Daddy

There’s a story I’ve had in my heart for many years. Looking back, I recognize it as a time my growing pains as a Christian began. I believe that makes it a story worth being told, listened to, handed down.

It was late May, strawberry-picking time in the Southeast. I had spent the day harvesting and preserving the red, ripe fruit and gone to bed tired. The telephone rang in the middle of the night, waking me from a deep sleep. It was the kind of call you hope never to get. My brother had been robbed, shot, and killed. My brother, the one I had asked, “Hey, Kid. What do you want to do with your life?” My brother, the one who had answered, “I want to make people happy.”

Our family cried together, prayed together, pulled together. And when Daddy did not regain the click in his step, the twinkle in his Irish eyes, we thought, “It’s no wonder. It will take time and prayers.” But time passed and Daddy’s health began to fail. My mother finally convinced him to visit the family doctor who sent him straight from his office to the local hospital for tests.

All my life I had known Daddy to be a quiet, hard-working, God-loving man; but here and there I had picked up stories of his mischievous nature during his younger years. Though his health was no better, his zest for life re-surfaced in the hospital. I came face-to-face with it when I stepped through the hospital’s revolving front door. I heard, “Paging Mr. Clark. Mr. Archie Clark. Please return to your hospital bed.” I took off running to his room and found my mother there alone. “They’re paging Daddy. What’s going on?” I asked. “He won’t stay in his bed,” she said. “Yesterday they found him down the hall visiting a sick member of our church. Now they can’t find him at all.” About that time the nurse entered the room, Daddy–eyes twinkling–in tow. She had found him downstairs in the cafeteria having coffee with Uncle Tom. Though she tried to act annoyed, I saw her grin breaking through, mirroring mine.

The tests revealed cancer. Inoperable. The doctor suggested he could try MD Anderson Cancer Center on an outside chance that he could be helped. With no time to waste, my parents drove to Nashville, the nearest airport. My mother went through the checking station. When Daddy walked through, the machine sounded off. “Sir,” asked the attendant, “are you carrying a pocketknife?” Yes, he reckoned he was. “Please put it on the counter.” Daddy put his pocketknife on the counter and walked back through. The machine beeped again. “Sir,” she said, “you must have something else in your pocket.” Daddy reached into his pocket, pulled out a little aluminum cross, gingerly placed it on the counter, and walked back through the passageway. Once more the machine beeped. The attendant said firmly, “Sir, empty your pockets!” Daddy grinned, dug deep into his pockets, and came out with both hands overflowing with crosses. “What in the world—?” she asked. Daddy answered, “They’re reminders of God’s love. See? It’s printed right there on the front-GOD LOVES YOU. Here’s a poem to go with it. Would you like one?” As she took the cross and the poem, another attendant, curious, joined them. Looking over their shoulders, this is what she read:

I carry a cross in my pocket, a simple reminder to me of the fact that I am a Christian, no matter where I may be.

This little cross isn’t magic nor is it a good luck charm. It isn’t meant to protect me from every physical harm.

It’s not for identification for all the world to see. It’s just an understanding between my Savior and me.

When t put my hand in my pocket to bring out a coin or key, the cross is there to remind me of the price He paid for me.

It reminds me, too, to be thankful for my blessings day by day and to strive to serve Him better in all that I do and say.

It’s also a daily reminder of the peace and comfort I share with all who know my Master and give themselves to His care.

So I carry a cross in my pocket, reminding no one but me that Jesus Christ is the Lord of my life-if only I’ll let Him be.

Verna Thomas • Agora, Inc. © All rights reserved

With tears in her eyes and outstretched hands, the second attendant received the gift, and at the Houston hospital so did the receptionist, the nurses, waiting families, hurting patients. Daddy laid a trail from Kentucky to Tennessee to Texas, planting seeds of God’s love with a cross, a poem, and an Irish smile, knowing the harvest would follow. The next day he died. That’s how It came about that I carry a cross in my pocket, a reminder of my heavenly Father’s love and the beautiful way He chose to spread it using one humble man who was willing to let Him. It’s a story I’ve kept to myself overlong.

Kay Pelren