Ever so often I take a sentimental journey down memory lane which was the case on a cold November day several years ago. At the time and writing of this story both parents were still here; that is no longer the case. They both loved this story so I decided to share it in my blog. I hope you enjoy.
Buddy’s Cross
I returned to my hometown to help my parents. For the past several years health issues that come with aging were making it apparent life was drastically changing. Their friends, brothers and sisters were all gone leaving them even more isolated and us more aware that time was precious. My two brothers lived close by but my sister and I were several hours away so we took turns coming to help. It had been an exhausting and emotional week as I daily witnessed new changes. I wanted to make them younger so I could hold onto them longer.
Needing a break, one afternoon while they rested I decided to drive over to an adjoining town, Marshall. That was a special town that held lots of memories for our family. My parents were one of the first couples to get married in the “newly built” courthouse. It was the town where they first set up housekeeping as a married couple. Many years later my husband and I returned there while he attended college and I worked. Nothing was as I remembered; time had brought changes. The courthouse was closed for renovation and now only a historical landmark. It had long been replaced with a more modern building.
The store where I worked, Joe Weisman had changed owners, leaving only the building and the original sign over the door as a reminder of another era. I parked in front and went inside just to look around. It now housed different vendors along with a smorgasbord of new mixed with old. I wandered aimlessly looking more at the building than the merchandise. Even time couldn’t erase the memories in that place! It still held the smells that were so familiar and as inviting as the friendliness of the older women who once worked there. I could almost hear the faint sound of their laughter and still today I cherished their many words of wisdom. I was reminiscencing the sights and sounds of that special time when I noticed a small cross standing in the midst of a hodgepodge of items. “That’s Buddy’s cross,” I whispered as I reached to retrieve it. Turning it upside down, there was his scrawled handwriting, along with the date and number, just like the one I had at home. It was now valued at $4.95.
As I cradled this rare find in my hands, I continued to meander through the store. Scanning one last look I handed the saleslady my item along with my debit card. “I have a story to tell you,” I began. She smiled politely and proceeded to wrap the small cross in tissue paper.
“I grew up in a small rural community not too terribly far from here. There were probably only 20 families who lived there, but we were a close knit group with roots going back for many generations. There was one small Methodist church we all attended. In the early fifties they decided to build a new building which was badly needed but it was a farming community and money was scarce. There was a family, and the dad was a carpenter by trade; his wife ran the school lunch program and they had one son. While each family sacrificed, giving egg money, selling coke bottles and saving pennies, this carpenter, using discarded lumber pieces, made a small cross for every home as a reminder of their goal.
I turned the cross over and told the saleslady who was politely listening up to this point, “His name was Buddy Parker.” Her eyes went to the name scrawled in blue ink on the bottom of the cross. She dropped the tissue paper and reached to take hold of it moving her eyes across the writing. “My goodness,” she exclaimed never taking her eyes off the inscription. “What a treasure!”
Indeed it was a treasure. Memory lane had many roads reminding me where I had been, the people who impacted me along the way, and some, like today, pointed me back to the strong foundation of faith that my life was built on. As I walked to the car carrying my purchase neatly wrapped in tissue paper, I remembered that while life often feels fragile and changes will come, faith will always point us back to a plain, simple cross where it all began. Just like the older ladies I worked with whose voices once spoke into my young life, the people in that small rural community helped plant my feet on a firm foundation that still held today and would provide strength for the new challenges ahead.
A carpenter and a small wooden cross reminded me.
