“Lord, help me not to take for granted each day You give me to make a difference.” Amen.
How are you doing on this fine day? If you didn’t know already, it’s Wednesday, October 28, 2026. Some who read my blog do so on their phones; therefore, if I happen to send it out early, they get a not-altogether-welcome wake-up ding. For them, I have this: From the depths of your slumber, I bid you a hearty welcome to a brand-new day. Ha! Honestly, I do try to delay sending things out until I can at least clearly make out objects after sunrise. Ha.
In 1969, during my early days of working in downtown Houston, we had a way of greeting those who arrived at the office past starting time. Back then, we had two newspapers: the Houston Chronicle and the Houston Post. For the late arrivals, we asked if they had brought a copy of the afternoon paper with them.
At that time, I held one of the lowest positions in the department. This is God’s truth: I never dreamed—never—that I would become a supervisor, a manager, a senior manager, and, eighteen years later, work out of an office at the point of the famous Pennzoil Place building as the head of a department of 175 people.
Here’s what I say about this: Only God! That’s right. Only God. Did I work hard? You betcha! But I am convinced, from the inside out, that the opportunities provided to me came from God. They did. They really did.
No doubt, there were times when I was filled with ego and pride. But my story is all about how God made it possible. That’s the truth. And I thank Him for His provision. Amen.
I know some folks who never, ever want to think about the past. They may have good reasons not to do so. I enjoy remembering as much as I can from days gone by. Some of it is very painful, but remembering the tragedies reminds me of how God saw us through. He did. He really did.
The photo above was taken in front of our house in Hornbeck, Louisiana, on April 3, 1961, Resurrection Sunday. From left to right: Donald, yours truly, JoAnn, Kayla, Mom, Jimmy, and Frances. Today, JoAnn and I are the only ones in that group still breathing air on this planet.
I hear what you are saying. And you are correct. I did have a haircut that allowed my huge ears to pick up radio signals from all over the world. Ha!
There are plenty of sad memories in the lives of those pictured. But! There are also unforgettable, joyful experiences that come to mind when I look at that photo—times of great feasting and sweet fellowship as our shipwrecked crew tried to pursue our futures.
Why shipwrecked? This photo was taken seven years after our dad, our leader and provider, unexpectedly left us for his heavenly abode. Recovering from that loss was difficult, and it marked each of our lives in ways I still cannot find the words to explain.
Some still consider our family to be cursed. Sorry. I consider our family to be blessed. God. Only God. That’s the only reason I am still around to share our story. God. Only God.
JoAnn and I are now officially designated as old people. You probably saw this coming, but I am reminded of a song I have heard since my earliest days: “Precious Memories.” The lyrics were written by J. B. F. Wright (John Braselton Fillmore, 1877–1959), and the haunting melody was developed by Lonnie B. Combs, a prolific hymn writer (1905–1991). Published in 1925, “Precious Memories” found its way into 145 different church hymnals.
I’ll leave you with the song as it appeared in our shape-note songbooks. We never called ours hymnals. Amen.
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