There and Back Again

Going Home

You always like to go home, even when it’s for the wrong reason. Normally, when you are going to visit loved ones, you hope that you will find everyone well and prosperous with bright prospects for the future. Sometimes that is not possible, you make the trip because one whom you loved dearly has departed, and you must go to pay your respects. But you still like to go home, because you will see those who remain and whom you also love dearly. I cherish the bond that can only come from the closeness of kinship. The closer the kinship, the tighter the bond. It is almost on parallell with faith in God, that invisible connection that compels you to want to be in their presence. Family is everything to me.

When you lose a loved one, you don’t really have a choice on the timing. You have to fit your schedule into the pre-arranged  funeral plans, and in this case, they were extensive. The cancer had finally worked it’s evil fingers into my brother Mike’s vital organs and robbed him of his final days of relaxation and pleasure in the desert sun of Arizona. When he should have been enjoying a much deserved life of leisure, he was pressed to the brink of survival and then pushed into eternity. He deserved better, but like all of us, he was not in control of the outcome.

He prepared for the inevitability of life and made the hard choices that are often left to the survivors. Mike was a planner and he worked out the minute details of a complicated burial arrangement that included Church services in Glendale, AZ and then another in Dallas before interment in the DFW National Cemetery in Grand Prairie, TX. This encompassed a period of 10-14 days to achieve. His wife Cynthia still had to make many decisions, but the hard choices had already been laid out. Though I was not a part of any of these arangements, I have recently been involved with other family members forced to confront these difficult decisions. I know it is not easy, but it certainly is less challenging when pre-arrangements have been made. Such as it was, Mike’s journey would take the better part of two weeks to accomplish. None of his kinship, except his wife, was in Arizona so the service there was for business acquaintances, fellow retirees and friends from the local church and Knights of Columbus organization.  His kin would be at the service in Dallas.

The real challenge was getting on the schedule for burial at DFW National Cemetery. It is a typical bureaucratic process requiring coordination from the local mortuary and following all the stipulations of the federal government. The first celebration of his life was completed in Glendale and then Mike was accompanied on his final 1100 mile journey by a fellow serviceman to Dallas. Upon arrival, arrangements were finally determined to schedule the sacraments at the church in Dallas.  The graveside service at DFW National Cemetery would be the following week. And thus began my preparations for the long trek that I would take to honor my brother and rekindle my bonds with my family.

Mike had asked Cynthia to have me deliver a eulogy in his behalf. The burden and the honor weighed heavily on my heart, but I prayed for God to strengthen my emotions and guide me to say the right words. My heart was heavy with grief and though I had sung at funerals, I had never worded a eulogy before.  I had no desire to speak at the funeral, but I would honor my brother’s request.

My wife Cheryl and I determined to drive the almost 1200 miles from Greensboro, NC to Dallas. With the two of us swapping out on driving, we should have been able to make the drive in about 20 hours. We also had to crate our two yorkies and take them with us. It was the first week in March and though winter storms and rain appeared likely on the northern route, the southern route looked like a more agreeable option. I called my granddaughter in Asheville and asked if she would like to accompany us on the journey. She welcomed the opportunity to visit her Mom and other family members in Texas. She arranged to have a friend take her to a stop near Charlotte, so we could pick her up enroute. I serviced the car and worked on the eulogy, eventually re-writing it a half dozen times. Finally, God gave me peace that I had the right words, it would be a question of whether I could deliver them honorably.

Cheryl and I determined to leave early on a Tuesday morning, pick up Taylor at Gastonia and spin down our path to Texas by midnight. Our destination was Burleson, TX where my other brother Ted lives. He advised that the weather was holding good but a front was expected late in the night. We managed to avoid the early morning rush in Charlotte and cruised through the non-rush hour traffic on the Atlanta perimeter loop. By the time we reached Alabama we ran into some occasional rain but we were making good time. I was alert, so Cheryl let me drive to South Carolina before she took a turn at driving. She continued through Georgia and Alabama and then I resumed driving in Mississippi. We hit the first rains around Jackson and as darkness fell, the storms became heavier and our pace was slowed significantly. After filling up in Shreveport, we drove into very heavy bands of showers and the traffic moved forward at a snail’s pace. Cars were pulled over because they couldn’t see adequately through the blinding rain.

In addition, our weather access on our phones was warning that the DFW Metroplex was under a winter snow advisory. Strange that we had picked the southern route, but the gods of winter had reached down as if to show us that we couldn’t escape. As we drove through Marshall and Longview, I suggested that maybe we should get a room and wait out the storm. We decided that we were so near that even if the weather turned worse, we could get accomodations in the Dallas area.

As midnight approached, we arrived on the eastern outskirts of Dallas, just as the snow began. It was light at first, but as the temperatures dropped it became a blinding blizzard whipped along by 25-30 mile per hour winds. It was pitch black, the highway disappeared and the snow began to freeze on the windshield wipers. I could only tell where the road bed was by the bridge guard rails. My speed was reduced to under 20 mph. Cars were peeling off right and left but we were only 40 miles from Ted’s house, and we had already traveled 1100 miles. I pulled over and put the SUV into 4-wheel drive and then I managed to get behind an 18 wheeler and drive in his ruts through the snow. As he plunged into the teeth of the storm, I managed to maneuver behind him as a running back behind a lead blocker. I silently prayed that he would continue to the same place I was going. It was not to be. After a few miles, he too turned off to escape the storm. Now I peered into blinding snow and a carpet of white covering what had been an interstate highway. Though the defroster was working at top speed, the wipers were covered in a thick layer of ice and my vision through the windshield was becoming more obscured.

It became very quiet in the car, like a group of monks in a monastary. I think maybe we were all holding our breaths and afraid to breathe. I made an executive decision and it was not necessarily the wisest choice; I turned off at the very next exit because I couldn’t see the road. I crawled along the narrow channel that suddenly elevated to one of those infamous Texas single lane bridges that remind you of a Six Flags roller coaster. The further we travelled, the higher the bridge elevated and the more vicious the storm became.  At the pinnacle of the bridge I repeatedly muttered, “This is not good……This is….. not good”, but there was nowhere to stop. Cheryl and Taylor silently gazed out the windows and estimated how far we would drop before we crashed. The whiteout continued with nothing but blinding snow and the wind whistling around the SUV. Finally we crested and began the downslope to wherever this road led. The first thing I found was a fast food place that was locked up tight, but I was able to pull into the parking lot and beat the ice off the wipers. This helped to drive a couple of blocks and discover a convenience store where I could top off the gas tank.

By now it was after 1am and we were obviously not going to make the last 35 miles to Ted’s house, so I drove through the virgin snow of the parking lot to the entrance of a Best Western Inn. I couldn’t get under the sheltered entrance, but I pulled the front of the SUV into shelter and Taylor and I eagerly jumped out of the car. I think we were just grateful to be off the bridge and safely on the ground again. The night manager advised us that he and every other motel/hotel in S Dallas were full and had no vacancy. I asked if we could stay in his lobby and he said no, but we could come and use the rest rooms or get coffee as we needed. I thanked him and went back to share this exiciting news with Cheryl who was still with the dogs in the car. Now it was 2am and needless to say, we were all exhausted in every way. I again made an executive decision to ride out the storm, and the night, right where we were. We would sleep in the car and use the facilities as generously offered. Having just filled up the tank, I kept the car heated with frequent engine crankups at half hour intervals. I don’t know if any of us really slept, but we managed something akin to rest over the next four hours.

The sun rose brilliantly, the snow had stopped in the night,  we could see, so we decided to venture back on our journey. We scheduled a rendevous with Taylor’s Mom and she picked up our precious cargo and took her home. Cheryl and I wandered through a malaise of snow covered streets and eventually  landed back on the interstate headed for Ted’s house. We finally reached Burleson around 8am. We said our greetings and then excused ourselves to pass out and recoup some lost sleep. It had been a rather long adventurous journey and we were thankful that we weren’t in a snowbank in S Dallas.

The funeral service was the following day so we were able to rest adequately and plan for the poignant ending to my brother’s sojourn. The church service was mid-morning and the graveside service was scheduled for early afternoon. Catholic sacraments are a beautifully orchestrated pageant that elequently tie our carnal nature to the infinite nature of an eternal God. I was touched by the simple beauty and the majestic performance of the sacraments.

God answered my prayers and gave me the grace to speak the words on my heart.  I hope that those whom I love were comforted as I shared fond memories of my brother Mike. We bade our brother goodbye and then shared fellowship with those who remain and we love dearly. (Betty Joyce, Steve and Elaine’s travails to get to the funeral is another story that should be told) The graveside service was touching and filled with honor for one who served his country during a time of war. The National Cemetery is a beautiful setting that teems with respect for the honorable dead. I am happy that he is there, and deservably so. His voyage was complete, may he rest in peace.

We stayed an extra day so we could visit with Mendy & Taylor, Darren & Kristofer, David & Kodi and three of their children. The little ones grow so fast and our visits are infrequent. Ted’s and Fay’s daughters dropped by and we all enjoyed fellowship with family. After a few hours, we bade them goodbye with hugs and kisses and waved as they drove away. It was not home, and it was not for the right reasons, but it was a great visit, even under the circumstances.

The following morning we packed up the dogs and picked up Taylor from Mendy on the interstate near where we were stranded for the night. It was a beautiful sunny day and there was no trace of snow anywhere. We left early in the morning and started the reverse migration. East Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina and then North Carolina. This time we took Taylor back to Asheville. I started driving and then switched off with Cheryl in Louisiana and she drove the rest of the way home. The return trip was lengthened by a couple of hours as we routed from South Carolina through Asheville. By the time we arrived in Greensboro, we had been on the road for almost 24 hours. It was all we could do to keep each other awake. Finally we made it back home; It had been a long, long journey that drained every aspect of our beings, physically and emotionally.

But isn’t that what life is. A series of journeys that we carefully orchestrate and then God steps in and throws a curve ball when we were expecting a fastball. We go from month to month and year to year thinking that we have it figured out. We know what life is all about, we know what’s around the corner, we know how to deal with our adversity. But we don’t. I think the beauty of life is not knowing what is ahead, not knowing what lies beyond the bend, not knowing what God has in store for us. The real beauty is trusting God to lead us when we are blinded in a snow storm, trusting Him to give us the strength to finish the journey, trusting Him to give us the important words to say when they need to be said. Whether it be a jaunt across the globe or a lifelong passage to our heavenly home, our lives are a long, long journey that end with going home. Home, where our loved ones wait for us, where eternity beckons us to sit at the Father’s feet. You always like to go home.

For there are two heavens, sweet,

Both made of love, - one, inconceivable

Ev’n by the other, so divine it is;

The other, far on this side of the stars,

By men called home.

-          Leigh Hunt   -

Hebrews 13:14

II Corinthians 5:6-8

Written by David Warbritton expressly for the Warbritton family.

The Ship

   I always liked the painting that I had purchased years ago from Brother Slater.

I was thirty years old with a growing family and I wanted something for my home that would look good over the mantle. This was a true work of art, an oil painting on canvas. It depicted an old sailing ship plowing through the sea on a dark night and yet back-lighted by a glimmer of moonlight shimmering through a hole in the clouds. He had painted it a couple of times and this third version was a little darker with deep black-blues and yet the moonbeams clearly illuminated the ship pressing on through the darkness at full sail to it’s destination. We bought a dark stained frame that seemed to compliment the mood of the ship and sea.

   When I looked at the painting, I saw the ship as my life, or for that matter, anyone’s life, forging through unknown territory, surrounded by unseen hindrances and yet plunging toward our destinies. The moonlight represented wisdom that shows us where we are as we struggle through the sea of life; it doesn’t allow us to see far off, but we can clearly glimpse our present circumstances. The bow of the ship has two lanterns thrusting a red light on the port and a green light on the starboard so that passing ships can determine their direction. Brother Slater had been in the navy in World War II and he had served on aircraft carriers in the Pacific campaigns. He had sailed on night seas and was well acquainted with the scenario that he painted. At that time my direction was uncertain and there have been many course changes that would ultimately lead me to where I am today. The ship reminded me that though I was surrounded with uncertainty, there was always light that would help me see the way and stay on course.

   Over the years my ship drifted off course and there were times when the moonlight was completely obscured by the stormy clouds above. Eventually my marriage crashed on the rocks of despair and I lost track of the painting along with many other things I valued. Over the next twenty years, I forgot about the irreplaceable oil painting as I moved across the country and started a new life in North Carolina.

   After 18 years in the Carolinas and almost 15 years with my beautiful new bride, I had occasion to travel back to the old life and renew some old treasured acquaintances. My brother Ted asked, “Would you like to see Brother Slater” and I said, “That would be great”. He and I visited with Brother Jack for over three hours and had a wonderful time reminiscing over past experiences. Brother Jack is 82 years old now and though he said he doesn’t paint anymore, I noticed that he had many of his personal oil paintings displayed throughout his home. As we looked through his gallery, I remarked to Ted that I used to have one of his paintings, but that it had been lost after my separation from my first wife.

   Brother Jack looked at me and said “David, I didn’t know that you had lost that painting. You know I haven’t painted for three years, but if you would like for me to, I’ll paint you another picture of that ship”. I was stunned and delighted, and above all, honored, that he would even consider painting a new picture for me. Especially, since he had basically retired from painting. I love Brother Jack for the great Christian example he has always been and for the grand times we have shared together. In my life, he preached the light that shined through and guided my ship on my voyage. When my circumstances were shrouded in darkness, it was me who ignored the light and strayed from the light to wander under the clouds of indecision.

   I told him that I would be honored to have him paint the ship again. I wondered if he really meant it and whether he was still capable of painting at the same level that he used to. About a month later, I was thrilled to get a call from Brother Jack. He said he was finished with the picture and he thought it just might be the best version of the ship he had ever done. With Ted’s help, I arranged to have it shipped to North Carolina, Cheryl helped me find a suitable frame and I now have the ship proudly hanging in my home where it rightfully belongs. It’s not exactly like the old painting, it’s lighter, with gray tones and it has highlights of golden moonshine sparkling on the water. I’m reminded that my voyage and his are more clearly illuminated and though we are further down the journey of life, the light still shines down to show us the way, even on the darkest night. And you know what, he’s right, it is the best he has ever done.

THE SHIP

 

Doris and Jack

   We left Sweetwater Texas when I was ten years old and it was four years before we settled on a new church and I first met Bro. Jack Slater and his wife Doris. He was a newly graduated pastor from Baptist Bible College in Springfield, Missouri, but he was coming home to Texas when he accepted the position at Fort Worth Baptist on Bonnie Brae Street. In their early thirties, they were both eager to follow the Lord and raise their two boys back in Texas. He had been in the Navy during World War II, serving on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific theatre. After the war he tried many occupations, but eventually succeeded at driving GM auto delivery trucks and a sales position at a major department store. After several years he surrendered to preach and paid his own way through Bible Baptist College while providing for his family. When he first accepted the position in Fort Worth, the church was unable to pay him an adequate salary, so he continued to drive a commercial truck to feed and clothe his family. They were both from the small town of Haskell, Texas and they were well acquainted with hard work and getting by on a meager existence.

   Haskell county lies in the barren west Texas plains filled with mesquite flats and low plateaus, where farmers raise cattle and grow wheat and cotton. The summers are brutally hot and dusty and the winters are equally harsh with cold winds blowing down from the northern plains. Spring brings violent thunderstorms and an occasional tornado, like the one that hit in 1953, and Fall only lasts about 2 weeks in between Summer and Winter. Doris was raised around Haskell and Brother Jack grew up eleven miles north of Haskell in the community of Rochester. From the fourth grade on, he was raised by his grandparents until he joined the Navy. His mother had given him up and an uncle in Wichita Falls had cared for him through the third grade, until he moved to work on canal construction projects in Panama. He once told me that the first time he saw Doris was when he was twelve years old. She was a coquettish ten-year-old swinging on an old tire in her Daddy’s yard as he rode past on a bicycle. When he looked over at her, she stuck out her tongue at him and he didn’t know if that meant that she really liked him or if she didn’t like him at all. Doris seldom left you wondering how she felt about anything, you just had to know what her actions meant.

   During his time on the farm in Rochester he developed a love for hunting. His first gun was a Benjamin pump BB gun and he soon discovered that he was a very good shot. His first real gun was his granddad’s shotgun but he yearned for a rifle that he could use when you can’t use a shotgun. . His granddad gave him a young pig which he fed and cared for until it was old enough to market, and then he sold it and bought a bolt action Remington 22 caliber rifle with a tube feed. A short time later he was playing marbles with his good friend Taylor Segal and his Uncle Alfred when his uncle said, “Jackson, throw that taw of yours up in the air.” Brother Jack tossed his marble high into the air and Uncle Alfred raised his 22 rifle and shot the marble into smithereens on the first shot. He then taught his nephew how to turn yourself loose and fire on impulse instead of aiming. At 14 years old he became a crack shot. One morning his grandmother expressed concern about her chickens because a hawk flew high overhead. He grabbed his 22 rifle, and with his first shot blasted the hawk out of the sky in full flight. Grandma went into the house and grabbed some money and handed it to Brother Jack as she said, “Here Jack, go buy you some more shells.”

   When the Second World War broke out, Brother Jack wanted to join the Navy and serve his country, but he was only fourteen years old. By the time he was fifteen and a half he went to the Navy enlistment office and presented them with a birth certificate showing that he was seventeen and a half. It seems that the county didn’t have his birth recorded, so he convinced the county clerk that he was two years older than his actual birth. With this, he signed up with the Navy in Dallas and was sent to Alameda California for basic training. In basic training he proved to be a ‘dead shot’ with all the weapons he was trained on. Receiving orders to serve on a brand new aircraft carrier, they took the shake down cruise and then shipped out into the Pacific. It was April 1943 and he was immediately engaged in the battle to recapture the Aleutian islands from the Japanese. In constant skirmishes with the enemy around Attu and Kiska, his ship was to return with only a handful of pilots and planes. He became a gunners mate because of his expert marksmanship acquired back on the plains of Haskell county. He became familiar with every piece of ordinance on the ship, from handguns to M1 carbines, machine guns and the five inch batteries.

   His carrier cruised back to Dutch Harbor and then they returned to the San Francisco Bay area for refitting. The day before they were to ship back out, he heard his name announced over the ship’s speakers,

“Seaman Jack Slater report to the Captain’s quarters immediately”.
When he arrived, the Captain was holding an envelope from his Mother, which included a handwritten note from the doctor who had delivered him. This clearly documented that he was not yet sixteen years old. The Captain said, “Young man, you could have cost me my commission.” and knowing that this is one man you don’t lie to, Brother Jack acknowledged that indeed it was true. The Captain then said,
“Son do you want to stay or do you want to go home?” Brother Jack said,
“ I can’t go home, those guys I run around with would never let me live it down. I’d like to stay in the Navy and go on this cruise”.
The Captain then resealed the letter and said, “You’re dismissed. I think I’ll open this letter in a couple of days when we get under way; now you better go get yourself ready, because we ship out at 8:00 o’clock in the morning.”  

   He served with honor and distinction and he still speaks of his service with great pride. On his first leave home, when Doris was fourteen and had blossomed into a beautiful young lady, he saw her again and spoke with her before he reported back to duty. She was probably quite taken by his dashing appearance in his naval uniform and on his next leave, they dated a couple of times.  When he reported back to duty, they agreed to write and their relationship grew fonder across the miles. The war matured you quickly and the uncertainties helped many to make life lasting decisions about the future. Like so many returning servicemen, they were married, shortly after he was discharged on December 21^st of 1945. She was 16 and he was a mature war veteran of 18.

 


Bro Jack at 18

Doris at 16

                                               

Brother Jack was as humble as Doris was direct, he was the strong silent type who never got angry and she was the emotional one who
showed her feelings so that you were never in doubt where she stood. Doris was passionate in her beliefs and she proudly defended her husband, her family and her belief in God.

Brother Jack was slow to anger, rarely raised his voice (even when preaching), and he had the capacity to teach a body of believers like no other pastor I have ever met. Together they were a powerful team that God used to touch hundreds of lives and lead innumerable converts to the saving grace of Jesus Christ. I know that by growing up under their combined influence, I became a better person. My Mother was dying from cancer and my Dad was traveling away from home to keep work and pay his bills, so Brother Jack and Doris impacted my life more than they will probably ever know.

   Brother Jack’s attractive features with his wavy black hair sometimes turned the head of female church members, until Doris noticed their behavior. She usually found a way to catch their attention and help them understand that Brother Jack was already taken and very happily married. And I think they were; they say opposites attract and usually complement each other. They were as human as you and I and yet they had to present themselves several times a week as examples for us to follow. Sometimes their human frailties were exposed, but they never broke down or lost their respect for what they represented. They were Pastor and Wife, as well as Mother and Dad. During a sixty-three year marriage they raised sons Brad and Bill to become responsible caring Dads with children of their own. Brad’s son Scott graduated from Texas A&M where he was the kicker on their football team and then later became a Navy pilot who, ironically landed jet fighters on aircraft carriers.

   Faithful servants to their ministry they served in every capacity that was required. Doris loved to sing and she had a mellow alto voice that blended well in a duet or trio. She was nervous when singing solo, but I can still remember her beautiful version of “Follow Me”; I think it was one of her favorites. Her lilting contralto voice had a soft waver when she hit the high notes and you knew she was singing from the heart. She was the youth director when I was a teenager and she led the class singing as well as teaching the Sunday School lesson for the youth class. She taught us what she called a “Hash Chorus” that I still sing to myself when no one is around.

   She taught simply and direct, like she did everything; when trying to teach us about good and evil, she said “The old Indian illustrated the difference between good and evil by using an example of the black and white dogs. Sometimes the black dog is on top and winning and sometimes the white dog is on top and winning. You need to be sure that the white dog is always on top and you are doing the right thing, and don’t let the black dog take over because you will be doing what you shouldn’t be doing.”

It has always stuck with me that when I’ve been astray, I am letting that black dog get back on top and I need to change my ways. It really is that simple.

   Over the years, she did everything that a woman can do in a Fundamental Baptist Church, but I’m sure she could have done more if given the opportunity.

Her main job was to support her husband and in that, she never failed. Doris was his best friend, advisor, Mother of their children, constant companion, settler of disputes, champion of his causes and his loving and faithful wife.

Jack was her man and she forthrightly and earnestly defended him in every way.

   Brother Jack Slater is one of the most humble and gentle spirits that ever preached the Gospel. From his humble beginnings to his current retirement, he accomplished great things for God. All who have sat under his compelling sermons have grown spiritually and intellectually through the years. Unlike many “Fire-Breathing” pastors of his genre, who tried to scare “Hell” out of you, Brother Jack preached the truth and allowed the truth to penetrate through the Holy Spirit. He loved to tell a good humorous story to illustrate a point. He was a faithful counselor to those who needed spiritual advice and he shared the truth of the Gospel to the best of his ability. Pastors like Brother Jack are rare and we were blessed to sit under his ministry. Over the years Brother Jack performed marriage ceremonies for me and both my brothers and he even conducted the ceremony for my brother Ted a second time. I had the privilege to serve as his Music Minister in two different churches. When you work as a music minister, you have complete access to the personal side of the pastor’s life and for the several years that I worked closely with them, I learned that Brother Jack and Doris were the real thing.

Jack and Doris at a Sunday school dinner in the mid 1970’s

         

   Pastors need a hobby to relax and Brother Jack’s has most certainly been hunting and fishing. I don’t know if he picked up fishing out in the murky stock tanks of West Texas or when he was in the Navy, but the man loves to fish. Pastors don’t fish on weekends, so he went as often as he could on early week days. God blessed him, because he usually brought home plenty of bass or crappie. He has always had a boat that he customized to his needs.  In later years he took long trips to Canada to fish for muskies and hunt for Moose. Like in his old navy days, he was a crack shot and he brought home a hunting prize along with some fish he caught every year. He shot a moose every year of the five years that he sojourned  up to Red Lake Ontario. Doris went with him on the last trip and she accompanied him while they fished to their limit and then shot a moose from the boat.

   Somewhere along the way, he decided to try painting and he became very good at it. His early oil paintings were nautical themes but in recent years, he has developed a Native American and western theme to his work. He does life-like portraits of Chiefs and warriors and the horses they rode and the animals they pursued. He stopped painting for over three years when Doris fell and broke her hip. I am privileged to own a beautiful painting of a three-masted frigate sailing on a cloudy night with shafts of moon beams breaking through the clouds and illuminating the ship. It was the first painting he had done since she broke her hip and it is one of my most prized possessions. Since then he has begun painting religious scenes that include Daniel in the lion’s den and Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane.

   Brother Jack and Doris have led extraordinary lives in a simple understated way. Never boasting of their accomplishments, they have quietly influenced at least three generations and they have been an inspiration to a lot of folks like me. Doris resides in Heaven tonight and I’m reminded that she’s probably watching me, so I had better be good.

  Brother Jack told me that a friend of theirs told him recently, “You know Brother Jack, you never had to wonder where you were at with Doris”. I agree with that, and I feel the same about Brother Jack; Pastor, Mentor, Friend and Counselor, a man who has done so much and asked for so little. Together, Brother Jack and Doris were a dynamic team and served with true humility; I can just imagine what it’s going to be like when they meet again in Heaven. Doris will probably stick her tongue out at Brother Jack and then give him a great big hug to welcome him home. Then they will sing a duet together of ‘Follow Me’; Oh yes, Brother Jack, you’ll be able to sing in Heaven! You’ll have to take the lead, because Doris will be ‘spot on’ the harmony.

Brother Jack on 82^nd Birthday

 

 

 

 

 

FOLLOW ME (1953)   by Ira Stanphill

I traveled down a lonely road, and no one seemed to care, the burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair;

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me, and then I heard him say so tenderly:

"My feet were oh so weary upon the Calvary road, my cross became so heavy, I fell beneath the load;

Be faithful, weary pilgrim, the morning I can see, just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus," I often boast and say," I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,

I gave up fame and fortune,; I'm worth a lot to Thee," And then I hear Him gently say to me,

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss, my hands were nail'd in anger upon a cruel cross,

But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine, so lift your cross and follow close to me."

Oh, Jesus, If I die upon a foreign field some day,  t’would be no more than love demands, no less could I repay;

"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die," And then I heard Him gently say to me:

"If just a cup of water I place within your hands, then just a cup of water is all that I demand;"

But if by death to living they can thy glory see, I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.

A visit with Mike

Several months prior to losing his battle with cancer, Mike told me that he inquired and discovered that he was qualified for burial at the DFW National Cemetery in Grand Prairie, TX. He was, in fact, a Vietnam veteran and therefore imminently deserving of the honor. I am proud of him for that. Our Dad was also a veteran of WWII and he would have been proud of his son.

The DFW National Cemetery was opened in 2000 with over 600 acres overlooking Mountain Creek Lake. It is a beautiful setting as the final resting place for thousands of America's heroes. It is a fitting tribute to those who served. I was deeply touched by the enormous integrity of the beautifully orchestrated composition of respect and honor.

Ted and I wanted to visit Mike and pay him our respects. Ted was facing open heart surgery in two days and we just wanted to visit with family. It was a warm sunny day and it was easy to find his plot. The markers are beautifully laid out in carefully planned rows. We found his marker easily and spent time checking out the area. It will be a memorable spot when it is completed.

Love you Brother!

Mike is located in section 100 - Site 817. The map below will guide you.

Tributes to Michael L Warbritton

Vera Jo’s Tribute

  

Three weeks ago, my Popsi passed away after a long fight with esophageal cancer. I've been grappling with the weight of his passing but I've found comfort in knowing that he is leaving behind a legacy of love and service; to live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die at all.

Here is what I know———grass feels best underneath bare feet, dirt looks best under finger nails, and peaches taste best right off of the tree.

Here is what I know———scratchy goatee kisses are the softest, the best hugs are big bear hugs, tooth picks don’t make very good q-tips, and tractors will always be more fun to drive than any sports car.

Here is what I know———every day can be an adventure, the back roads will always be more beautiful that the highways, stories are often better told than read, and “darlin’” should only ever be said in my grandfather's voice.

Here is what I know———as much as I miss the growing pains that made my legs hurt, not my heart, I am so lucky to have spent a lifetime learning from my Popsi.

My grandfather was a man with a personality almost as big as his heart. I will always think most fondly of his bright spirit, the ways his eyes lit up any time he looked upon the beauty and grace of my grandmother, and his uncanny ability to turn a stranger into a lifelong friend in just a matter of minutes.

Undoubtedly, my grandfather has made me into the young woman I am today. He taught me to love unselfishly, how to listen wholeheartedly, and how to live passionately. He taught me how to walk with purpose and how to dream with hope. From our farmhouse fun to our dog days in the desert, our relationship was most precious to me.

My grandfather was a blessing to all those fortunate enough to have known him. As my little brother said, he was a profoundly happy man, who always had a smile to offer. From Sweetwater, Texas to Vietnam, to the ends of the earth, my grandfather has touched lives and his memory lives on in us. I cannot wait to tell my own children of the successes and accomplishments of their great grandfather. Fly high, airman.

 

 

 

Andrew's Tribute

 

As every kid grows up, they all have dreams to one day become big and be remembered for their accomplishments. Many set goals to become a famous singer, athlete, or even as far as being the first person to go back in time. Although these goals are set at such a high caliber, and they aren't necessarily impossible, at one point every kid must face reality and realize that it Is highly unlikely that those dreams will come true. While this could be painful to realize, it does no...t mean that you can't still make an impact on the world and be remembered. My grandfather, Michael Warbritton or as I call him, Popsi was able to do just that. Despite losing his battle to Esophagus cancer, he fought every day of his life to keep pushing and surviving. Every day that I was able to spend with him I will cherish for the rest of my life. Before and even after his diagnosis, he was the happiest man I ever knew. He could walk down the street and find a way to become a friend with every one he saw. He never became famous, yet he made one of the biggest impacts on the world that I will never forget. "I believe every human has a finite number of heartbeats. I don't intend to waste any of mine." -Neil Armstrong

 

 

 

 

My Brother Mike - My Tribute

How do you measure the depth of a man’s character, the breadth of his love, the height of his compassion? I believe that it is measured in the life that he lives, by the way he treats those he loves, by the way he serves others in need, by the passion that drives his commitments.

He was named after our grandfathers, Oscar Mike Mosely and James Leroy Warbritton. I am sure that he was glad she didn’t name him “Oscar Leroy”. Mother called him Mike because her father was called Mike. He later preferred to be called Michael and he was tagged “Popsi” by his grandchildren.

Mike was a total commitment kind of a guy. When a task had to be accomplished, he pursued it with a firm dedication until it was done. He dedicated years taking correspondence courses from Southern Illinois U. He eventually acquired an undergraduate degree before he retired from the USAF. He told Ted and I that he completed his entire degree “without ever setting foot on campus”. After leaving the Air Force he acquired a Masters Degree in Education at North Texas University within a few years. He pursued a Doctorate to the point of writing his thesis but decided to pursue teaching and administration in technical education. He stuck to the plan and accomplished his goal.

This level of education enabled him to pursue another of his great loves in life, teaching young adults. Mike taught high school in Fort Worth until he was chosen as a Dean at Mountain View College in Dallas. From there he earned a position of Dean in Technical Training in Maryland. After this time, he taught at inner city schools in Baltimore and York Community College in Pennsylvania. Wherever he lived, he taught, and his students admired and respected him. He loved teaching and he eagerly shared his knowledge to help others. When Ted and I had a computer problem, we always called Mike. Granted, Ted is still trying to figure out how to use his flip phone, but Mike always responded to our needs.

Mike was a “prolific reader”; he devoured books by his favorite authors. He sometimes sent me books by writers he had recently discovered, and we discussed books we had both read. He introduced Ted and I to Craig Johnson and I put him onto Rick Atkinson. We both shared an interest in the Civil War, modern history, historical fiction and contemporary thrillers, but he read with an intensity that I could not match. I have never met a person who could consume so much information so quickly.

Helping others became a driving force after his retirement. He joined the Knights of Columbus and served others in countless ways through their charitable projects. He embraced his faith in God and he put his beliefs into action. He became a staunch supporter of military veterans, going to airports and greeting returning service men and women, welcoming them back with gift bags and thanking them for their service. He told me that he could make a connection with any veteran he met; just for the record, Mike met few in his life that he didn’t make a connection with. He was genuinely interested in everyone’s story.

It was in a summer scout day camp in Sweetwater TX that he learned to build model airplanes. He actually started with simple plastic models but eventually graduated to the balsa wood kits where you built the frame and then covered them with a tissue paper skin, painted them and then put a rubber band motor in them. When completed, you could take them to an open field and fly them.  (Well, at least once). It was the beginning of a lifetime hobby that he never gave up. After retiring from the Air Force, he started building model planes for ex-pilots who flew in WWII, Korea and Vietnam. For everyone that he built a special plane, he requested only that they send him a photo of them holding their plane. He mounted them on authentic bases and with authentic markings, and they were graciously received. One is permanently displayed in the Volk National Guard AFB museum in Wisconsin, honoring Jerome A. Volk, a veteran of World War II who was killed in Korea. Mike was so proud that he was asked to honor him. One of his models proudly sits on a bookshelf in my home. When mine arrived, I told him that one of the bombs had fallen off in shipping and he replied, “Not to worry, I sent you a packet of glue to reattach anything like that.” He prepared for contingencies in everything he did. His models are meticulously detailed with authentic squadron colors and insignia. His work was impeccable.

His thoughtfulness touched all that he loved. As we were talking one day, he mentioned that he had just bought some ruby cufflinks at an antique store. I told him that I used to own some, and they had been lost over the years, but they were my favorites. A week later I received a package from him with a pair of ruby cufflinks. Mike was like that and I’m wearing them today.

   “When Mike and I ventured out on the course for the first time, we knew it was going to be special. Our clubs were loaded into our cart and after warming up on a bag of range balls we advanced to the first tee. It was a beautiful day, we had no deadlines and it was an immense pleasure to just play at our pace and enjoy each other’s company. I know that many folks don’t understand the senselessness of chasing a little white ball over 6500 yards of golf course, but they don’t understand the real benefit of playing a round of golf. First of all, an enormously beautiful setting of plush greenery, fragrant pines, crystal clear ponds and freshly mowed greens surrounded us. Secondly, we were given precious personal time to spend with each other and to catch up on many missing segments of our lives. And lastly, we actually enjoyed the pursuit of excellence in our golf games; especially when we hit a good shot. But golf is about more than striking a ball, it’s everything surrounding the act; including the camaraderie of the participants. We bonded like brothers of old; before the jobs, the families and the distances got in the way; we had a great day.”  

When we were kids, he got Ted and I into a lot of trouble. Like when he talked us into breaking into an unfinished shool in our neighborhood and riding up and down the halls with muddy tires, or when he talked us into roping calves at Uncle Grant’s corral and trying to ride them like rodeo cowboys. I guess these were the days that he was developing his leadership skills. He taught me how to catch crawdads with a piece of bread on a string. He destroyed my belief in Santa in 1954 by showing me where all the gifts were hidden in the top of Mother’s closet.

One didn’t have to be around him long to realize that he loved baseball and football. During Cowboy games we would exchange texts and complain about a play we had just watched, “Romo is off today”, “Did you see that catch that Dez made?”. He knew I loved TCU and he would text me to let me know what channel to watch for their upcoming game.(Like I didn’t already know) He surprised me by sending me a TCU cap and decal after this past season. I think I almost turned him to a Horned Frog fan this past year, but Mike loved his Rangers, Cowboys, and Longhorns.

He also loved his music, whether it be country or classic or most anything in between. From George Strait to Eric Clapton. We swapped music that we both enjoyed. I think that maybe he liked Irish folk music best. He made me copies of his favorite Irish family, “The Leahys”. He listened with sophisticated headphones to fully enjoy his favorites, Mike loved his music.

But what Mike loved most was family, all of his family, all the in-laws, and all the outlaws, and all of his dogs (Cisco, Travis, Scooter and Jefe). If you were family, you were loved and he was willing to do anything he could for you, and all he wanted in return was our acknowledgement of his love.

He had a deep and abiding love for his birth family including his brothers, cousins, his nephews and neices. He loved you all.

His heart was broken at the loss of his  daughter, Melissa, over 18 years ago and his heart rejoiced last week at the visit of his son, James Michael. Michael, I pray that God will grant you peace in your heart as you savor the good times you shared with your dad, for he loved you dearly. Amanda and Shelby and Aaron, you are special and he was brimming over with pride and love when he was able to be with you.

He met the true love of his life and soul-mate in Cynthia. She helped mold him into a kinder and gentler person as she steadfastly stood by her man. Last year in his blog entitled “My Hero Cynthia” he wrote, “ BUT, the real hero in my trials and tribulations belong to one person and one person ONLY, my wife Cynthia.  No one has done more to be there at all the critical moments of my progress through this process called cancer.” He also renewed his faith in God, as he wrote, “My faith in God is paramount, unwavering, and strong.”

He fell in love with all of Cyb’s family. I don’t have to tell you this Kim, but he adored you and Bruce and all of yours. Stacy, he had an unbreakable bond with you and your children, and I know you felt the same. He deeply loved and proudly supported Vera Jo and Andrew and he loved you as his own.

How do you measure the depth of a man’s character? I do it by comparing him to my brother Mike, a man who lived life to the fullest, who accomplished much, who served his country, who gave freely of himself, and above all, a man who loved much. He let us all know we were loved by his constant thoughtfulness and his abundant generosity.

I will end with the last words I spoke to him. “I’ll see you soon, I love you Mike”.

 

 



Remembering Mike

I wrote this story several years ago, I don't have a better memory of Mike.

Mid Pines Lodge

 

   Brothers get separated through the years; we graduated from high school; we joined the military or started careers; eventually we got married; we started a family of our own; then we had children and watched them grow up. My oldest brother and I moved many times to many states and over the years we lost close contact with each other. Our middle brother, Ted, chose a career that kept him in one location for forty years and I lived near him for twenty years, but job opportunities eventually moved me and separated us. We all kept in touch on birthdays and holidays, but none of us were living close enough to visit as often as we wished. It didn’t mean that we didn’t care for each other; growing our own families and careers just took us down separate paths. Ultimately, all three of us went through divorces and each of us in turn discovered our soul mates that will remain our marriage partners for the rest of our lives. Over the years we found ourselves spread out, from Texas to North Carolina to Pennsylvania.

   It was an effort to try and rekindle some of the closeness we had lost over the years that brought my oldest brother and I together in Southern Pines, North Carolina. When he called to plan a visit with me, I suggested that we stay and play at a golf resort community I had discovered in recent years. We had both learned to play golf with good friends and both suffer rather high handicaps. Mike and I had casually played only a couple of times before and we felt comfortable with each other’s level of play. Mid-Pines Inn and Golf Club is not the typical resort that you find today, in fact, the inn was constructed in 1921 and the course was built by the Carolina’s most prominent Scottish designer, Donald Ross. He, of course, is also the architect of the world-famous Pinehurst Golf Resort where Payne Stewart won his celebrated US Open.

   The Inn itself is magnificently nostalgic; it literally takes you back almost a hundred years to a simpler and uncluttered lifestyle. The white painted brick exterior fits in comfortably with the ancient pines that line the circular driveway to the entrance. When you look at it the very first time, you just know that your pace is about to slow down. A caddy meets you in the lobby and your clubs are carted off to be stored for your entire stay. Your room keys are real metal keys and the stairs are your elevator; there are only three floors, so you haven’t far to walk. Although the rooms are currently being renovated, they still retained their quaint original feel when we stayed there. I felt like I needed to purchase some knickers before we started our first round. Aside from our snoring, it was a peaceful and restful place to replenish our aching muscles. We stayed on an overnight golf package that provided dinner at the club, then breakfast and lunch the following day. It included a round of golf at Mid-Pines and another round at the Pine Needles Golf Club across the street where the Ladies US Open was played in 2007.

 

   When Mike and I ventured out on the course for the first time, we knew it was going to be special. Our clubs were loaded into our cart and after warming up on a bag of range balls we advanced to the first tee. It was a beautiful day, we had no deadlines and it was an immense pleasure to just play at our pace and enjoy each other’s company. I know that many folks don’t understand the senselessness of chasing a little white ball over 6500 yards of golf course, but they don’t understand the real benefit of playing a round of golf. First of all, an enormously beautiful setting of plush greenery, fragrant pines, crystal clear ponds and freshly mowed greens surrounded us. Secondly, we were given precious personal time to spend with each other and to catch up on many missing segments of our lives. And lastly, we actually enjoyed the pursuit of excellence in our golf games; especially when we hit a good shot. But golf is about more than striking a ball, it’s everything surrounding the act; including the camaraderie of the participants. We bonded like brothers of old; before the jobs, the families and the distances got in the way; we had a great day.

No 1 Hole at Mid-Pines

 

   After playing through beautiful fairways lined in tall pines and dogwoods, there were usually multiple sand traps surrounding the greens to collect your errant approach shots. On a few holes there were water hazards but we managed to avoid hitting anything into the water. We played in and out of the sand and even tempted a few birdies during the round. When you line up on the 18^th tee box, you feel as though you are playing on television and you are in the lead and about to make the final drive of your tournament. The fairway is lined by pines and a sand bunker that lead up to a small lake just in front of the green.

   The green is nestled in a semi-arc of the old inn itself; my minds eye envisioned thousands of cheering fans waiting for our arrival. We managed to avoid the water, but we did discover a rose garden to the right of the green. The scores weren’t spectacular; just our usual round.

 

No 18 Hole at Mid-Pines

 

   After finishing the round we showered and dressed for dinner. The Inn had a dress code and furnished jackets if you forgot to bring your own. It wasn’t a gourmet meal, but there weren’t many guests staying, so we had a quiet and pleasant dinner. The Inn had a recreation room which included a pool table and a ping-pong table, so we tried a little of both. No fierce competition, just a friendly match between two brothers. I thought that if Ted had come, we could have all relived some fun times from the past. Brothers have a special bond, and even after all the years, we could still renew that spirit which had been lying dormant within us.

We retired to bed early for we had an early start time on the sister course that next morning. The breakfast was excellent with bacon, eggs, grits, fruits, freshly baked muffins, and your choice of juices and coffee.

   We played Pine Needles at the same pace; the course is similar to Mid-Pines, but more daunting and newer. The challenges for golfers at our level were somewhat accelerated because this course has been the site of several tournaments on the LPGA. On the first par-4 hole I hit a good drive and followed it with a decent approach shot, which landed pin-high but buried in the middle of a left side sand trap. I made the sand shot cleanly and it landed just past the flag but it kept on rolling until it trickled off the green on the opposite side. Unfortunately, there was a matching sand trap on the right side of the green.

I managed to do the reverse trick and sent the ball right back into the left side sand trap from whence I had just left. I managed a seven on the hole but played the rest of the round without similar mishap. Mike and I enjoyed the day and again shared the companionship of each other’s company.

   We ended the day with lunch at the Mid-Pine club lounge and a trip to the golf shop at the club. As we packed up and left the premises, we both took a wistful look back toward the quaint old structure that had just provided us with a warm and lasting memory. On the way home we visited Pinehurst Golf Resort and discovered one of America’s finest golfing opportunities; perhaps to be enjoyed on a future venture.

   Although Ted doesn’t play golf, I’ve tried to encourage him to go out with us and just drive the cart, because the real joy in playing with your brothers is not the game; it’s connecting with each other. As the old saying goes, it’s not the destination that counts; it’s the journey that really matters. I hope that someday soon the three of us will tee off to a fun time of sharing; and re-kindling of the bonds of brotherhood.

 

 

Pinehurst Golf Resort