Category: Eulogies

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Ida Partlow Eulogy

First a story: The Mines of Moria were dark, dreary, and dismal. The stench was almost nauseating. Moria ran under and through the Misty Mountains and the heart of the kingdom lay beneath three great peaks of the that mountain range: Cloudyhead, Redhorn, and Silvertine. A long history exists in Moria where the Longbeard Dwarfs lived and mined its treasures, including the valuable gem mithril. But dangers covered the lands of Moria, for deep withing its depths was Durin’s bane, the Balrog, who destroyed Balin and those serving him.

Frodo was unaware of Moria’s long and treacherous history. He was only concerned with his future. The Fellowship was forced to enter Moria, and after the long journey of winding through the stench-filled halls, they came to an impasse. Three archways stood before them, and the Fellowship sat waiting for a revelation as to the direction they should go. With Gollum tracking their movements, and a distraught Hobbit already feeling the burden of carrying the evil Ring, Frodo lamented to his mentor, “I wish the Ring had not come to me.”

Frodo’s lament is our lament as we try to define or change the context of our life’s situation. Seeking a means to alter or understand a deeper meaning to our current reality is always tempting. We cry out, “I wish the Ring had not come to me.” What we are offered is Gandalf’s wisdom, in one of Tolkien’s best lines ever written, “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

What do you do with the time given, especially if the time is cloaked in darkness. Tolkien was very aware of such time coming to him. He was orphaned as a child, abandoned by his family because his mother converted to Catholicism, and just when he reached the height of human optimism – both in era and in age – the most dehumanizing, demoralizing, and devastating war broke out. Other than Tolkien, only one of his Oxford schoolmates came home from World War I. Instead of pouring himself into self-pity, he poured himself into creating an entire legendarium which captured the imagination of so many readers, including our mother, to remind us that hope prevails, evil can be defeated, good still exists, and it’s worth fighting for.

Ida Pearl Mathews Partlow knew something of the struggle to decide what to do with the time, when so much of her “time” in her formulative years was shrouded in darkness – a darkness not unlike the kind covered by Middle-earth. We will never know her whole story, but the highlights include divorced dysfunctional parents, raised by her father not her mother, abducted by her mother and boyfriend passed off as an uncle, and forced to testify against her mother. Traumatized, neglected, abused do not begin to uncover the darkness mother experienced. Like an iceberg on the waters, what I’ve described is only its tip, and its bad enough. What is darkly disturbing and dangerously depraved lies beneath the waters, and we will never know that story. But it’s there. Similar to Frodo carrying the One Ring, mom never could shake what those years had done to her and were still doing to her. Maybe her greatest fear, just maybe, was devolving into Gollum, or something worse. Something a lot worse.

She fought the magnetic pull into darkness with all her strength, and everything she did seemed to be a fearful move to keep her from the darkness instead of embracing the freedom of the Light. So, as a teen she wrote Psalm 1 on paper and mounted it to the ceiling of her bedroom to read first thing in the morning and last thing at night in an effort to help form and shape her character.

As a founding member of the Ontario, Oregon Church of Christ, mom was not about to face the world or church alone. Her best friend was Pat, whom she invited to church and eventually led to Christ. She may have been the first person mom studied with, but she certainly wasn’t the last. After high school Mom and Pat packed their bags to seek their fortunes in Portland, though mom’s plans were really to enroll at Abiline Christian College. Having secured room and board at the home of Clayton and Alma Towell, the two single women were barely unpacked when a knock at the door came. Before them were two young troubadours holding guitars ready to woo the girls. One of those wide-eyed young men was our father, Dean Partlow. He was almost everything mom could hope for in a man. Almost. But the one thing he really lacked became more than mom ever imagined. She wanted, or better yet, needed a man who loved God and loved her. By their forty-seventh year together no one could have loved both our mom and God more than our dad. Part of that is attributed to dad. Part of that is attributed to mom. All of it can be attributed to God’s reckless pursuit of both.

Whatever motivation kept mom away from the darkness, she chose to serve people and found great pleasure in fulfilling the role of a servant. She used her sewing to make hospital gowns sent to Chimala Mission Hospital in Tanzania, Africa specifically for mothers and their newborns. By taking used men’s dress shirts, she cut off the collar, sleeves, and buttons before sewing the bodice together for the gown. Taking the sleeves, she made a smaller version of the gown so that the mother and child would have matching outfits when they go home.

For ten years she served the students of Columbia Christian Schools as their librarian, where a segment of the students found a solace from the world in the library with Mrs. Partlow, and likely many more appreciated her presence after graduation than before.

And mom may have been in her element when she opened her home for guests. Dad might as well have installed a revolving door; he might have been served well to charge admission. From mom’s Mystery Dinners to neighborhood children like the Van Horns to the dozen or more individuals who found a second home because they needed temporary shelter. Mind you, the purple house on Oak Street had one bathroom, so opening our home was no easy task. But that didn’t stop mom. Not a lot stopped our mother’s forward progress.

And finally, the work dad and mom invested in the Asian congregation may be unmeasurable. Friendships were established, relationships built, and people were led to Christ because of mom and dad’s hospitable presence, love for Jesus, and daring to live by faith.

If I could share with you one TikTok moment of mom – a Snapchat that highlights the very best of mom, it was on a Sunday summer afternoon in 1974. Deanna and I were playing under the dining room table. It wasn’t a normal place we found ourselves playing, but here we were doing something in our imaginary world, while conversing under the big wooden table, and of all the topics to discuss, we were talking of our church experience only hours earlier.

As it turned out, our third/fourth grade Bible teacher was a no-show, and if truth be known, so was everyone else in our class. So, Beverly Van Horn told us to go to the next class, which had no teacher either. By-passing the fifth and sixth grade class, we ventured to the junior high class in the far reaches of the old Central Church of Christ building on Stark Street. Climbing those stairs to an attic room, like Quasimodo climbing the cathedral steps of Notre Dame, we reached the room. As we opened the door, mom was sitting on a chair with the children around her in a semicircle. She was teaching class.

I cannot remember the lesson for the day. Maybe it was the little boy David down by the brook gathering five smooth stones as he prepared to face Goliath. Maybe it was Gideon, her favorite story, leading his men down to the river, not to pray, but to drink or lap like a dog, only for ten thousand soldiers to be discharged and sent home. Or maybe it was the scene in the garden, Gethsemane. And if you listen closely without falling asleep you can hear the words Jesus prayed, and if you looked intently, you could almost see his sweat dropping from his face as he was experiencing the spiritual version of the olive press. Such was the experience when mom taught Bible class.

I wish I could recall the Bible lesson, but I can’t. I do remember that as Deanna and I sat under the dining table, we were talking about Bible class from that morning. And one of us turned to the other – and who turned to whom, I can’t remember that either – but said, “You know what the best part about mom teaching Bible class is? She makes you want to be a better person.”

Allow that statement to wash over yourself for a moment. For if the gospel message we proclaim does not stir within us the passion to allow the Spirit of God to form our lives (Gal. 4:19), to conform our actions (Rom. 8:29), and to transform our behavior (2 Cor. 3:18) so that we are shaped by Christ instead of the world, then we have failed the gospel. Failed. Instead, we are to be formed, conformed, and transformed into Christ, and anything less than that is a shadow of the reality. As the prophet said, “If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” If not, we might as well lust for the One Ring of Power and use its evil purpose for our corrupted good.

Mom felt this tension, especially in her relationships with those closest to her. She struggled to maintain clear, healthy, and proper boundaries which led to hurt and harmful moments. At times she found that friendships were informal, fun, and felt like their finality might last forever. At other times, as Galadriel warns the Fellowship, “(It) stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all.” We felt that. We were witnesses of her failed attempts to maintain her relationships. And if all of us are honest, we all have felt that. Possibly driven by fear instead faith, she – or we – fail to fully keep functionally the friendships God has graced us with. I know this was mom’s struggle, to the very end.

On Friday afternoon, July 6, Steve, Tim, David, Deanna, and myself gathered around mom one final time. We invited Dick Ady to lead us in prayer. Dick asked Ida if she had any questions. Not sure what Dick was seeking or what mom might say, I moved closer. The Partlow family friendship with our minister reached back sixty years, and curiosity caught me wondering what she might say. From her own insecurity, broken woundedness, and fear of failure, she into Dick’s eyes and asked, “Wwhy do you like me?”

If we’re really honest, her cry is our cry. Her insecurity is our insecurity. Her fear is our fear. On this side of Eternity we struggle to love each other, much less like each other. But on that side of Eternity, it’s a different story, or we might say, a different song. For God heals all wounds so that the scars no longer define us or hurt anymore – and we are never the cause of hurt, again. So if you listen closely, you can almost hear her sing – because in heaven, everyone sings like an angel, even mom. From the woman who now experiences full healing, her verse to us might reverberate in humble, confessional tones:

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to be some kind of friend,
I only wanted to see you laughing
I only wanted to see you dancing
In the Purple Rain!

It was Dick Ady’s reassurance, an assurance promised by God, coupled with her five children gathered around her, to hold her hand, to laugh and to sing, to affirm our love, and to say goodbye. It was that reassurance she so desperately needed to drift off into a restful sleep as she ventured into the forever Undying Lands.

So to mom, we say . . .

Lay down your sweet and weary head • The night is falling • You have come to journey’s end • Sleep now and dream of the ones who came before • They are calling from the across the distant shore • Why do you weep? • What are those tears upon your face? • Soon you will see (that) all of your fears will pass away • Safe in (His) arms • You’re only sleeping

What can you see on the horizon? • Why do the white gulls call? • Across the sea a pale moon rises • The ships have come to carry you home • And all will turn to Silver glass • A light on the water • All Souls pass

Hope fades into the world of night • Through shadows falling out of memory and time • Don’t say, “We have come now to the end” • White shores are calling • You and I will meet again and you’ll be here in my arms, Just sleeping

What can you see • On the horizon? • Why do the white gulls call? • Across the sea • A pale moon rises • The ships have come to carry you home • And all will turn • To silver glass • A light on the water • Grey ships pass into the West

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Memorial for Eugene Crisp

PBPWMGINFWMY – is an acronym for “Please Be Patient With Me God Is Not Finished With Me Yet.” The slogan began picking up steam and made its way around churches through buttons, posters, and bumper stickers about the time Gene and Esther started dating. Maybe, just maybe, PBPWMGINFWMY foreshadowed some things to come.

The acronym slogan makes two pleas: First, I am able to grow and even change as I’m not the same person today as I was yesterday. Secondly, will you extend to me the grace and time to change? The slogan is not an excuse for behavior, but a promise – with God’s help – to continue to work toward being a better version of yourself. Gene seemed to capture the essence of this slogan.

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Scripture is clear that God, not only calls us where we are, but that God also expects us to change our behavior, our thoughts, and our disposition so that we reflect Jesus in all areas of our lives. The Apostle Paul labels this process as Formed, Conformed, and Transformed.

● Formed > Galatians 4:19 says that Paul is sticking by his Galatian churches while they struggle against the legalism being imposed on them by outside forces. He’ll walk with them “until Christ is formed in them.” Obeying rules may provide guard rails, but will not change us until God begins forming Christ in us.

● Conformed > Romans 8:29 has Paul making a beautiful declaration that God is working for the good of those called according to his purpose, and those he called  are counted on to “conform to the likeness of Christ.” The expectation is clear as we are to be shaped in such a way that everything about us looks like Jesus.

● Transformed > 2 Corinthians 3:18 says the external markers of Christianity are not what
God is looking for in us. However, as we engage God, his glorious radiance begins emitting from within us, coupled with the working of the Holy Spirit, we are then “being transformed into Christ’s likeness.”

The call goes forth, but too many of us ignore it like water crashing over hearts of stone. We justify our pattern of sinfulness: our anger, manipulation tactics, pride & arrogance, shallow understanding of who God is, as the spiritual denial and smugness oozes from within. In our shame we compare ourselves to others and hide behind our sin by saying, “We’re just not that bad.”

So many of us who grew up in church have failed to take seriously God’s call. Surveys continue to show that those of us who are “Churched” are no different, morally or ethically, from the “Unchurched.” We have blurred the line between believers and non-believers, so that we make no difference in the world resulting in God’s power becoming impotent. All the time the world sits back confused in wonder instead of being mesmerized by wonder.

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Enter Gene Crisp, an unbeliever who in 1978 was described by the family as being harsh, impatient, indifferent, unappreciative, and even unconcerned about the people around him. But this unbeliever ran into a force he had to reckon with when he met the believer, Esther.

Their introduction was by two teenage friends, Henry and Dave. The boys, sons of Esther and Gene, seeing something in each parent, devised their own Parent Trap to get them together. But there was a hitch, as this was real life and not a Disney movie: Gene was not a Christian and Esther was not interested in being unequally yoked to a non-believer. To her credit, not only did she have her faith to consider, but her children as well. Out of the boys’ hands, and even out of Esther’s hands, God began to act. God worked through Esther so that Gene might be Formed, Conformed, and Transformed.

Gene was willing to study with Esther, and was open to being mentored by people like Harry Woodsworth. All this fell in line with a man who could see discipleship as an extension of his own discipline. From the guy who chose to eat spam and an oatmeal cream cookie for lunch. Every. Single. Day. Choosing that instead of Esther’s cooking. Or the fact that he went to bed every night at 11:00 – and sent everyone else to bed too. This discipline kicked in and he studied with Esther and he began buying into what she was selling. By 1981 Gene was a Christian man marrying a Christian woman.

But change wasn’t easy, because change, if it were to happen, is never easy. Gene and Esther were blending two families while figuring out how to follow Jesus. It was hard, harder than any of us ever realized. But Esther’s patient strength won out Gene – for the woman he loved helped him transform into the Gene we know today.

Gene credits his transformation to the respect he had for Esther. In a journal connected to a men’s class at church, discovered by his family and was composed some ten years in after his wedding day, Gene made clear the source of his change. In his own words, he writes,

“My moral, spiritual, relational standard has been affected greatly with the help and guidance of my wife, Esther.”

Or this one:

          “What I would put on my tombstone is not what I think but what others think of me. It
          would be nice if someone put on my tombstone, ‘Here lies the body of Gene Crisp,
          his soul has gone to heaven.’”

And finally, this one:

          “My Esther has influenced me for the better, my whole outlook on life has been
          completely turned around. I now give more thought to my answer and more of a
          Christian response in all my actions, thanks to her evidence in my quest to live a
          Christian life.”

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When I think of Gene, I won’t think about his love of Candy Corn, or his fifteen minute of heroic fame at the end of World War II, or his kind smile when he played with a small child. No, I’ll remember him sitting by Esther’s side at SOMC while his bride was recovering from a fall. While he sat by her side he gently held her hand, patting the top of it. I didn’t know then, but I know now that I was witnessing the end product of God working through Esther to Form, Conform, and Transform Gene so that . . .

his harshness gave way to gentleness,

his impatience surrendered to patience,

his indifferent submitted to compassion,

his un-appreciativeness conceded to thankfulness,

and his unconcerned mindset yielded to a caring man.

It’s a good thing that PBPWMGINFWMY can be applied to Gene, because of that we’ll always remember him as a truly changed man.

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Bobby Parmley (1934-2020)

“Listen!” so the text says, “A farmer went out to sow his seed.” Thus begins the parable of the sower in Mark 4, one of Bobby Parmley’s favorite passages in the New Testament. The parable is far from the pessimistic mindset and act of futility we might convince ourselves it says. Why does the sower continue to throw his seed after foolishness? Why sow seed where the birds devour it like a teenage boy devouring someone else’s dinner? Why sow seed on the rocky places where it lacks much soil only to be scorched by the sun? Why sow the seed in the thorny plants only to watch it get choked out by the weeds?

I’m sure an answer exists. If we research the background we’ll probably find an explanation. No doubt the reason includes a farmer with his bag of seed grabbing a handful of seeds and dispensing the seed across his body. Surely, most of the seed falls on the good soil. But as he dispenses his seed, it does fall on various types of soil, too. While most of the seed lands on good soil, a number of other seed falls on soil that wasn’t very good. But just because the soil is bad over there, doesn’t mean it’s bad over here. And so the farmer continues to sow his seed. Why? Because he lives in hope that the seed will take root, will grow and will eventually produce a bumper crop.

Hope. Not simply a fantasy of wishful thinking, but rooted in an expectation. A farmer does not plant his seed wishing the crop will grow. No. He plants his seed because he expects his crop to grow. It’s called hope. And as Paul says, “Hope does not disappoint.”

When Paul discusses hope in Romans 5, he places it in a context of suffering, perseverance and character development. Hope is present through the difficult times because God continues to pour out his love into us by means of his Holy Spirit. So we hold fast and forever cling to hope. For hope tells us to endure difficult times, believing that the seed sown will take root in people’s lives.

Herein is where Bobby Parmley lived. As a farmer he believed that seed sown will take root in the lives of the people who were with him. As a Christian man, he believed in an enduring faith that clung to God knowing life always gets better not worse. People under God-spell will reflect his beauty in their lives. Bobby understood that and held onto his seed bag of hope and chose to disperse it to everyone he encountered.

I saw him disperse his seed when he purchased watermelons, cantaloupe, tomatoes and other fruits from the Amish community and delivered them to residents of Todd County. Seeking nothing in return, he’d show up at your house with a big fat watermelon and wish you a “good day,” then move on to the next house. Why? Because he believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root in his neighbor’s lives to produce a harvest of hope.

I saw him disperse his seed when he hired my son, Matthew, to work for him. Matthew needed to fulfill a requirement for a Merit Badge in Boy Scouts that called for managing money. In other words, he needed a job and at fourteen not many opportunities are available for paid employment. So for one summer, Matthew went out to the Parmleys. He cleaned the pool, power-washed the porch, assemble some equipment and painted one of the small barns. At the end of the summer, he completed all the necessary requirements to earn his Merit Badge. When the next summer rolled around, Bobby approached Matthew to inquire if he was available to work for him again. And for each summer we lived in Elkton, Bobby hired Matthew to work for him. And Matthew will tell you that the quality of his work was low, but Bobby kept hiring him anyway. Why? Because Bobby liked Matthew and believed he was investing far more than just money into a teenager. Because he believed that a seed down in kindness and generosity takes root in Matthew’s life to produce a harvest of hope.

I saw him disperse his seeds on his weekly trash runs. Having collected his own trash, he made a run to his daughters’ homes to get their trash. Then he made his trip to the church building where he collected the church’s trash. Every week he made his trash runs, especially to the building when the trash was overflowing. He wasn’t paid. He never sought recognition. He simply wanted to serve. And he never thought it was beneath him to pick up trash, modeling what biblical servant leadership looks like. Why? Because he believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root in the West Side Church’s members’ lives to produce a harvest of hope. 

I saw him disperse his seeds when he remodeled his Farmall Tractors. He’d take old, rusty tractors and begin the process of refurbishing them. He’d disassemble the tractor and ensure every part was accounted for. He’d clean and scrub away the dirt and grim, and then grind away the rust. If parts were missing, broken or damaged, he’d have to search and find the right replacement piece. The final touch to the process was the paint job, making the tractor shine like new. Like new. Like God’s promise to make “all things news” (Rev.21:5). Why? Because he believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root, and can be visually expressed in the renovation of . . . how many old tractors . . . to show what can be, as a means to produce a harvest of hope.

I saw him disperse his seeds when he treated people with grace instead of vengeance, which is what they probably deserved. Some people ignored, dismissed and even belittled Bobby behind his back. Other people took full advantage of his kind generosity, thinking they may have pulled the wool over his eyes. In truth, Bobby was rarely fooled; every now and then – not very often – he’d share with me his assessment of people and situations. But he made the conscience decision to treat people better than they treated him, almost like Jesus said, “pray for your enemies” (Mt. 5:44). He refused to allow others to wound him, and chose to continue to respect people even when they refused to respect him. He was intentional, because esteeming others emerged from his Christian faith in Jesus. Why? Because he believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root even in his enemies’ lives to produce a harvest of hope.

I saw him disperse his seeds with his selective hearing. Sure, sometimes when you were talking to him or around him he couldn’t hear what was being said. He’d smile and nod as if he were engaged, but you knew he wasn’t. But there were other times when he heard everything being said and was engaged in the conversation at hand. He’d smile and nod because he was engaged, and maybe even spoke into the conversation. Then there were those “in between/selective hearing” moments. He heard you. He just didn’t want you to know he heard you. So he’d smile and nod, and you’d walk away thinking, “did he or didn’t he hear what was being said?”

 This “game” played out before my very eyes. The setting and the situation is irrelevant and I’ll protect all parties involved. I assessed that Bobby wasn’t hearing anything that was being said, and yet he was speaking into the conversation awkwardly. I was thinking, “Oh, poor Bobby. You’re not hearing what’s being said.” I felt bad for him. But then a couple of days later we were talking. And he joked about the previous conversations. I looked at him and clarified, “You heard everything that was being said?” Then his cheesy smile broke across his face and his eyes lit up, like he just got away with eating the last piece of cake against Anna Jo’s direction, and he began to nod.

And on that day I learned something about Bobby. He never had an agenda, nor did he work the angles. He was too simplistic or innocent in his thinking to step into deception and manipulation. He walked by his moral compass to guide him through what was right and wrong. And when he felt like something was pulling him from True North, he knew he had to pull it back. It wasn’t about getting what he wanted, but about doing what is right. Why? Because he believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root in people’s lives to produce a harvest of hope.

I saw him disperse his seeds through is grandchildren. Every day he was sitting down at the Square to pick Robert up from school at North Todd, and he always looked forward to his time with his grandson. And usually Robert needed a snack at DQ, so that’s where you’d find them. Mind you, when I say, “Robert needed a snack,” I’m not sure if it was Robert Sawyers or Robert Parmley who needed the snack. But my guess is that the two of them created and nurtured their bond in those moments after school pickups. Evidence of that fruit surfaced when Robert was in high school. A friend of his was left without a ride and Robert knew his papaw was more than willing to take the boy home (did you catch that Robert knew his grandfather’s generosity). While assuring his friend of a ride, Bobby pulled up in the truck and Robert said, “Papaw, will it be ok to take my friend home?” And Bobby’s response was in the best possible gentleness we’ve come to know when he said, “Sure!” and looking at the stranger, and I could see his quirky smile and saucer like eyes, as he inquired, “but who are you?” I’m convinced that Bobby did his best to sow those seeds in Robert.

Katie captured hers and Bobby’s relationship on a FaceBook post by describing his wisdom as “timeless,” especially when he advised her during those times when she was scared, confused or needed to know how to shave her legs. He also knew which shaving creams were the best brands to use. His smile and gentle laugh could change the mood in an instant. I was an eyewitness to the support Bobby gave Katie. Even though sitting on bleachers were always uncomfortable, his stubborn will persisted to show up at her dances. Nothing was going to stop him from watching his granddaughter perform, which makes Katie’s closing comment on Bobby clear. She wished everyone had a grandfather like him. And his proud support of his granddaughter were the seeds sown in Katie.  

Sadly, Ava will never have the same memories. But her momma will tell her about late afternoon Fridays when Bobby showed up to her house. He’d sit on the chair and just hold his granddaughter in his arms, while mom cooked dinner – because with Bobby food was always top priority. Always. And as a grandfather who has a granddaughter about a year older than Ava, nothing takes the place of holding that little girl in your arms. Suddenly, the obscure verse in Genesis strikes the heart, “. . . and (Joseph) saw the third generation of Ephraim’s children” (Gen. 50:23). Not a lot of engagement, but enough for seeds to be planted. Enough for a seed of faith to be planted for the next generation. No, Ava won’t remember Bobby. But Bobby’s presence will be felt in Ava when she’s told how Bobby held her as a baby. And she’ll learn about her grandfather by her mother and father, grandmother and cousins who will share the kind of seed he chose to sow. Why? Because Bobby believed that a seed sown in kindness and generosity takes root in people’s lives to produce a harvest of hope.

So the parable of the sower sowing seed on the soil begins with a call to “Listen!” and ends with the same call, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear” (Mk. 4:9). Where Jesus grabs our attention at the beginning of the parable, he challenges us to comprehend his parable at its conclusion. It’s not about intellectual property, but about “being” and “doing.” For we all have the seed of the gospel and we can allow it to take root in our lives or not. Which is really what the parable is about, isn’t it? It’s not really about the farmer or the seed, but about the soil. Its message pushes us to survey our own soil to see which one we are: a crusty path acting as a dinner plate for the birds, or rocky places where the seed sprouts but is scorched by the sun, or a thorny weed with a chokehold on anything that shows life, or good, rich soil that produces a harvest. I believe we’d all agree that Bobby was fertile soil for the gospel which allowed it to take root in his life. His kindness and generosity was easily spotted as he cultivated a harvest of hope in the people he encountered. I guess the only question to pursue at this juncture is, “What kind of soil are you?”

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Billy Joe Fowler (1945-2013)

They say that if the Army and the Navy ever gazed on Heaven’s scenes, they’d find the gates guarded by the Marines. If true, today, heaven has one more man to post at Heaven’s gates. Billy Fowler had to be the toughest man I’ve ever known, and it wasn’t because he was mean – there was never a mean bone in his body; it wasn’t because he was loud – because he was very soft spoken. It was because he was a Marine, and by definition, Marines are the toughest guys in America. 

In 1966 at the age of 19, he was drafted into the military. Having never stepped foot outside the boundaries of Todd County, he found himself on a bus headed south to Nashville, not knowing where he was destined to go. I believe he thought he’d join the army, when they numbered the recruits off, his number came up and he was sent to the Marines. The Marines. They trained in California.  “California?” he thought.  “Not California!” He panicked! “I’ve got to talk to someone!” And though he tried to talk, they wouldn’t listen. This poor boy from Todd County, KY became a Marine, was shipped to California and ultimately performed a one year tour of duty in Vietnam. He missed home. He missed his family. Even more so, he missed a little girl who was 14 years old; too young to date, but not too young to write love letters. And write love letters they did. 

For two years they wrote letters until he was discharged. He came home and married that little girl (she was 16 years old at the time), then built his life around her and the children they raised. And in the end, he touched many lives along the way. 

What could I tell you about Billy that you already don’t know? Probably nothing. I could tell you that he loved to play High 9, and went to Fairview almost daily to play, but you already knew that. I could tell you that he loved ice cream, any ice cream – especially Orange Sherbet, but you already knew that. I could tell you that he collected knives, old money, and even his own toe nail, but you already knew that – well that toe nail thing might have slipped pass you (and I kinda wished it had passed me by too). I could tell you that in order to impress Bettye, he simply showed her how fast he could recite his multiplication tables – and he did, and don’t laugh, it’s a lot harder than it sounds. 

Let me take a moment and try to capture some things about Billy. If I were to tell you that Billy was devoted, I’m sure everyone would easily agree. We saw his devotion in his family when they gathered at church; they always sat together and it always appeared they enjoyed coming together, as if their church family was a mere extension of the Fowler family. Not only was Billy’s devotion evident by the number of times he and Bettye were at church, but he was also our official French Fry Slicer for our Fish Fries. 

Billy took much pleasure in life. He never met stranger, and in his years of public service, finding pleasure with the general public is a task in and of itself. He certainly found pleasure in his children and granddaughters, and never missed an activity they were participating in, and since his granddaughters were cheering he went to cheer competitions and rooted as if he were rooting for the boys in basketball. The one time I saw him take great pleasure was in the Senior Olympics where he won medals in horse shoes, lawn bowling, and the washer toss. I think his greatest pleasure was winning the mile walk. Bettye wasn’t nearly so thrilled, because he all but passed out from exhaustion afterward. 

In a world that’s filled with loud noises, Billy had a way of shutting out the noise. Of course, it was easier for him because of his hearing loss. However, sometimes it was easier because he had selective hearting. I would ask him to say the closing prayer at the worship, and Bettye would jab him as to prod him to say the prayer. When you’re the Sheriff in town, your very presence can bring a hostile situation to explode, or your very presence can be a non-anxious, calming stillness. He had an ability to defuse a situation before it escalated out of control.  

If you are going to spend a full year in the midst of battle, then twenty years as a public servant, you must learn to create a high level of tolerance for people and situations. Billy once coached T-ball, and after the first practice, his patience was going to be tested as he confessed, “We won’t win a single game this season.” He worked with the players, having to hold the bat so he could put the ball on the Tee then run out of the way before they swing because they’d hit him with the bat. Yet to his surprise, they not only won one game, they went undefeated. 

The first Christmas I was in Elkton, Billy approached me and wanted to know if it was ok if he could give my boys a knife for Christmas. For some boys, a knife is a tool, and of course for others it’s a toy. Knowing how the boys view knives is an important bit of information before giving a gift. So Bettye had him ask me. Since my boys are Boy Scouts and responsible enough to handle a knife, I gladly told him that his thoughtfulness was greatly appreciated. Billy was one who shared with others, whether it was his time or his money; if he had it to give, he would gladly offered it to others. No clearer moment of this came than when he visited the Vietnam War Memorial in DC. Like so many before him, he sought out the name of a buddy who died, except this buddy was a fellow Todd Countian.  He took out the paper and pencil and carefully placed the paper over his buddy’s name and made the etching. When he returned home, instead of keeping the etching for himself, he gave it to the brother of the one who died. 

We live in time where decent men are no longer decent, and where Diogenes holds a lantern looking for an honest man. If Diogenes existed, he would have found his man in Billy. So much of Billy was about integrity and being decent. He was always kind and good to Bettye, to his children, and provided for their needs. More importantly, he always looked for good in other people. Many times he was looking for something good in the junk he brought home each day, just like any good American Picker would do. Someone who is that devoted to decency maybe they reason why Bettye was willing and proud to call him, “Stud-Muffin.” 

Loyalty is an undying devotion to someone or an organization. No matter how difficult the situation is, you can count on that person’s loyalty. They will neither abandon you nor forsake you, even if it is easier to do so.  Billy was loyal.  He was loyal to Bettye, his family, his church, and his country (which may be saying a lot since fighting in Vietnam was anything but popular). His girls, the ladies who worked for him in the office, knew that Billy had their backs. He treated them honestly, fairly, and with respect.  They knew he had their best interest at heart. 

 It’s hard to imagine a Marine having a tenderness quality. It’s even harder to imagine Billy as a tough Marine who fought in a war. Even so, he took great length not to harm people, and to listen to what they said when they came to his office. He wanted to know what they wanted and what they needed. In his soft manner, it was natural for him to show tenderness. 

Any soldier, particularly a Marine, is marked by discipline. They carry themselves by the way the walk, stand, and even talk. They watch what they say, and Billy’s own soft words meant that he did much to control his words. When the general public is angry and they want to attack the leader, a good leader disciplines his actions and words so that he/she can work for the good of the situation and the people. 

All these attributes – devotion, pleasure, stillness, tolerant, thoughtful, decent, loyalty, tender, and discipline – marked Billy’s character by defining who he was. In fact, these same words are used elsewhere to describe someone who is led by or filled with the Spirit. When God touches a person’s life, that person’s life changes to become more like God. We call it transformation . . . transformation . . . like spending four years refurbishing an old 1955 Ford truck so that it looks and runs like it’s brand new . . . like spending two years refurbishing an old 1966 Ford Mustang so that it looks and runs like it’s better than brand new . . . like spending a full year taking an old rusted out Texico gas pump and refurbishing it into a sparkling red and white gas pump that looks brand new. 

Transformation, the process of taking something old and seemingly without value, knowing the value and restoring it into its original value and then some. It’s what American Pickers do.  It’s what Billy did. Only with Billy, it wasn’t the commodities that was so important, it was the words; words used to describe someone filled with the Spirit. I said these words were devotion, pleasure, stillness, tolerant, thoughtful, decent, loyalty, tender, and discipline. Paul used different words with very similar meaning; he said the words were Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, Self-control (Gal. 5:22-23). And if these words can be used to describe Billy Fowler, I cannot think of anything better to say about a man, or add any more value to a person’s life.  Billy was man touched by God and shaped by the Spirit’s work in his life. 

It is said that when Samuel Nicholas went door-to-door in 1776 to recruit men to serve in his army and to fight the British – an army he called The Marines – he would tell those answering the door, “I’m just looking for a few good men.” Billy Fowler now takes he post at Heaven’s gates, in part, because he was a good man. 

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Myron Dean Partlow, Jr. (1936-2003)

My Dad was a dog lover. Knowing this fact, and for therapeutic purposes, mom acquired a dog for Dad in 1999. The “min-pin” runt was named “Buster.” Because Buster wormed himself into Dad’s affections by taking advantage of a very sick man, I never trusted Buster. Buster never saw himself as the family dog as he manipulated Dad into treating him with son-ship status. My own children were roped into his scheme as well, referring to him only as “Uncle Buster.”

Dad taught us that trust is earned, never given. Buster never earned my trust. During the final days of Dad’s life, Buster stayed right on Dad’s lap, except when he ate dinner, or the door bell rang, or the letter-carrier walked to the door, or any other excuse to be distracted from his purpose. I guess the family rumor hit me hard; word has it that Buster deceived Steve out of the birthright and blessing, which means he receives a double-portion of Dad’s possessions . . . which I’m not sure how he’s going to run the table saw, jigsaw, and other power tools?!?!?!

What Buster didn’t know was that he was just the latest in a string of dogs who were recipients of my Father’s affections. From Dad’s first dog he owned when he was 16 years old (a part German Shepherd, part Kish-hound named Kish), to Patches (our family dog given to Steve when he was 10), to mom’s poodle (Mon Ami, who loved Dad more than Mom), dogs have always been an intrinsic part of Dad’s life. Even as a teenager Dad trained dogs for obedience by teaching them how to obey, fetch, heel, and stay. Can you imagine with the five of us kids tearing through the house, Dad must have been thinking, “It was so much easier training dogs than children!?” Maybe, with all this talk of dogs, it’s not all that surprising that when Dad went to work, he gave twenty-nine years of his life to a company named after a dog. 

            What the dogs in Dad’s life represent is the character he portrayed throughout his own life: loyalty, steadfastness, and faithfulness. 

Hebrews 11 is often known as the great chapter of faith. Here the author of Hebrews provides a list of people whom he claims lived by faith. One by one the roll-call of faith is announced: Abel, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Israel. 

            However, the struggle to see these people as faithful people creates dissonance when we read their entire story in the Old Testament. Why, some of these listed weren’t always faithful. Instead, they were downright ungodly, undeserving, and unfaithful. One by one we could note how they were characterized by their own weaknesses, flaws, and sins. 

            Noah got drunk off the vineyard he planted. Abraham lied about his relationship to Sarah, not once but twice. Isaac’s perception of reality failed when he blessed Jacob instead of Esau. Jacob devoted most of his life to deceiving those he loved; having reaped what he sowed, his wives picked up the deception game from him. Moses assumed credit for providing water from the rock that God granted, which prevented him from entering into the Promised Land. Almost without saying, was it because they were “faithful” that Israel wondered throughout the wilderness for forty years? 

            Yes, one by one you can find, and without much effort, character flaws, shortcomings, self-centeredness, and in certain cases clear contempt for God. It leaves one to wonder how these people can be characterized as “faithful.” 

            The tension to reconcile Hebrews 11 with our own meager faith is a tension often felt. We usually fall into two extremes. On one extreme, we’re blinded to our own faults. Like the dog that laps from the toilet bowl, then licks your face and wonders why you’re so mad, we minimize or trivialize every wrong we perform. Our choices and actions aren’t that bad.  Certainly, they’re not as bad as (and we can easily find a more evil person to justify our behavior). King David’s reaction to Nathan’s story in 2 Samuel 12:1-7 acts as a role model in how one embraces this perspective. 

On the other extreme, we maximize our every wrong deed. Like a dog who cows at a rolled newspaper because he’s been beaten so many times, we magnify every wrong or character flaw we possess. We describe ourselves as the worst people in the world. First Timothy 1:16 is our champion verse as we believe faithful Christianity is defined by how awful we make ourselves out to be. In doing so we fail to understand the argument Paul is making, the context Paul is writing, and the grace that God works in us.    

My father felt the tension in his own life as well. While we his children crowned him our hero, he reluctantly wore the crown. If you were to ask him, he might have told you that he worked far too many hours for Greyhound, and did not spend enough hours with his family. When he was at home, he might say that he was task oriented instead of family oriented.  He could have told you that the spiritual driving force behind our family was Mom, not him. 

            If you were to associate Dad’s name with those mentioned in Hebrews 11, he might say that God, looking for great faith in him, was like Charlie Brown desperately seeking after a faithful dog and never finding it in Snoopy. We recognize this fact, because we aren’t that faithful either. 

            With the tension in place, the Hebrews’ writer has no desire to gloss over peoples soundness, shortcomings, and sin. He does not deny or ignore them. He is, though, highlighting moments of faith. He’s drawing our attention to the time(s) when these people got it right. 

            Abraham did leave his family and home to venture to a land he never saw; he dwelled on property he never owned while believing his descendents would posses the land. He clung to the promise of having children, even though in his seventies when God called him, he was childless. 

            Isaac and Jacob, whose healths were failing in their old age, embraced the vision their father Abraham had for their families, for the land, and for God. 

            Moses gave up the association with the royalty of Pharaoh’s household in order to associate with the enslaved people of Israel. While the former offered wealth, pleasures of sin, and ease of living, the latter guaranteed mistreatment, disgrace, and abuse. He saw in the latter a hope that made the choice more valuable than the former.    

            True, the nation of Israel struggled more times than not in their relationship with God, but they did cross the dry riverbed of the Jordan River to claim their inheritance. 

            All these choices and acts, the Hebrews’ writer says, were motivated by faith. When God looked at these men (and women), he said those moments, when they acted on faith, weren’t just moments (as in our minds) but characterized their entire life (as in God’s mind). 

            This moment, though, is less about Hebrews 11 and more about Dean Partlow. What my Dad did in his life is not nearly as significant as why he did it. Dad operated out of a mode dictated by a faith in God so that moments surfaced when he was characterized by faith. Let me share some of these moments with you:

  • By Faith . . . Dad wrote letters to his college kids every week for over ten years, beginning in 1978 when Tim went away to college. The letters, written on three or four pages of a Steno pad, contained more than the week’s events, they were filled with Dad’s insight and humor. Our favorite comics were included in the envelope, giving us fifteen minutes of fame each week, as other college kids flocked to where we were to read the funnies. By the way, four kids in college did not mean four separate letters, but one letter by way of three carbon copies. To personalize the letter he wrote our names at the top of each letter, and then rotated the original letter each week.
  • By Faith . . . Dad made God a priority in our family, because God was a priority in his life.  Church-life was crucial as we attended Sunday mornings, evenings, and even Wednesday nights. The horn of the car to encourage us kids to hurry and load-up the car to get to church on time (never honked at mom) still rings in my ears today. I remember Dad sitting at the dinning table for 15-30 minutes each night with his NASB opened, colored pencils for underlining neatly lined-up next to his Bible, and the Sharpening the Sword notebook opened for study. For the past 10 years, you could hear Dad reading the Bible to Mom as they committed to reading the Bible in each year’s time.  Dad sacrificed by sending us to Columbia Christian Schools. We could have had a financially better or easier life had we gone to Washington High School, but he wanted us in a Christian learning context where spiritual concepts and God’s Word were valued. 
  • By Faith . . . Dad loyally gave thirty years of his life to Greyhound Lines. He sold tickets, loaded the buses, and operated baggage and claims. He worked all hours and all days; we kids knew that when Dad was sleeping we were either outside playing or quiet as sleeping dogs. Knowing my own children, we could never have been that quiet. Dad wanted to drive buses, but driving took him away from his family. Instead, he settled for driving the bus for Columbia Christian’s sports teams. 
  • By Faith . . . Dad saw himself as the protector of his family. Whenever we kids went on trips, Dad made sure our luggage was loaded on the right bus; we even pre-boarded the pre-boarders.  Who was always at the depot when our bus pulled back into terminal? Dad. His role of protector extended beyond the family. One day after school, when I was in the 7th grade, the biggest and meanest kid in the eighth grade was picking a fight with a classmate of mine. The bully actually had muscles, was shaving, and had chest hairs. He was mean. My Dad was parked, waiting patiently for the family to get into the car when he saw the fight. Fear reached out and gripped me as Dad got out of the car and walked over to the kid. I thought, “No Dad!  He’ll beat you up!” I never saw a bully cow-down so fast as when my father had his finger thumping in his chest. Boy, I thought my father could have taken on Mohammed Ali. 
  • By Faith . . . Dad sacrificed for the family. Meeting Dad at the bus stop on Belmont was a treat greater than ice cream; Dad traveled on Tri-Met to free up the family car for the family. When Steve and Tim were playing JV and Varsity basketball, Dad would leave downtown, take Tri-Met to Columbia in time to watch Tim play ball. Between the games, because Mom was the official time-keeper, Dad would go out to the car and eat a bowl of cold spaghetti. Following dinner, he entered the gymnasium to resume watching Steve play the Varsity game.
  • By Faith . . . Dad married Mom and built his life around his relationship with her, despite the odds that a marriage forged between children of broken homes will lead to a broken marriage. They didn’t survive, they thrived. They embraced the concepts of Marriage Encounter and taught engaged couples the concepts they had learned. When Mom and Dad looked back on their journey together, they were seven months past the 46 year mile marker. 
  • By faith . . . Dad boldly, with a calming peace and animated humor, faced death. Dad’s failed health in 1995 only created a longing and homesickness never before felt. However, like Hezekiah, God brought healing and extended his health another six years. Dad used his healing as a testimony to God’s power, evident of the Christian t-shirts worn in hopes of sharing his faith with anyone who asked. He made sure everyone knew how the Giver of Life continued giving life to him. His faith became as vocal as it was vibrant. His prayers and Scripture readings intensified, as well as his desire to study more. Maybe what Dad saw was not death but life, for he believed the words of the little girl who told him, “it will all come back, it will come back; God and the rain will bring it back.” 

What more can I say? I do not have time to tell you about his love affair with our parrot, Boris, or the enjoyment he had and brought by playing the guitar, piano, or . . . (can I confess this family secret now?) he even enjoyed playing the accordion. I could tell you about all of us playing baseball at the Big School or me trying to catch his sidearm, submarine pitches that ricocheted off the cherry tree. I do not have time to tell about Geronimo, Kitty-Wampus, or Gao. Neither do I have the time to tell about our family outings to the Beaver Baseball games, when Dad wanted to leave after the 7th Inning Stretch to avoid traffic, or the ice-cream trips to DQ after visiting his mother and grandparents. I wish I could tell you about his favorite backyard cookout attire: plaid shorts, black dress sox, and black wing-tipped shoes that only highlighted his snow-white legs. 

            What I can say is that he has been commended for his faith and has received what has been promised. So tonight, when you go home and find a canine in your neighborhood, pat him on the head and draw inspiration to live by faith – if not from my father, Dean Partlow, then from those mentioned in Hebrews 11.