I was fortunate in the parents I was assigned. Not everyone is. They did their best to give me opportunities they never had. As a child, there were times when I did not understand my good fortune. That has changed. My father was tender, caring, emotional. My mother loved me as much as Dad did, but she showed her love in tough ways. She expected me to perform well in school. She set standards for me that I resented at the time, but down the road I realized they were necessary life skills. With the passing years I look more and more like my aged father. Any sense of humor I have came from him.

If ever I am purposeful and persistent, wise and prudent, honest and straight-thinking . . . I’m like my mother. Not everyone has that heritage. My parents were God’s first gift to me, and one of His best. I’m glad I became a pastor/preacher. There were times when the frustrations of being the pastor discouraged me. I considered getting out of the ministry and into other work (I suspect most career pastors go through bouts of frustration that make them think similar thoughts). But I weathered those times and stayed with it.

Doing church work was the most satisfying and the most significant work I did. I got into people’s lives. Some of them were moved toward God and have said so. People now fifty years old and in mid career thank me for something lost to my memory. They said I made a difference. Now I teach young people who are preparing to be pastors. I hope they stick with their calling too. I did not do everything right when I was a pastor, but I was about God’s business. When I was about God’s business, my life was enlarged and given dignity because of the nature of my work.

I’m glad I married Dot. We had a three-year courtship; she was concerned that I was nearly ten years her junior. Would that make for a mismatch and a difficult marriage? It didn’t. She was a wonderful companion, but she was more. Her quiet goodness was a moral compass for me through uncertain waters. Not all pastors have a wife like Dot. She took the “pastor’s wife” life and made it her calling. When a church got me, they got Dot too. She never worked outside the home after I went to Chamblee (September 1956). My work was her concern. Going to church was never a chore for her; it was her job just as it was mine. She read everything she could find about how to be a “pastor’s wife.” Before Alzheimer’s came upon her, she would have been a good teacher about how to do the job. We never stopped being in love. Always it has been a marriage, not an arrangement. Late in life she said, “I want to thank you for not having a mistress . . . except the Church.” She was all I needed.

Our daughter has been a grace note in our lives. She blessed us from birth. There were times when parenting her was a challenge, but either we (Dot and I) grew up or Genie did. Either way, it surely has turned out well. Now with our age, Genie is no longer our daughter; she is becoming our caretaker. She has done this willingly and gracefully. In so many ways I see Dot in the fifty-year-old Genie. She is a devout, devotional Christian. Her willingness to identify with causes that have moral content is like that of her mother. She cares about what people think of her, but that care does not order her life. Or, put another way, she is willing to take an unpopular position if she believes her faith drives her to it. Like most fathers, I’m proud of our daughter. Like most fathers, I wish I had spent more time with her when she was a child.

I was fortunate in the churches I served. Chamblee, College Station, Asheville (especially Asheville), and Broadway were right churches for Dot and me. Until I was halfway through the Asheville years, I was learning. I was green, unseasoned, and sometimes immature. Those people put up with my on-the-job training, helped me when I stumbled, and gave me time to grow. Not all pastors have been so lucky. I was forgiven and granted another chance. Some pastors have been dismissed for the same kinds of immaturity for which I was given a second chance. I wish I could take credit for making good choices in my churches, but mainly it was Providence, God’s doing. That means it was gift, and I am grateful.

Along the way strangers became friends, and friends became almost family. I don’t have hundreds of such people; I don’t need hundreds. But now that age has come, I stay in touch with these friends. We have common memory banks; we can draw up stories from the past. When we do, time stands still, or maybe time goes into reverse. It is 1964, or 1980, or 1991, and I am again involved in causes and conflicts. The years fall away. Those stories give humor and substance to our friendships, and they give meaning to our lives. I’m not sure we set out to make friends; some people just fit, come close, share common convictions, and become friends. This is no place to name them. They know who they are, and they know how much I care for them...