It all began in a little four-room house in a little mill
village in Columbus, Georgia. The year was 1935. The country was just beginning
to stagger out of the Depression. My parents, not able to eke out a living in
farming in South Alabama—moved all their belongings into a wagon and traveled
to Columbus, Georgia—a little over a hundred miles. They heard there was work
in the mills in Georgia.
They found work. Lived in two rooms of a four-room house.
They didn’t think they would ever have children—and they didn’t for over ten
years. But one day after just about giving up—guess what—my Mother was
pregnant. Nine months later I came bawling into the world in that four-room
rented house on First Avenue across from the mill. We would live there all my
growing-up years.
That was 78 years ago. And here I sit on the eve of this
birthday—thinking, thinking. I remember every nook and cranny of that little
house—the few nooks and crannies that there were. I can tell you after all
these years about how the kitchen looked and what was in the pantry. I could
draw a layout of all four rooms—where the beds were and where we kept our few
clothes. I remember what the back yard looked like and I can still remember
most of the neighbors that lived nearby.
I remember as a little boy wondering what it would be like
to grow up. Where would I
be? What would I be doing? One thing I knew I did not
want to stay in that house and work in that mill across the street. When I got
older I did work there in summers—and I wanted something else.
Nobody had ever been to college in my family—and a few
people nudged me in that direction. And so one September morning I hauled my
footlocker out to the street and lifted it into a friend’s car—and we were off
to where we did not rightly know.
College was like a dream in some ways. About as
non-ivy-league as you could get. And yet I discovered friends and books and a
much larger world than I ever envisioned. I traveled out west one summer and
worked. I went to New York for the first time. I worked in a YMCA camp in New
Jersey. And all the while I was feeling a pull toward the church.
And so I put that same footlocker on a train one morning and
headed for Louisville, Kentucky. Seminary stretched me even further. And living
in Louisville—a great big bustling city was fun. I worked for four years in a
downtown YMCA for
underprivileged kids and learned something I have never
forgotten about raw poverty. I met a girl one night on a blind date and three
years later we married on a cold January night. It was the best thing I ever,
ever did.
After graduation there were a series of churches in Kentucky
and Virginia and South Carolina and Tennessee and Alabama. Six in all. I
learned like Paul: "We really do have the treasure in earthen vessels.”
The ones I served—at least some of them were pretty earthen.
In my first church our redheaded daughter was born. We just
celebrated her 50th birthday this week. In my second church was had
a second redhead—this time a boy.
I have been blessed by people in every church I ever served.
I look back and I can still see their faces and remember many of their names.
If love really is what you go through together—then I have known the love of a
great many people.
I have lived all the turbulent storms we have all been through.
I have known assassinations and racial struggles and wars and suicides from
people I love. I have stuck my neck out for the poor and the disenfranchised
and gays and anybody else bullied by the world. I don’t know if any of it has
any made any difference but I have tried.
After six churches I retired at 65 and the church I served
threw a good-bye party and people from all six churches came to that wonderful
weekend. Retirement followed. Seemed scary. But I went from church to church as
Interim Pastor until I had served seven congregations after retirement.
There were days when I didn’t think I could stand it no
longer. In those painful growing-up adolescent days. In those work days in the
mill all night long. In college and sometimes in Seminary when I had so little
money and wondered about the future. Sometimes after a terrible Business
meeting at church.
The black dog of depression has stalked me all my life. Not
every day. Not every month—but enough to make my life miserable at times. What
helped? The love of my wife who stayed and loved and nudged me on. Two kids
that I am so proud of. Two grandchildren that make me smile. One in college now
and the other just turned 18. My brother and his family in Georgia are
important to me. And friends—my, my I have a couple of friends that have always
been there and without them I do not know what I would do.
On the edge of 78 I write a little. I pray some. I work a
little in the church I once served for 13 years. My wife and I take trips
occasionally. Who would have ever believed this little boy would grow up and
spend time in England—Fareham and Oxford? And there was France and Belgium and
Germany and Switzerland and Austria and Italy and Hungary and Prague. Every
trip left me open-mouthed and joyful.
The phone rings and from out west one of our oldest friends
lost his wife. Closer here I learn that she or he is battling cancer and the
time may not be long. As the darkness gets closer it’s scary. So I work some, I
work out some. I read a lot. I spend some time on the phone. I teach Grief
groups that help me, probably as much as it helps them. I work some at the
church. We go to movies and watch things on TV. I dig in the yard.
My feet hurt and I cannot run as I have done most of my
adult life. After working outside I get tired in ways I did not before. I
travel downtown to see the skin doctor. Sometimes my back hurts. The old black
dog comes sauntering back when I least expect him. But thank God, he does not
stay as long as he did.
And so here I am. Life has been rich indeed. Never would I
have dreamed it would be as it has been.
And whatever time I have left—and there is not as much ahead as there
was behind—I hope I can spend each day as if a little boy in a candy store with
rows and rows of choices.
Sitting at that kitchen table in the house where I was
born, as a young teen-ager I would put my face in my hands and feel so bad. And
Nancy, our maid and good friend, would say, “Mr. Roger, look at me. You just
wait! You just wait!” Looking back, over my shoulder—I now know she was right.
--by Roger Lovette, rogerlovette.blogspot.com
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
