Hayter article for Oct 19
Softly and Tenderly
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, understood as a child, and thought as a child.” That is a portion of a bible passage from I Corinthians 13:11. I shall now add to it, “…and I occasionally still think as a child.” By the way, I have faith that God appreciates a person with a sense of humor. For heaven’s sake, he created the rhinoceros.
In the Hayter family, my mother had little sense of humor when it came to dragging us to church. We got churched Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, Wednesday nights, the week of vacation bible school, and the weeknights of a visiting preacher delivering a sermon every night of the week.
Dad worked shift work and only went to church on Sunday mornings when he had a day off. By the way, Sunday night services were invented so that people who didn’t make it for Sunday morning could still go to church on a Sunday. The sad thing was that Mom made it to church every Sunday, but we still had to attend Sunday night service because of those who legally couldn’t make it to the morning service! I’ve looked, and there is no mention in scripture about Sunday night service. Tell that to our old preacher.
Faris Hayter seldom made it on Sunday nights and never made it on Wednesday nights. Back then, fathers could do that, just not mothers. The church my family attended was the most conservative on the planet. We were the only ones going to heaven. In fact, our congregation would not allow anyone to use our church phone unless they could prove they were members of our particular church.
The congregation Kay and I now attend used to be one of those with the same strict rules about having three services each week. The congregation lost a lot of members when the elders permitted instrumental music to be played during our hymns. It was okay for King David to play a harp, because He was in the Old Testament. But when Jesus came, there was no record of musical instruments being played during worship, so they were outlawed. By the way, Jesus never attended church. Such facilities were merely organized in His name.
When Dennis and I left for Stephen F. Austin University back in ’68, we went to the nearest church that wore the same godly name as the one back home. I can’t speak for Dennis, but I attended for Mom. I made it a point to let her know that Dennis and I attended a church just like our old one, only it was more conservative. One time, the song leader, a college student, had neglected to button the top button on his shirt. Immediately, a church elder walked up the steps and told him to button his top button. The young man apologized to the congregation.
Several years later, Kay and I married and moved to Conroe, where we continued to attend church three services a week. I made a lot of friends at the congregation, but still attended due to my mother.
After many years, we found a much less structured church. It had the same name as my family’s usual church, but they had made a volleyball court in the field next to the building. allowing children and adults in the apartments nearby to use it. This congregation didn’t consider it unscriptural to allow the community access to the church property.
Over time, the elders eliminated the sacred name of our church, changing it to Grace Crossing. Any and all are welcome. Anyone in the vicinity can use one of our phones, no matter who they are. In other words, it’s a welcoming and loving group of people. Kay is the most welcoming. I’m kind, but Kay is out there.
Which leads me to the conclusion of this week’s topic. After trashing many of the religious experiences from my childhood, I want to mention a story from a couple of decades ago. It has to do with my older sister, Lynda, who developed Alzheimer's when she was around 55 years old. She passed away 10 years later.
The last time I visited her, she was in a wing of the hospital that was home to those who were closest to death. I had long since stopped asking God to cure my sister. My prayer was for Him to take her home, so she could be with Him in heaven.
As I walked down the hallway, I saw many patients in wheelchairs, and some leaning against the wall. Some were mumbling to themselves, while others stared at whoever or whatever was around them. I eventually found my sister lying in a bedroom all alone. She had rolled to the side of the bed. Her eyes were open, yet I could discern no smile nor any life in her.
At first, Lynda had no reaction. But after I sang “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling,”—my dear sister whispered, “Calling for you and for me.” I cried like a child.
It was the last time I saw my sister alive. When I delivered her eulogy, I mentioned her brief recitation of the song “Softly and Tenderly.” It was, without question, my saddest and most blessed moment. I just felt a desire to share it one more time.
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