A Tribute to the One who Made the Two

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Daddy.

From my earliest memories he easily moved from home to the pulpit and back again because he was the same no matter where he was. In the pulpit he taught patiently, line by line, word by word; he spoke confidently, because he absolutely believed every word that he said. In the pulpit he showed us how to study, how to drink from the fountain of life for ourselves, so that what we learned on Sundays stretched so far beyond that day. In the pulpit he was gentle; in the pulpit he was bold; in the pulpit he laughed (ahem, “The Donkey that Talked,” anyone?) and in the pulpit he cried. In the pulpit he said, “Let’s see what the Word of God has to say about this,” and “I wonder how it is with you today,” and “This is God’s invitation for you.”

At home he taught patiently, day by day, car ride by car ride; he read and spoke and helped us memorize the words of life so that one day we would have a treasure trove inside our hearts that would stretch far beyond those morning rides to school. At home we jumped on his back as he studied and prayed. At home he was gentle and bold and at home he laughed and he cried. At home he said things like “Hold the rope” and called me Janer and made a fish face at my bedroom door in the mornings and made a “place” for my stuffed animals at night.

This is the man who followed me to college two hours away to make sure I arrived safely; who never missed one of my basketball games; who cried when he left me in New Orleans and when he walked me down the aisle and who still regularly looks at me and says, “Have I told you lately…?”, to which I always nod and understand that he is so proud of me; who served for over 40 years in ministry and over 33 of those at the same church, shepherding a flock of people with the same love and tenderness that we knew at home. This is the man who I still call when I am stumped by something in Scripture or when I just need an anchor, to hear something that feels like home.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Daddy.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Mom.

My childhood memories are full of silly songs and laughter and safety because of her. She taught me how to celebrate the small things in life, like listening to Christmas music on the 25^th of each month or decorating the house in blue and orange before Dad got home on the night that Auburn beat Georgia. She sounds just like Karen Carpenter when she sings and I learned how to sing harmony by listening her in the car and on the front pew. She was my biggest encourager, speaking words of life and hope over me even before they were yet true. She celebrated my performance in school without ever making me think that it defined me. She taught me how to live as if life is a musical and called me "Shauna" and said things like, “Remember who you are and whose you are” each time I left the house as a teenager, and “Is this going to matter in eternity?” when dealing with problems that grew out of proportion. Those words till echo in my mind to this day.

Perhaps her biggest gift to me has come since I have become a mother and started walking the same road that she has been walking since I have known her. When I call her in desperation and say “I don’t know what I am doing…” or “I feel like I am failing at everything…” she responds with complete confidence – “You are doing fine. You will know what to do when you need to know it. Keep doing the next right thing.” That confidence is irreplaceable and, as I did when I was a child and then a teenager, I have come to realize as an adult and a mother, that my mom is still my biggest cheerleader.

This could be a tribute to the one that I call Mom.

This could be a tribute to the two who together walked through mountains and valleys that come with decades of ministering to people. I saw them flirt with and kiss each other in the living room or the kitchen each day; I heard their prayers through my bedroom wall as I fell asleep each night. They took us on vacation to the New Perry Hotel and listened to oldies in the car and are as different from each other as night and day, but couldn't fit more perfectly. I felt safe and accepted in their presence. I watched them struggle, rejoice, persevere – always together.

Yes, this could be a tribute to the two.

But instead, I think this is a tribute to the One who made the two.

Before I was born, before they were born, He knew the plans He had for them, for us, for me. He knew there was a little house in Milledgeville, a little church called Northside, a little place that He would plant the two, grow them, use them. 33 years has been fast and it has been slow, but it has never been a surprise to the One who made the two. He has guided each step; He has used each circumstance. He has been building His kingdom, equipping the saints, working an eternal weight of glory. At home and in the pulpit and everywhere in between, the story does and has always belonged to Him.

He is the faithful One. My dad and my mom, they taught me how to trust in Him, lean on Him, hope in Him – because He is faithful. All of my life I have been “Bro. Jerry’s daughter” and I have never once been ashamed of that; this week I will watch my dad and mom finish out the calling that God gave them over three decades ago and rest in His plan for them and for Northside. Things will be different and I may or may not feel like crying at random points every day, in such hypothetical situations as a small white dog snipping at my finger while I was out for a run in my neighborhood the other evening, followed by a completely disproportional reaction on my part as I bawled my eyes out, all the while trying to explain to the horrified owner of the small white dog that it really didn’t hurt that badly, it’s just that “My dad is retiring…” which completely explains my emotional breakdown in front of her house. Hypothetically.

But God’s name be praised. Because the story doesn’t start or end with me or with my parents. No, we are all just a piece of the story of redemption, and it will go on and on until the coming of our King. What a privilege, and what a comfort.

I couldn’t be more thankful for the legacy, the foundation, and the continuing encouragement that God has given me through the two that I call mom and dad; but more than that, I rejoice in the faithfulness, wisdom, and love of the One who made the two.