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Signs of Life

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

Signs of Life

When you feel that little nudge from God to reach out to a friend, never

Ignore it. I believe that these are signs....signals about someone special in your life. Pay attention; you’ll be glad you did.

Such was the case last week when a photo memory appeared on my Facebook page. It was a picture taken many years ago of a lifelong friend

and me at my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary; he had been

our former pastor........I always simply referred to him as Preacher, and that term of endearment had stuck. Preacher had officiated at our wedding; he had baptized my husband, a former Lutheran, and had later ordained him as a Southern Baptist deacon. In short, he had been there for us during the most memorable times in our lives, including the birth of our daughters and those instances when only the advice of a good friend with a hot line straight to God would suffice.

That photo prompted me to search for our old wedding album, a collection of precious memories.......There we were, in our early twenties, full of dreams and determined to live a life full of happily-ever-afters. Preacher was standing over us as we knelt at the altar; he was grinning from ear to ear; I think he knew he was tying a knot that would last a lifetime. One memory led to another, and I spent the afternoon remembering how this Man of God had been with us as friend and counselor throughout most of our lives, well

after he moved to another town and was called to be the pastor at another church. We stayed in touch through emails and phone calls. He had

suffered tragedy in his life, and I liked to think that the bond of our friendship had lifted some of his burdens as he had lifted ours. We would sometimes

visit when he moved to Nashville, never failing to bring our girls with us so they could get to know this special person. He took us on whirlwind tours of the city and the beautiful Opryland Hotel where he was a chaplain; we shared meals and laughed about old times; and he always, always shared his love for the Lord with our family. He prayed the prayer of salvation with our older daughter.

His impact on our lives was immeasurable.

His hair was fiery red, and he had a voice and a laugh that was

unmistakable; his personality lit up any room, and he could preach a

sermon that was the envy of any revival evangelist. He made life better for others and we were definitely blessed by him and his joy in Christ and in life itself.

Those memories prompted me to make a phone call to a number I hadn’t called in far too long. At age 91, his voice was a little weaker, but still

a joy to hear. He recognized both my phone number and my voice, and it was as if the years had been erased, and time and distance didn’t exist. We talked. We laughed. We caught up on the important things. Then we said good-bye.

Last night I was awakened by a phone message informing me that our beloved Preacher had passed away. It’s odd how learning of a death sucks

the breath from your body......how everything stands still, and the silence is deafening. People don’t say “death” much anymore when referring to someone’s dying; they say, “arrived in heaven” or “in the arms of God.” I like that better.

Death sounds so final, so definitive; but death is just the beginning. I recently saw the quote: We don’t HAVE a soul; we ARE a soul; and that soul has a home in heaven. My Preacher is at home in heaven, and I am so

thankful that God allowed me to have one last conversation with him before

he walked through those gates.

The Scenic Route

By Jennifer Jackson Whittier

My recent day trip to St. Francisville, Louisiana, falls under the category of “You can’t get there from here” places. At least you can’t get there easily from my hometown of Brookhaven, Mississippi. There was no interstate highway that led from my home to my destination; instead, my vehicle navigational device allowed me to choose from several options, including a variety of scenic routes through territory totally unfamiliar to this traveler......and so the adventure with my granddaughter begins.

Maddie and I chose the first route option, which proved to be a most unwise decision. As we left familiar territory, we were then guided onto narrow, two lane roads, some practically void of that helpful center yellow line; but we continued undaunted. The scenery was lovely, but the houses were few and far apart. Winding roads, some that haven’t seen pavement in far too many years, and some covered in loose gravel would unfortunately be our route for most of the trip. Actually, that was fine with us; we had little else to do, and we were determined to make it to St. Francisville in time for lunch at The Magnolia Café.

Finally, a major highway appeared, and within a matter of minutes, we were seated in the quaint, colorful dining area of The Magnolia. The special of the day was mesquite grilled chicken, topped with fresh tomatoes, bacon, and creamy pepper jack cheese.....delicious! The café was filled with locals, which definitely confirmed our choice as an excellent one. After a walk around the charming motor court cottages adjacent to the café, we headed for our next destination, The Myrtles Plantation. A mixture of curiosity and a fascination with the haunted history of The Myrtles had prompted our trip in the first place. The long, shaded driveway was typical of the era and seemed to wrap the home in a veil of sadness. The Myrtles has become the destination of curious sightseers and ghost hunters for many years, but with the help of social media, its popularity has expanded. Tours are scheduled daily, and the main house and cottages are available for overnight guests. That option was definitely not in our plans; a guided tour would be sufficient. Our guide had quite a sense of humor, and we enjoyed her personality as much as her knowledge of history. After the forty-five minute tour, she quipped, “If you enjoyed the tour, my name is Debbie; if you didn’t my name is Janet.” We had a lot of things to think and to talk about on our way home. Unfortunately......or fortunately, there were no ghostly encounters or cold drafts to report, but the day had definitely been one to remember. I didn’t have to remind myself how lucky I was that my eleven year old granddaughter found joy in spending time with me. I didn’t mind the winding, twisted roads that led us toour adventure. I found myself occasionally looking at that eleven year old’s face and being thankful that she still enjoyed my company, my corny jokes, my ‘70s music, and the fact that I move a little slower as the years pass. She’s quick to hold my hand and give me unexpected hugs; those things are priceless.