November 21, 2007
When I was very young my family would travel from Dallas to Tennessee at least twice a year to visit my grandparents. My father always insisted that we take one day to go and visit all of his distant aunts, uncles, and cousins. On the appointed day we would pile into the car and start down the highway towards Puryear, Tennessee and then on to Hazel, Kentucky, stopping to visit all the Underwoods on the way.
This was for the most part enjoyable to me, especially the visit to “Pal” and “Dee,” who always greeted us boys with ice cold cokes and Hershey bars. But there was one visit that I always dreaded. It was to an old couple – distant cousins of some kind -- who lived, with their grown son, in a shack on the highway. I’m sure that they lived on a government pension of some kind, and the son was “not quite right.” Looking back, he was very reminiscent of the Boo Radley character in To Kill A Mockingbird, and I was uneasy in his presence. The little frame house was always dirty, and it was cold and drafty in the winter months. I hated going there, and I rejoiced when we finally ended our “visit” and got back on the road.
For the most part I have not given a second thought to this family for the past 50 years, but recently they have been on my mind. They are, of course, no longer there. In fact, that venerable part of Tennessee has now become only the final resting place to most of the Underwoods and Kellys who once lived there. But recently I have been thinking about them quite a bit. I do not recall their names or their relationship to my father, but I vividly remember their warm hospitality in the midst of scarcity, the long conversations about people I did not know, and their deep appreciation for my father and his thoughtfulness and fidelity.
Most of all I’ve been thinking about my father and the lessons that he was silently teaching us. He wanted us to know that family is family, deserving of our love and respect regardless of circumstances. And looking back I now understand, after 50 years, that he wanted his children to appreciate and give thanks for the many blessings that they did not earn. Though I grew up in a very modest east Dallas neighborhood, my trips to this family were a vivid reminder of just how rich we were.
Now, pushing 60, I continue to think about that family. I give thanks for them and all the lessons that I learned from them. And I give thanks for my father who, in so many ways, taught me the importance of Thanksgiving.
P.S. If you have not yet made your pledge to the 2008 Ministry Budget, click here. It’s fast, easy, and secure.