact on the lives of so many young people, including me and my brothers. During those critical teen years when so many "opportunities" tug on your heart, His Place offered a refuge, a safe haven, and a fun place for kids like myself to hang out, be encouraged in my faith, and have that support from other Christian kids. Your Dad also served as an informal mentor and father figure to the kids who came and went from His Place.

I'll never forget one night I was down there showing you and a few other people my graduation pictures. One guy named Dan was there and looking at the pictures. His comment was something along the line of, "Those pictures are good enough for Playboy."

Your Dad was standing there and immediately corrected that young man, saying that women were to be respected and that comment was out of line.

That conversation continued as your Dad wrapped his arm around Dan's shoulders and walked him away from the where we were all standing, talking in a lowered voice for just the two of them to hear, as a Dad would with a son.

So many memories...God rest his soul.

And so, having said all that and given you all that history, I thought it would be safe for me to close out this post with highly incriminating pictures that will prove to the whole world that I was actually spotted playing Foosball mere moments after my own father's funeral.






Dad woulda loved it.

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By the way, I'd like to thank those of you who sent cards (AKA envelopes full of joy) to my favorite Mom. I actually got to be there when she retrieved a few of them from the mailbox and it was so great to see her excitement. She said that cards are still continuing to arrive.

Tomorrow I'll close out the Trip to Wisconsin series with a story about our family's post-funeral jaunt through the Wisconsin countryside to a place where we experienced laughter, music, tears and memories. (Not to mention outhouses.)