Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 22
Months went by and the board began hearing complaints Kelly wasn’t connecting with the church’s young people.
They didn’t want to fire him, but they wanted the church to run as smoothly and to grow.
The board decided the solution was to hire a youth minister. The board of elders and deacons asked him to check around.
Kelly had an idea of the kind of youth minister he wanted – and the kind of youth minister the church needed. It was difficult, but he decided to find the type of person who would be good for the church.
He pictured an athletic, well-built, tall charismatic guy who would charm the teenage girls into attending church and bringing their boyfriends with them.
“That would be healthy for the church,” he thought.
But, quickly enough, he realized money would be an issue. While Kelly had not asked the church for anything – not even to ask how much the job paid when he became the minister – he quickly realized the type of youth ministers he knew the church needed would be out of the church’s price range.
The youth minister search became a private matter of prayer for Kelly and the church board members. He said nothing from the pulpit about the idea; but always kept his eyes open.
One day his prayers appeared to be answered from a strange source.
Kelly’s friends told him about a youth minister who had resigned the church he served.
A visit over coffee and Kelly learned Greg was willing to accept the calling for the amount offered by the church.
Greg’s first Sunday at Victory gave Kelly reason to be concerned.
When he introduced Greg to the young people, he saw the reaction he expected. The girls fluttered and the guys admired him as someone who could teach them about sports and – obviously – about women.
But it was Grace’s reaction that bothered Kelly.
She took one look at him, her eyes lit up and she smiled in a way she had never smiled at Kelly.
Despite his reluctance to ask her out, Kelly and Grace had become friends. They enjoyed spending time together. In fact, she was the first girl he had ever known who didn’t lose her appeal shortly after their first date.
Her parents had allowed him to take her to the movies when a Billy Graham film was shown at the Crawfordsville theater. It had been sponsored by the local ministerial association, so Kelly thought taking Grace was a ministerial thing to do, not really a date. And, he couldn’t help it if he just forgot to promote the film at church, so the two of them were the only ones who knew about it, could he?
It seemed plausible – to Kelly. Grace’s parents liked Kelly and just smiled through it all.
There was a problem: Grace didn’t believe in God. That was another reason Kelly decided it wouldn’t be wise for them to get too involved too quickly.
Once, when Betty was out of town, Kelly was invited to spend the night in the Rogers home. Kent and Lucy Rogers had gone to a square dance and Kelly and Grace enjoyed the house by themselves.
Grace played some of her favorite records for him.
“This is ‘Pinball Wizard’ by The Who,” she said. “It’s about a blind and deaf boy who can’t do much, but he likes playing pinball and becomes very good at it.”
As the evening wore on, Kelly brought up the delicate subject of Grace’s faith.
“Oh, I believe in a higher power,” she said. “I’m just not sure if it’s the God of the Bible or not.”
Kelly had not heard of the Alcoholics Anonymous pledge to a higher power and he was confused.
“It’s like this,” Grace continued. “How do we know the Bible is right? I mean there are so many religions in the world. Which one of them is right?”
“Well,” Kelly moved cautiously. “There are a lot of religions in the world. But I understand many of them share common concepts.”
She appeared to be interested, so he continued.
“I mean, a friend of mine goes to a Christian College. He says that ancient history of the land between Egypt and the Holy Land indicates a people called the Habiru traveled as nomads about the Same time the Bible says Moses was leading the Hebrews to the Promised Land.
“Then, there are common themes of sin and redemption by blood and sacrifice that are repeated in many religions.”
They sat quietly; Kelly hoped it would all sink in and Grace would respond. Instead, she offered him a glass of lemonade.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
What you didn't read in the paper ... about Jimmy Hoffa
Many times, a reporter will hear things from people that can't be verified or for some other reason doesn't make it into print.
In the process of obtaining permission to use a Detroit Free Press photo of Hoffa, I spoke with an unidentified man who worked in the Free Press's art department.
After telling him what I wanted and why, he told me some neat things about Hoffa's disappearance that just didn't fit into my story.
It seems this man remembers the day Hoffa disappeared for two reasons: He was in a union meeting that day and Hoffa had requested portraits be made of himself.
According to this old newspaperman, there was some trouble brewing between the Detroit Free Press management and union members. I presume it involved the carriers, because the meeting was called off.
"We have to postpone the meeting," it was announced, "Because Jimmy has disappeared."
A second reason this newspaperman remembers that day was because a photographer had been assigned to go out to Hoffa's home and take some portraits of him.
When he arrived at the house, Hoffa cut the photo session short, saying he had a luncheon appointment.
There is no way to prove either story is true, but it makes interesting reading, don't you think?
In the process of obtaining permission to use a Detroit Free Press photo of Hoffa, I spoke with an unidentified man who worked in the Free Press's art department.
After telling him what I wanted and why, he told me some neat things about Hoffa's disappearance that just didn't fit into my story.
It seems this man remembers the day Hoffa disappeared for two reasons: He was in a union meeting that day and Hoffa had requested portraits be made of himself.
According to this old newspaperman, there was some trouble brewing between the Detroit Free Press management and union members. I presume it involved the carriers, because the meeting was called off.
"We have to postpone the meeting," it was announced, "Because Jimmy has disappeared."
A second reason this newspaperman remembers that day was because a photographer had been assigned to go out to Hoffa's home and take some portraits of him.
When he arrived at the house, Hoffa cut the photo session short, saying he had a luncheon appointment.
There is no way to prove either story is true, but it makes interesting reading, don't you think?
"Living in Victory," Chapter 21
Copyright 2006, Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 21
Since I began preaching at Victory, I had gained a new respect for the written word; not just the Bible, either.
I had always been a so-so student. I liked to joke that I was in my junior year of college before the academic dean – or anyone else – saw me study in the library. I would only do the required amount of reading, in my room, no more, write my papers and take my tests in classes.
I had much more important things to do than actually study.
I was a child of the late 1960s. I saw the TV reports about revolt against the war in Vietnam. I had figured out that the students in those colleges spent more time chasing girls and drinking as well as rioting than they spent studying.
And there was the college newspaper. It took much of my time. I spent more time there than in socializing anywhere.
I thought it was incongruous for a guy who said he wanted a girlfriend to spend so much time by himself, but I didn’t want to think about it. Maybe I didn’t want a girlfriend. Maybe I was gay! I couldn’t deal with that possibility, so I stayed busy.
I remembered the first basketball game on campus. I had planned to go and hang out with the other students; maybe grab a pizza and beer afterward.
Instead, I had stopped by the college’s newspaper offices. They were short a photographer, so I spent the night learning how to use a 35 mm camera, grabbing shots at the game and then learning how to develop film in the darkroom.
It was all too much fun.
I liked learning how to crack open the metal film cylinder in the dark, loading the film onto the spool and getting the spool into the black canister before turning on the lights.
In fact, I had to take photos in both halves of the game because the shots I took the first half were completely ruined when I couldn’t get the film into the canister successfully. I turned on the light to find the canister wasn’t completely sealed and the film had fogged when it was developed.
But I caught on. And I never regretted missing the pizza party after the basketball game. I was becoming an honest-to-God journalist! And it felt great!
The next couple years were spent pounding a typewriter, gathering information for stories and writing them.
I still felt a tingle when I saw my byline on a story. And the stories – by and large – read well. They looked good. I did well! And my photos weren’t bad either!
The only setback I had was when I applied to become the newspaper’s editor. I lost out to Bill Smith.
Smith had red hair and freckles.
“If he only wore a bow tie, he could pass for Jimmy Olsen,” I thought.
I was smug in the knowledge I should have had the job. But, heck, who wouldn’t rather be Clark Kent than Jimmy Olsen, anyway?
I also regretted not finding my Lois Lane. But, my parents weren’t married until they were in their late 30s, so what was the big deal.
I found many college girls attractive, (I wasn’t gay!) but somehow it never worked out. It never dawned on me that girls might want to have real, romantic dates instead of tagging along on a newspaper story.
At the mall in Lafayette I found the book I needed: “Why Do Bad Things Happen To Good People?”
“It might not help Mark’s parents, even if they read it,” I thought. “But it will probably help me get rid of my demons.”
The author really did help me by helping me regain my perspective of who God is and our relative relationship to him as creation to creator.
The author maintained … rightly, I thought … that the creation has no right to demand anything of the Creator, not even to ask why God made us as He did.
I decided to spend some time with Kent and Lucy Rogers, if possible. Their home was less than five minutes from the church, so even if I didn’t catch them at home, the time wouldn’t be wasted.
I really enjoyed driving my sporty little car. My Pinto was far from a sports car – in fact, it was a wagon – but it was little and fun to drive.
One time, Kent had looked at the engine and compared it to a sewing machine. It didn’t look much bigger and it ran quietly, so I could see his point without being offended.
Kent and Lucy had a very young outlook on life and I felt close to Kent. He was – could be – the brother I never had.
Fortunately, Kent and Lucy’s cars were parked in the drive. Their old house set on a hill and I could see their cars even as I drove across the pipe cattle crossing used to keep cows from wandering down the county road.
Kent was reading by the fire when I entered the house.
“Come in!” he yelled when I knocked on the door.
There was a pungent smell whenever I drove up to the house. It probably came from the hog barn setting 50 yards or so away. I could occasionally hear the “Ree, ree” sound from the pigs when I got out of the car.
I often wanted to yell something at those pigs, as I would a dog that didn’t recognize the car. But, I had learned from Kent that pigs have a pretty delicate constitution and I decided I didn’t want to stir them up too much.
Ken had risen and was walking to the door when I pushed it open. In his hand was a magazine.
“Kelly!” he said. “Come in, come in. Have a sit.”
He regained his easy chair next to the wood stove and I took the couch across the room.
“I’m reading up on reverse osmosis,” he said with his normal winning smile.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, a lot of people are purifying their drinking water by installing reverse osmosis units in their homes. It purifies drinking water.
“You know, people are getting more and more concerned about the quality of their drinking water and about pollution,” Kent told me.
He waved the magazine.
“Mother Earth News has everything in it. I just got a box of them at trade days.”
He showed me the article he was reading. I thumbed through the magazine and found it had something about everything – mostly how things were accomplished in pioneer days.
Once again, I was reminded how deep into the soil the roots of Victory residents really went.
“What’s going on today?” he asked.
I confided in him my concerns about Mark’s family and how much it bothered me that I hadn’t had the answers for them.
“You did the best you could,” Kent said. “No one else could have done more for them. They may come around again.”
We talked some more.
“If you want, I could go see them with you after church,” he offered.
I left the offer open-ended and half-hoped I would get fired that Sunday and let the Wilkins’ family problems go and I could go back to school without a care in the world and pursue my journalistic dreams.
“Dad, do you know where Mom keeps her good scissors?”
Grace, the Rogers’ daughter, interrupted us.
I was surprised and delighted the vision of loveliness was home.
“Oh, hello, Kelly!” she said, smiling.
I blushed. She was a beautiful girl, but I felt I was an outsider and didn’t think it was proper to get involved with a member of the congregation.
I had heard the story of how her pregnant mother stopped at Victory one day, just in time to deliver Grace in Frank Zellers’ general store, how her mother died right after childbirth, how the Rogers had taken her in and adopted her.
I spoke to Grace and then there was an uncomfortable silence.
I looked at Kent, but if he noticed, he didn’t say anything, apparently studying a page in Mother Earth News.
“Mom keeps her scissors in her sewing basket, Hon,” he told the girl.
“Right,” she said, and I thought I saw her blush. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Kelly.” And she was gone.
Kent and I visited often in the years I preached at Victor. He was a truly nice man with a nice family and I looked up to him. I still do.
All rights reserved
Chapter 21
Since I began preaching at Victory, I had gained a new respect for the written word; not just the Bible, either.
I had always been a so-so student. I liked to joke that I was in my junior year of college before the academic dean – or anyone else – saw me study in the library. I would only do the required amount of reading, in my room, no more, write my papers and take my tests in classes.
I had much more important things to do than actually study.
I was a child of the late 1960s. I saw the TV reports about revolt against the war in Vietnam. I had figured out that the students in those colleges spent more time chasing girls and drinking as well as rioting than they spent studying.
And there was the college newspaper. It took much of my time. I spent more time there than in socializing anywhere.
I thought it was incongruous for a guy who said he wanted a girlfriend to spend so much time by himself, but I didn’t want to think about it. Maybe I didn’t want a girlfriend. Maybe I was gay! I couldn’t deal with that possibility, so I stayed busy.
I remembered the first basketball game on campus. I had planned to go and hang out with the other students; maybe grab a pizza and beer afterward.
Instead, I had stopped by the college’s newspaper offices. They were short a photographer, so I spent the night learning how to use a 35 mm camera, grabbing shots at the game and then learning how to develop film in the darkroom.
It was all too much fun.
I liked learning how to crack open the metal film cylinder in the dark, loading the film onto the spool and getting the spool into the black canister before turning on the lights.
In fact, I had to take photos in both halves of the game because the shots I took the first half were completely ruined when I couldn’t get the film into the canister successfully. I turned on the light to find the canister wasn’t completely sealed and the film had fogged when it was developed.
But I caught on. And I never regretted missing the pizza party after the basketball game. I was becoming an honest-to-God journalist! And it felt great!
The next couple years were spent pounding a typewriter, gathering information for stories and writing them.
I still felt a tingle when I saw my byline on a story. And the stories – by and large – read well. They looked good. I did well! And my photos weren’t bad either!
The only setback I had was when I applied to become the newspaper’s editor. I lost out to Bill Smith.
Smith had red hair and freckles.
“If he only wore a bow tie, he could pass for Jimmy Olsen,” I thought.
I was smug in the knowledge I should have had the job. But, heck, who wouldn’t rather be Clark Kent than Jimmy Olsen, anyway?
I also regretted not finding my Lois Lane. But, my parents weren’t married until they were in their late 30s, so what was the big deal.
I found many college girls attractive, (I wasn’t gay!) but somehow it never worked out. It never dawned on me that girls might want to have real, romantic dates instead of tagging along on a newspaper story.
At the mall in Lafayette I found the book I needed: “Why Do Bad Things Happen To Good People?”
“It might not help Mark’s parents, even if they read it,” I thought. “But it will probably help me get rid of my demons.”
The author really did help me by helping me regain my perspective of who God is and our relative relationship to him as creation to creator.
The author maintained … rightly, I thought … that the creation has no right to demand anything of the Creator, not even to ask why God made us as He did.
I decided to spend some time with Kent and Lucy Rogers, if possible. Their home was less than five minutes from the church, so even if I didn’t catch them at home, the time wouldn’t be wasted.
I really enjoyed driving my sporty little car. My Pinto was far from a sports car – in fact, it was a wagon – but it was little and fun to drive.
One time, Kent had looked at the engine and compared it to a sewing machine. It didn’t look much bigger and it ran quietly, so I could see his point without being offended.
Kent and Lucy had a very young outlook on life and I felt close to Kent. He was – could be – the brother I never had.
Fortunately, Kent and Lucy’s cars were parked in the drive. Their old house set on a hill and I could see their cars even as I drove across the pipe cattle crossing used to keep cows from wandering down the county road.
Kent was reading by the fire when I entered the house.
“Come in!” he yelled when I knocked on the door.
There was a pungent smell whenever I drove up to the house. It probably came from the hog barn setting 50 yards or so away. I could occasionally hear the “Ree, ree” sound from the pigs when I got out of the car.
I often wanted to yell something at those pigs, as I would a dog that didn’t recognize the car. But, I had learned from Kent that pigs have a pretty delicate constitution and I decided I didn’t want to stir them up too much.
Ken had risen and was walking to the door when I pushed it open. In his hand was a magazine.
“Kelly!” he said. “Come in, come in. Have a sit.”
He regained his easy chair next to the wood stove and I took the couch across the room.
“I’m reading up on reverse osmosis,” he said with his normal winning smile.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, a lot of people are purifying their drinking water by installing reverse osmosis units in their homes. It purifies drinking water.
“You know, people are getting more and more concerned about the quality of their drinking water and about pollution,” Kent told me.
He waved the magazine.
“Mother Earth News has everything in it. I just got a box of them at trade days.”
He showed me the article he was reading. I thumbed through the magazine and found it had something about everything – mostly how things were accomplished in pioneer days.
Once again, I was reminded how deep into the soil the roots of Victory residents really went.
“What’s going on today?” he asked.
I confided in him my concerns about Mark’s family and how much it bothered me that I hadn’t had the answers for them.
“You did the best you could,” Kent said. “No one else could have done more for them. They may come around again.”
We talked some more.
“If you want, I could go see them with you after church,” he offered.
I left the offer open-ended and half-hoped I would get fired that Sunday and let the Wilkins’ family problems go and I could go back to school without a care in the world and pursue my journalistic dreams.
“Dad, do you know where Mom keeps her good scissors?”
Grace, the Rogers’ daughter, interrupted us.
I was surprised and delighted the vision of loveliness was home.
“Oh, hello, Kelly!” she said, smiling.
I blushed. She was a beautiful girl, but I felt I was an outsider and didn’t think it was proper to get involved with a member of the congregation.
I had heard the story of how her pregnant mother stopped at Victory one day, just in time to deliver Grace in Frank Zellers’ general store, how her mother died right after childbirth, how the Rogers had taken her in and adopted her.
I spoke to Grace and then there was an uncomfortable silence.
I looked at Kent, but if he noticed, he didn’t say anything, apparently studying a page in Mother Earth News.
“Mom keeps her scissors in her sewing basket, Hon,” he told the girl.
“Right,” she said, and I thought I saw her blush. “Well, it’s nice to see you again, Kelly.” And she was gone.
Kent and I visited often in the years I preached at Victor. He was a truly nice man with a nice family and I looked up to him. I still do.
Living next to Jimmy Hoffa
By FRANK PHILLIPS
frankphi@hotmail.com
Probably no other child born in Brazil, Ind., has stirred up as much interest as Jimmy Hoffa.
The FBI continues to search a horse farm in Michigan, about 20 miles from the restaurant where Hoffa was last seen in public 31 years ago.
The media and movies have depcted Hoffa’s life as he rose to leadership in the Teamsters union, but what was life like when he was a boy growing up in Brazil?
We know he was born in 1913, the third of four children. His father, John Cleveland Hoffa, was a coal miner who died when Jimmy was 7. His mother, Viola Riddle Hoffa, moved to Detroit in 1924 and the rest is history.
What would his life been like had his mother not moved to Detroit, but stayed in Brazil?
Life was hard for coal miner families in those years. Ask Bill Lynch. His family lived next to the Hoffas for a period of time.
Bill, now 81, remembers the Hoffas lived at 111 N. Vandalia St. when they were neighbors. Although Bill was born after Mrs. Hoffa took her family to Detroit, his oldest brother, Donald, knew Jimmy and they played together.
Bill can identify with Jimmy in the death of his father, John Hoffa in 1920, for Lynch's grandfather died when Lynch's father was a boy, too. The men in Lynch’s family had been miners in Scotland before they immigrated to Pennsylvania and then to this area, following coal as well as the dream of a better life in America.
But, they soon learned how tough life could be in the coal fields of Indiana.
Bill’s grandfather, John (a.k.a. Jack) Lynch was killed when a mine collapsed. The mine was located behind East Side School, north of U.S. 40.
Jack was carried home by fellow miners where he soon died.
The miners took up a collection for the family and contributed $1,500. That matched the $1,500 the Zeller Mine was required by law to pay the family of a deceased miner.
Bill’s grandmother, Anna MacDonald Lynch, dressed in black, mourning the rest of her life, until she died in 1941 at age 84. But mourning didn’t stop her from providing for her family.
She took the $3,000 and built two houses at 123 and 127 N. Vandalia St. She bought a 5-acre pasture from the local Catholic priest and used the land to feed cows which she milked. The pasture was later sold and eventually became Pell’s Addition.
In addition to selling milk and butter, she raised poultry, sold garden vegetables, dug horseradish — “anything to make a dollar,” Bill said. “And if she made a dollar, she saved 95 cents of it.”
Life after his father’s death must have made a lasting impression on Jack’s son, William (who was also Bill’s father). The son broke tradition and never worked in a mine, choosing to become a letter carrier instead.
Bill’s mother, Sadie, liked Viola Hoffa. They would visit, as neighbor women often did in those days before two-income families.
“She was a nice neighbor,” Bill recalled his mother saying.
Neither the Lynch home or the Hoffa’s home are still standing. A vacant lot remains at that location.
The Hoffa house was known as being of the “shotgun” style of architecture. Standing at the front door, one could look into the house and see the living room, bedroom and kitchen.
“It was called a “shotgun’ house because they said you could shoot a shotgun in the front door and the pellets would go out the back without hitting anything,” Bill said with a chuckle.
According to information at the Clay County Museum, the Hoffas lived at 315 E. Church St. at one tine. A record which doesn't bother Bill at all.
“They may have lived at more than one house in Brazil,” he said, but he knows his family used to live next door to the little boy who grew up to become one of organized labor’s strongest leaders. Do you know who your neighbors are?
Ivy Herron contributed to this report.
frankphi@hotmail.com
Probably no other child born in Brazil, Ind., has stirred up as much interest as Jimmy Hoffa.
The FBI continues to search a horse farm in Michigan, about 20 miles from the restaurant where Hoffa was last seen in public 31 years ago.
The media and movies have depcted Hoffa’s life as he rose to leadership in the Teamsters union, but what was life like when he was a boy growing up in Brazil?
We know he was born in 1913, the third of four children. His father, John Cleveland Hoffa, was a coal miner who died when Jimmy was 7. His mother, Viola Riddle Hoffa, moved to Detroit in 1924 and the rest is history.
What would his life been like had his mother not moved to Detroit, but stayed in Brazil?
Life was hard for coal miner families in those years. Ask Bill Lynch. His family lived next to the Hoffas for a period of time.
Bill, now 81, remembers the Hoffas lived at 111 N. Vandalia St. when they were neighbors. Although Bill was born after Mrs. Hoffa took her family to Detroit, his oldest brother, Donald, knew Jimmy and they played together.
Bill can identify with Jimmy in the death of his father, John Hoffa in 1920, for Lynch's grandfather died when Lynch's father was a boy, too. The men in Lynch’s family had been miners in Scotland before they immigrated to Pennsylvania and then to this area, following coal as well as the dream of a better life in America.
But, they soon learned how tough life could be in the coal fields of Indiana.
Bill’s grandfather, John (a.k.a. Jack) Lynch was killed when a mine collapsed. The mine was located behind East Side School, north of U.S. 40.
Jack was carried home by fellow miners where he soon died.
The miners took up a collection for the family and contributed $1,500. That matched the $1,500 the Zeller Mine was required by law to pay the family of a deceased miner.
Bill’s grandmother, Anna MacDonald Lynch, dressed in black, mourning the rest of her life, until she died in 1941 at age 84. But mourning didn’t stop her from providing for her family.
She took the $3,000 and built two houses at 123 and 127 N. Vandalia St. She bought a 5-acre pasture from the local Catholic priest and used the land to feed cows which she milked. The pasture was later sold and eventually became Pell’s Addition.
In addition to selling milk and butter, she raised poultry, sold garden vegetables, dug horseradish — “anything to make a dollar,” Bill said. “And if she made a dollar, she saved 95 cents of it.”
Life after his father’s death must have made a lasting impression on Jack’s son, William (who was also Bill’s father). The son broke tradition and never worked in a mine, choosing to become a letter carrier instead.
Bill’s mother, Sadie, liked Viola Hoffa. They would visit, as neighbor women often did in those days before two-income families.
“She was a nice neighbor,” Bill recalled his mother saying.
Neither the Lynch home or the Hoffa’s home are still standing. A vacant lot remains at that location.
The Hoffa house was known as being of the “shotgun” style of architecture. Standing at the front door, one could look into the house and see the living room, bedroom and kitchen.
“It was called a “shotgun’ house because they said you could shoot a shotgun in the front door and the pellets would go out the back without hitting anything,” Bill said with a chuckle.
According to information at the Clay County Museum, the Hoffas lived at 315 E. Church St. at one tine. A record which doesn't bother Bill at all.
“They may have lived at more than one house in Brazil,” he said, but he knows his family used to live next door to the little boy who grew up to become one of organized labor’s strongest leaders. Do you know who your neighbors are?
Ivy Herron contributed to this report.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
After 30 years, FBI is still looking for Brazil native Jimmy Hoffa
By FRANK PHILLIPS / frankphi@hotmail.com
Jimmy Hoffa, July 24, 1975
Detroit Free Press photo
Used with permission
Now that Mark Felt (a.k.a. reporter Bob Woodward’s Deep Throat) has come out of hiding, is it possible we will learn what happened to another mysterious figure — Jimmy Hoffa? The FBI is still looking, possibly as recently as Wednesday.
Even though Brazil native Hoffa has been missing (and presumed dead) for more than 30 years, authorities are still following leads, hoping they will turn up his remains.
On Wednesday the FBI searched a horse farm west of Detroit, Mich., the Associated Press reported.
The Teamsters leader was last seen July 30, 1975, at a restaurant near Detroit.
Agent Dawn Clenney, a spokeswoman for the FBI in Detroit, said the bureau was executing a search warrant in Milford Township, about 35 miles west of Detroit.
Investigators are looking for “evidence of criminal activity that may have occurred under previous ownership” on the property, Clenney said.
When asked if they were searching for Hoffa’s remains, the FBI agent said, “Could be” but would not say more.
Hoffa’s remains
What, exactly, would investigators find, if they did discover Hoffa’s remains?
The flesh would be gone, said a local funeral director this morning.
“After 30 years (a body) should be completely decomposed,” said Rob Moore, of Moore Funeral Home in Brazil. “They would find bones, and that’s all.”
However, there would be enough DNA material in those bones to be matched with family members to determine if the remains were those of Hoffa, Moore said.
The Brazil Times could not establish any of Jimmy Hoffa’s relatives still live in Clay County, though there are telephone listings for people by the name of Hoffa. Those people could not be contacted by press time.
Two years ago, in May 2004, authorities ripped up the floor of a Detroit home where Frank Sheeran, a one-time Hoffa ally, had claimed he shot Hoffa to death. But no evidence of Hoffa was found.
Hoffa’s disappearance a major operation?
Robert Garrity was one of the first FBI agents to work on Hoffa’s disappearance in 1975. Last year, the Detroit Free Press caught up with him in Pittsburgh, Pa., where he worked as a part-time NFL security consultant for the Pittsburgh Steelers.
Garrity believed Hoffa’s disappearance was a major operation.
“We think the Andretta brothers (Stephen and Thomas) and Briguglio (Salvatore) at the behest of the organized-crime leadership of Detroit and Newark, N.J.,” were behind Hoffa’s disappearance, he told the Detroit newspaper. “It wasn’t more than a few people. Everybody probably got assigned to only the part they were supposed to know.”
Garrity believes the body was destroyed in an incinerator or a car crusher not far from the restaurant where Hoffa was last seen.
Garrity also believes Sheeran is a possible suspect.
“That story is as good as any and I’ve always felt he was a person who could possibly have done it,” he said. “Sheeran provided some credible information in the book. And why would he say he did it if he didn’t? There was no reason for him to lie. Without the bones or an eyewitness, Sheeran’s account will stand as a good explanation of what happened.”
A Teamster’s life
The Detroit Free Press reported Hoffa was president of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters from 1958-1971.
He was born in 1913 in Brazil, the third of four children. His father was a coal-mine driller who died when Hoffa was 7. His mother moved the family to Detroit in 1924, where she worked in a laundry and in auto plants.
He dropped out of school in 7th grade and became a stocker at Frank & Cedar’s, a downtown Detroit department store, according to the Free Press. At age 16, he got a job at a Kroger warehouse at Fort and Green unloading produce from rail cars for 32 cents an hour.
In 1931, at age 18, Hoffa organized a successful sit-down strike that won better pay for dock workers. The next year, he became an organizer for the Teamsters and worked his way up the ranks, eventually becoming president of Local 299 in Detroit.
In 1936, Hoffa married Josephine Poszywak.
Hoffa became Teamsters international vice president in 1952.
In 1964, he signed the National Master Freight Contract, the first national trucking contract, requiring freight companies to pay drivers the same rate regardless of where they worked.
In that year, he was convicted in separate trials of jury tampering and misusing union pension funds. In 1967, he began serving a 13-year sentence at the federal prison in Lewisburg, Pa.
In June 1971, he resigned the Teamsters presidency.
In December 1971, President Richard Nixon commuted Hoffa’s sentence on the condition he stay out of union activities until 1980. Insisting that the commutation he signed didn’t contain the union ban, Hoffa filed a federal appeal in hopes of regaining the Teamsters presidency.
On July 30, 1975, Hoffa vanished from the parking lot of a Bloomfield Township restaurant, where he had gone to make peace with a New Jersey mobster. Hoffa was never found.
His son, James Philip Hoffa, was elected international Teamsters president in 1998.
In 1982, Hoffa was declared legally dead.
March 2001: DNA tests determined that a hair found in the back of the car Chuckie O’Brien was driving at the time of Hoffa’s disappearance is Hoffa’s. O’Brien, known as one of Hoffa’s protégés, had denied any connection to his former boss’s death.
March 2002: The FBI said it would refer the case to the Oakland County Prosecutor’s Office for possible state charges. But on Aug. 29, Oakland County Prosecutor David Gorcyca said there wasn’t enough evidence to charge anyone.
Hollywood remembers Hoffa
Hoffa has become a cultural icon.
In 1992, Jack Nicholson played Hoffa in a movie about his life and disappearance. “Hoffa” was directed by Danny DeVito.
There have been other films in which Hoffa has been portrayed:
•In “Blood Feud,” a 1983 made-for-TV movie, Hoffa is played by Robert Blake. The drama shows the conflict between Hoffa and Robert F. Kennedy, the late U.S. Attorney General.
•Even “The Simpsons” has made a reference to Hoffa’s disappearance. In a 1993 episode titled “Last Exit to Springfield,” a union representative disappears. The cartoon then shows a football scene in which a player trips over a body-shaped lump in the field. It’s a spoof on the claim that Hoffa’s body is buried in Giants Stadium in Rutherford, N.J.
•The discovery of Hoffa’s body is a comical twist in the 2003 Jim Carrey movie “Bruce Almighty.”
•In 2004, the Discovery Channel’s “Mythbusters” sought to debunk reports that Hoffa was entombed in a corner of Giants Stadium. A search with ground-penetrating radar did not find any trace of Hoffa.
The Associated Press contributed to this report.
"Living in Victory," Chapter 20
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 20
The elders had decided to do something special for Mark’s family – a tree had been dug up on the shores of Sugar Creek and would be planted in front of the church.
“Something about this bothers me,” I confided in Betty as she poured me a cup of coffee Saturday morning.
“Oh?”
“But I can’t put my finger on it,” I said. “Was this Mark’s parents’ idea?”
“No, I think it came from some of Mark’s friends at Southmont.”
I knew Mark was pretty much a loner in high school. Except for the losers who helped him scare Cory at the church Sunday school party, I was pretty sure he didn’t have many friends.
But, it would be pretty hard to mess up something like planting a memorial tree.
“Did they get a plaque for the tree?” I asked.
They did.
“They’re not nailing it to the tree, are they?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
We had the ceremony after church the next day.
Marks parents were there. They looked very uncomfortable and I suddenly realized what had caused my reticence. They had enough to bear without that constant reminder their son was dead.
I was asked to say a prayer during the service. I also found some scriptures from the Psalms and read them.
I had an early day that Monday, so I left Victory right after the tree ceremony.
I found a letter on the pulpit the following Friday night when I returned to Victory. It was from Mark’s dad.
“Kelly,
“Thank you so much for everything you did.
“Please don’t come to see us, but this is to let you know that we won’t be back to church. It’s just too hard.”
“Now, what do I do?” I wondered.
I walked over to their house, praying all the way. My prayers were apparently answered – no one was home.
Mark’s parents were as good as their word. They did not return to church. I also heard that they were divorced within the year.
Later, I could understand why they made that decision. The death of a child often rips a couple apart. There is often guilt – “What did I do wrong? What could I have done that I didn’t do?”
Then, there are the theological questions – “How could a good God let something like this happen to our family? Doesn’t He love us or is all that just a lie?”
Instead of spending Saturday in Victory, I drove to Lafayette and hit the bookstores.
All rights reserved
Chapter 20
The elders had decided to do something special for Mark’s family – a tree had been dug up on the shores of Sugar Creek and would be planted in front of the church.
“Something about this bothers me,” I confided in Betty as she poured me a cup of coffee Saturday morning.
“Oh?”
“But I can’t put my finger on it,” I said. “Was this Mark’s parents’ idea?”
“No, I think it came from some of Mark’s friends at Southmont.”
I knew Mark was pretty much a loner in high school. Except for the losers who helped him scare Cory at the church Sunday school party, I was pretty sure he didn’t have many friends.
But, it would be pretty hard to mess up something like planting a memorial tree.
“Did they get a plaque for the tree?” I asked.
They did.
“They’re not nailing it to the tree, are they?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
We had the ceremony after church the next day.
Marks parents were there. They looked very uncomfortable and I suddenly realized what had caused my reticence. They had enough to bear without that constant reminder their son was dead.
I was asked to say a prayer during the service. I also found some scriptures from the Psalms and read them.
I had an early day that Monday, so I left Victory right after the tree ceremony.
I found a letter on the pulpit the following Friday night when I returned to Victory. It was from Mark’s dad.
“Kelly,
“Thank you so much for everything you did.
“Please don’t come to see us, but this is to let you know that we won’t be back to church. It’s just too hard.”
“Now, what do I do?” I wondered.
I walked over to their house, praying all the way. My prayers were apparently answered – no one was home.
Mark’s parents were as good as their word. They did not return to church. I also heard that they were divorced within the year.
Later, I could understand why they made that decision. The death of a child often rips a couple apart. There is often guilt – “What did I do wrong? What could I have done that I didn’t do?”
Then, there are the theological questions – “How could a good God let something like this happen to our family? Doesn’t He love us or is all that just a lie?”
Instead of spending Saturday in Victory, I drove to Lafayette and hit the bookstores.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
"Living in Victory," Chapter 19
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 19
Nancy’s father lived in a small town about an hour south of Victory. He had many personal problems, which led to the breakup of his marriage.
Lately, he had been calling Nancy and other members of the family, telling them he planned to commit suicide and hoped he didn’t take anyone else with him.
Nancy and Jack filled me in on all the details as we drove south on Indiana 47.
Her father, Philip, had been a Vietnam veteran. Things had not gone well since he returned home after his tour of duty. While many veterans had been able to exorcise the demons they brought home with them, many others would never be the same. I had known both kinds, but I confess there were many more with altered states of mind than those who came home in one piece, emotionally.
We arrived at the white, frame house with aluminum siding late in the evening. I thought how I would explain my absence the next day to my professors. I had planned to drive home after the funeral dinner, but it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen. I hoped betty left the door unlocked so I could get in – I didn’t plan to camp out tonight, not dressed in my one good suit after the funeral.
We got out of the car and knocked on the door.
A man with dark hair, wearing a white T-shirt came to the door. His eyes looked wild and his hair was tousled. Otherwise, he could have been anyone we bothered at bedtime.
I introduced myself and asked if I could come into the house. He waved us in. We were at the kitchen door and Jack and Nancy waited in the kitchen while Philip and I went into the living room.
My heart jumped as I saw the piles of ammunition he had stacked everywhere. Instead of them being in the boxes, they were piled up in candy dishes, on the end tables and in the middle of the floor. It was obvious he expected quite a siege.
Then he picked up a large silver pistol.
He didn’t wave it at me, but held it carelessly, with a limp wrist, like a mechanic might hold a wrench when he was relaxed and forgot to put it down..
I asked if I could sit down. He motioned toward a chair, again silently.
I cleared my throat, not knowing where to begin.
He cleared his throat.
I wiped me eyes; he did the same, but kept an eye on me the entire time.
I scratched my face; he did the same.
“May I call you Philip?” I asked.
He nodded.
“How are things going?” I asked.
“How are things going with you?” he said.
“Um, do you mind if I ask a question?” I said.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question? He repeated.
“Um, why are you doing everything I am doing?”
“I thought that was the way it was supposed to be done,” he said.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the handgun he so careless waved about.
“Philip, would you mind if I held the gun for a while?”
He shrugged and handed it to me, handle first.
“Philip, do you want to stay here?”
“I’m ready to leave any time,” he said.
I felt relieved.
“That’s good. How about going with us to see a doctor?” I asked.
“At the hospital?”
“If you like.”
He got up from the couch where he was sitting and left the room. I went into the kitchen, hoping Jack and Nancy hadn’t left without me.
“It’s OK,” I said. “Your dad is going with us. We’ll take him over to the hospital emergency room and maybe he will be cooperative.”
About that time, we heard an animal-like growl; yowl and yell come from the bedroom, where Philip had gone.
I lost my nerve. I wanted out of there and I wanted to get Jack and Nancy to safety. I turned chicken and herded them out to the car.
We drove to the local police station where the police chief was waiting, apparently aware of the entire situation.
“I think you did the right thing, preacher,” he said after hearing our story. “That man needs more help than either you or I can give him. You pray and go on home.”
“Can I check with you tomorrow to see how things are going?” I asked.
Jack and Nancy drove me back to Victory and it was a very quiet ride.
Betty was waiting up when I got to her house.
“Is that you, Kelly?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with no enthusiasm. “Can we talk a minute?”
“She put down a piece she was crocheting and patiently waited for me to begin.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, hoping she would come to my rescue.
“Did you go to see Nancy’s father?” Betty asked me.
“Yeah. He’s not well. And I’m not sure I did the right thing.”
“Oh?”
I told her about our short visit and the animal sounds he made.
“Well, we need to pray for him,” was all she said.
I excused myself and went to the guest room she let me stay in.
The next morning I stopped in Waynetown on my way back to campus and called the police chief’s number.
“It don’t look good, preacher,” the chief said when he came on the line.
“What happened?”
“A few hours after you left, about midnight, there was a big fire at his house. Lots of explosions – probably all that ammunition you saw.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“He stayed in the house and didn’t make it.”
I hung up the phone, got back in my car and headed west, away from the situation. I felt like parts of me died with Mark, Mark’s parents and with Philip and his family.
When I arrived at Betty’s house the next weekend, she had interesting news for me.
“We are having a special ceremony after church Sunday,” she told me.
All rights reserved
Chapter 19
Nancy’s father lived in a small town about an hour south of Victory. He had many personal problems, which led to the breakup of his marriage.
Lately, he had been calling Nancy and other members of the family, telling them he planned to commit suicide and hoped he didn’t take anyone else with him.
Nancy and Jack filled me in on all the details as we drove south on Indiana 47.
Her father, Philip, had been a Vietnam veteran. Things had not gone well since he returned home after his tour of duty. While many veterans had been able to exorcise the demons they brought home with them, many others would never be the same. I had known both kinds, but I confess there were many more with altered states of mind than those who came home in one piece, emotionally.
We arrived at the white, frame house with aluminum siding late in the evening. I thought how I would explain my absence the next day to my professors. I had planned to drive home after the funeral dinner, but it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen. I hoped betty left the door unlocked so I could get in – I didn’t plan to camp out tonight, not dressed in my one good suit after the funeral.
We got out of the car and knocked on the door.
A man with dark hair, wearing a white T-shirt came to the door. His eyes looked wild and his hair was tousled. Otherwise, he could have been anyone we bothered at bedtime.
I introduced myself and asked if I could come into the house. He waved us in. We were at the kitchen door and Jack and Nancy waited in the kitchen while Philip and I went into the living room.
My heart jumped as I saw the piles of ammunition he had stacked everywhere. Instead of them being in the boxes, they were piled up in candy dishes, on the end tables and in the middle of the floor. It was obvious he expected quite a siege.
Then he picked up a large silver pistol.
He didn’t wave it at me, but held it carelessly, with a limp wrist, like a mechanic might hold a wrench when he was relaxed and forgot to put it down..
I asked if I could sit down. He motioned toward a chair, again silently.
I cleared my throat, not knowing where to begin.
He cleared his throat.
I wiped me eyes; he did the same, but kept an eye on me the entire time.
I scratched my face; he did the same.
“May I call you Philip?” I asked.
He nodded.
“How are things going?” I asked.
“How are things going with you?” he said.
“Um, do you mind if I ask a question?” I said.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question? He repeated.
“Um, why are you doing everything I am doing?”
“I thought that was the way it was supposed to be done,” he said.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the handgun he so careless waved about.
“Philip, would you mind if I held the gun for a while?”
He shrugged and handed it to me, handle first.
“Philip, do you want to stay here?”
“I’m ready to leave any time,” he said.
I felt relieved.
“That’s good. How about going with us to see a doctor?” I asked.
“At the hospital?”
“If you like.”
He got up from the couch where he was sitting and left the room. I went into the kitchen, hoping Jack and Nancy hadn’t left without me.
“It’s OK,” I said. “Your dad is going with us. We’ll take him over to the hospital emergency room and maybe he will be cooperative.”
About that time, we heard an animal-like growl; yowl and yell come from the bedroom, where Philip had gone.
I lost my nerve. I wanted out of there and I wanted to get Jack and Nancy to safety. I turned chicken and herded them out to the car.
We drove to the local police station where the police chief was waiting, apparently aware of the entire situation.
“I think you did the right thing, preacher,” he said after hearing our story. “That man needs more help than either you or I can give him. You pray and go on home.”
“Can I check with you tomorrow to see how things are going?” I asked.
Jack and Nancy drove me back to Victory and it was a very quiet ride.
Betty was waiting up when I got to her house.
“Is that you, Kelly?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with no enthusiasm. “Can we talk a minute?”
“She put down a piece she was crocheting and patiently waited for me to begin.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, hoping she would come to my rescue.
“Did you go to see Nancy’s father?” Betty asked me.
“Yeah. He’s not well. And I’m not sure I did the right thing.”
“Oh?”
I told her about our short visit and the animal sounds he made.
“Well, we need to pray for him,” was all she said.
I excused myself and went to the guest room she let me stay in.
The next morning I stopped in Waynetown on my way back to campus and called the police chief’s number.
“It don’t look good, preacher,” the chief said when he came on the line.
“What happened?”
“A few hours after you left, about midnight, there was a big fire at his house. Lots of explosions – probably all that ammunition you saw.”
“How is he?” I asked.
“He stayed in the house and didn’t make it.”
I hung up the phone, got back in my car and headed west, away from the situation. I felt like parts of me died with Mark, Mark’s parents and with Philip and his family.
When I arrived at Betty’s house the next weekend, she had interesting news for me.
“We are having a special ceremony after church Sunday,” she told me.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
"Living in Victory," Chapter 18
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 18
“What a day for a funeral,” I told Betty at breakfast.
I decided to go for a walk after breakfast.
I was into running. Had gotten up to three miles a day, if I jogged real slow. But I didn’t want to work up a sweat, so I decided a walk would be good.
Then I thought of an old joke.
“Did you hear about the woman who walked five miles a day?”
“No. What happened?”
“She ended up 35 miles from home after just a week.”
Bah-rumm-pum! Tchhhh!
I was still struggling with the words. It was always a problem with the words. I thought about speaking from the heart, as one of the deacons had called it.
I took what he said as a criticism of my preaching from a manuscript. But the words were so important, I just didn’t trust myself to say the right ones that weren’t well thought out and put on paper.
After all, I mused, if God created the heavens and the Earth by speaking them into existence, I had better be careful of my own words.
Then I thought of how reticent Mark had been to say anything.
“He was right. We should speak less and think more before we speak.”
I read somewhere the Jews believed words had lives of their own. They might as well have lives, when you think how the right word can bring comfort, cheer, even laughter. But the wrong words bring shame, guilt, even war.
No, I thought I would never preach without a manuscript.
But Mark’s reticence to speak: That might fit into the funeral sermon.
I started walking left and east from Betty’s front door. I walked to the end of town and turned right, keeping Victory on my right side. I decided to walk around the town, not a great feat.
By the time I got back to Betty’s house, I felt better, more assured things would be all right, that I would honor the Lord and somehow be a vessel of blessing to Mark’s family and friends.
At the funeral home, the number of high school students gathered there astounded me.
Mark did not seem to be popular, but so many people were there. Teachers, coaches, even members of the basketball team. In Indiana, basketball is the premiere high school sports event. If you made the team, your social life was platinum-plated.
Mark just enjoyed the outdoors too much to be concerned about team sports, I reasoned. He talked about friends, but I had the idea his “friends” weren’t real friends at all. I remember the guys who scared Miss Cory half to death at church Saturday night.
“Losers!” I thought with disgust. “Mark was better. He should have settled for more. He should have never settled for less.”
There were high school girls crying on each other. Cute girls. Probably some were cheerleaders. They wouldn’t have noticed a guy like Mark. But now they were mourning him with gusto.
I thought of his pimply face.
“I wonder if Jesus had pimples when He was a teenager. Maybe the Apostle Paul had pimples. History said he was nothing to look at.”
I was stopped at the door by the funeral director. He escorted me away from the mourners. At the T we turned left. He showed me where the rest rooms were and escorted me into a room that appeared to double as office and snack bar. I guessed, rightly, that families could enjoy a meal together before or after visitation and they could rest and snack in there during the visitation, if they chose.
I opened my Bible and nearly panicked.
Where was my sermon?
Then, I found it in the back of my Thompson Chain Reference Bible. I had folded the 8 ½-by-11 sheets neatly and had placed them in a part of the Bible that listed scriptures dealing with death.
Shortly before the funeral service, I was joined by a group of guys who were Mark’s pallbearers.
Some appeared to be Mark’s age, though they didn’t go to our church. As we were introduced, I found they were classmates cousins, and other family members. All of them attended Southmont High School, or had graduated a year or two earlier.
Eventually, the time came that I hated. The undertaker came and escorted us into the sanctuary where Mark’s body lay in a beautiful casket.
I took time to look at the casket and realized it was probably a much better piece of woodcraft than any furniture in Mark’s home. I remembered the makeshift boat we had paddled and carried down Sugar Creek not long ago and how incongruous Mark looked laying in the casket, wearing a suit, tie and his face’s blemishes neatly covered with makeup.
I decided I liked him a lot better with blemishes.
We got through the funeral without too many stumbles. My mouth was dry and my words sounded dead as soon as they left my mouth.
I finished, sat down in the folding chair provided for me behind the lectern and glanced at my watch.
Ten minutes. I had only spoken 10 minutes! Not long enough! What would Mark’s parents say? Only 10 minutes! Would they think I lacked respect for their son? The son who was taken from them so early in life? Their only son?
I began to panic. I felt the blood pound in my body and a black mist began to form over my eyes. I fought for control.
The next thing I knew, the mourners had filed out and Mark’s family was standing around the casket.
His dad was crying in deep, loud sobs. His mother was weeping quietly, but rubbing his dad on the back. The cousins stood around, soberly looking at the dead one laying there before us.
I knew instinctively I had not made a difference.
Then, the undertaker was guiding them away from me and away from Mark’s body. I would be among the last to see him before he was buried.
One of the cousins broke away long enough to come to me and shake hands.
“I want you to know how much I appreciated what you said. It was very good.”
I began breathing again and decided I wasn’t a total failure, anyway.
The funeral dinner was held in the church basement. Mark’s family from out of town was our special guests.
It was amazing how the spirit of the crowd changed as they ate together.
It started out very low and slow, like one of those drums that beat show and deep. Slowly, the spirits were picked up and by the time the last of the sugar cream pie and the Bob Andy pie were cleaned up, people were ready to get on with their lives and pick up the pieces.
“It’s A Wonderful Life” with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed has become one of my favorite Christmas movies. The story is true: the life of each person touches every other life and what a deep void is left when one of those lives is taken away.
That is what happened with Mark’s death. He touched everyone so deeply, myself included.
When ministers get together, they tend to speak lightly of their mutual calling. You just cannot afford to be less than reverential about life.
I was just finishing my pie when Nancy Taylor and her husband, Jack, came into the church basement.
It was obvious they were looking for me.
“Preacher, you’ve got to help us,” Jack said. “Nancy’s father is acting crazy.”
All rights reserved
Chapter 18
“What a day for a funeral,” I told Betty at breakfast.
I decided to go for a walk after breakfast.
I was into running. Had gotten up to three miles a day, if I jogged real slow. But I didn’t want to work up a sweat, so I decided a walk would be good.
Then I thought of an old joke.
“Did you hear about the woman who walked five miles a day?”
“No. What happened?”
“She ended up 35 miles from home after just a week.”
Bah-rumm-pum! Tchhhh!
I was still struggling with the words. It was always a problem with the words. I thought about speaking from the heart, as one of the deacons had called it.
I took what he said as a criticism of my preaching from a manuscript. But the words were so important, I just didn’t trust myself to say the right ones that weren’t well thought out and put on paper.
After all, I mused, if God created the heavens and the Earth by speaking them into existence, I had better be careful of my own words.
Then I thought of how reticent Mark had been to say anything.
“He was right. We should speak less and think more before we speak.”
I read somewhere the Jews believed words had lives of their own. They might as well have lives, when you think how the right word can bring comfort, cheer, even laughter. But the wrong words bring shame, guilt, even war.
No, I thought I would never preach without a manuscript.
But Mark’s reticence to speak: That might fit into the funeral sermon.
I started walking left and east from Betty’s front door. I walked to the end of town and turned right, keeping Victory on my right side. I decided to walk around the town, not a great feat.
By the time I got back to Betty’s house, I felt better, more assured things would be all right, that I would honor the Lord and somehow be a vessel of blessing to Mark’s family and friends.
At the funeral home, the number of high school students gathered there astounded me.
Mark did not seem to be popular, but so many people were there. Teachers, coaches, even members of the basketball team. In Indiana, basketball is the premiere high school sports event. If you made the team, your social life was platinum-plated.
Mark just enjoyed the outdoors too much to be concerned about team sports, I reasoned. He talked about friends, but I had the idea his “friends” weren’t real friends at all. I remember the guys who scared Miss Cory half to death at church Saturday night.
“Losers!” I thought with disgust. “Mark was better. He should have settled for more. He should have never settled for less.”
There were high school girls crying on each other. Cute girls. Probably some were cheerleaders. They wouldn’t have noticed a guy like Mark. But now they were mourning him with gusto.
I thought of his pimply face.
“I wonder if Jesus had pimples when He was a teenager. Maybe the Apostle Paul had pimples. History said he was nothing to look at.”
I was stopped at the door by the funeral director. He escorted me away from the mourners. At the T we turned left. He showed me where the rest rooms were and escorted me into a room that appeared to double as office and snack bar. I guessed, rightly, that families could enjoy a meal together before or after visitation and they could rest and snack in there during the visitation, if they chose.
I opened my Bible and nearly panicked.
Where was my sermon?
Then, I found it in the back of my Thompson Chain Reference Bible. I had folded the 8 ½-by-11 sheets neatly and had placed them in a part of the Bible that listed scriptures dealing with death.
Shortly before the funeral service, I was joined by a group of guys who were Mark’s pallbearers.
Some appeared to be Mark’s age, though they didn’t go to our church. As we were introduced, I found they were classmates cousins, and other family members. All of them attended Southmont High School, or had graduated a year or two earlier.
Eventually, the time came that I hated. The undertaker came and escorted us into the sanctuary where Mark’s body lay in a beautiful casket.
I took time to look at the casket and realized it was probably a much better piece of woodcraft than any furniture in Mark’s home. I remembered the makeshift boat we had paddled and carried down Sugar Creek not long ago and how incongruous Mark looked laying in the casket, wearing a suit, tie and his face’s blemishes neatly covered with makeup.
I decided I liked him a lot better with blemishes.
We got through the funeral without too many stumbles. My mouth was dry and my words sounded dead as soon as they left my mouth.
I finished, sat down in the folding chair provided for me behind the lectern and glanced at my watch.
Ten minutes. I had only spoken 10 minutes! Not long enough! What would Mark’s parents say? Only 10 minutes! Would they think I lacked respect for their son? The son who was taken from them so early in life? Their only son?
I began to panic. I felt the blood pound in my body and a black mist began to form over my eyes. I fought for control.
The next thing I knew, the mourners had filed out and Mark’s family was standing around the casket.
His dad was crying in deep, loud sobs. His mother was weeping quietly, but rubbing his dad on the back. The cousins stood around, soberly looking at the dead one laying there before us.
I knew instinctively I had not made a difference.
Then, the undertaker was guiding them away from me and away from Mark’s body. I would be among the last to see him before he was buried.
One of the cousins broke away long enough to come to me and shake hands.
“I want you to know how much I appreciated what you said. It was very good.”
I began breathing again and decided I wasn’t a total failure, anyway.
The funeral dinner was held in the church basement. Mark’s family from out of town was our special guests.
It was amazing how the spirit of the crowd changed as they ate together.
It started out very low and slow, like one of those drums that beat show and deep. Slowly, the spirits were picked up and by the time the last of the sugar cream pie and the Bob Andy pie were cleaned up, people were ready to get on with their lives and pick up the pieces.
“It’s A Wonderful Life” with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed has become one of my favorite Christmas movies. The story is true: the life of each person touches every other life and what a deep void is left when one of those lives is taken away.
That is what happened with Mark’s death. He touched everyone so deeply, myself included.
When ministers get together, they tend to speak lightly of their mutual calling. You just cannot afford to be less than reverential about life.
I was just finishing my pie when Nancy Taylor and her husband, Jack, came into the church basement.
It was obvious they were looking for me.
“Preacher, you’ve got to help us,” Jack said. “Nancy’s father is acting crazy.”
Monday, May 15, 2006
"Living in Victory," Chapter 17
Copyright 2006 Terry F. Phillips Sr.
All rights reserved
Chapter 17
The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday, so I made a rare mid-week trip to Victory.
I drove to Indiana on Tuesday, so I could attend the visitation Tuesday night.
Betty agreed I needed to make the trip Tuesday and she opened her home to me once again.
That evening, she also invited me to stay and eat with her.
“This is a great dinner, Betty,” I said. “Beats what I’m used to eating at school.”
She looked at me with a sly smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “And, remember, in the country, it’s supper, not dinner. Dinner is the noon meal. We eat supper at night.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
After supper, she cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink.
“We’ll leave those for later,” she said, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’ll get ready and you may escort me to the funeral home.”
I had planned to go alone, but welcomed the company. Funerals always made me uncomfortable and, since I didn’t know what to expect and didn’t know too many people, I welcomed the company.
Victory didn’t have a funeral home, of course. We made the trip to Waynetown in about 20 minutes. I kept watching Betty to see if my driving made her nervous, but it didn’t.
At the funeral home, we found a spot to park right on 25, in front of the place. The evening wasn’t too warm, but you could smell spring in the air. At least, that’s what I was told. And, it’s true. In Indiana, you can smell spring as it approaches.
We made our way into the new-ish looking funeral home, turned right at the end of the short hall and then I could see an organ in a room with a low wall to the right and people gathering in a larger room straight ahead.
Betty stopped to sign the guest register, so I did, too.
I was pleasantly surprised. Although everyone spoke quietly, the were not in mourning as I counted mourning. No one laughed, of course, but it could have been a church social function, the way everyone clustered in small groups to visit.
“No wonder they call it ‘visitation’,” I thought.
Betty introduced me to various people in the room who had come to pay their respects.
I made small talk as they asked about my college and what I was studying.
I didn’t know whether they would be disappointed I was studying to be a journalist or glad I wasn’t trying to be a minister, but they were all polite and even warm as we chatted.
We got in line and soon came my turn to greet Mark’s parents.
I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I felt the beginnings of a panic attack. I never had a panic attack before, but this surely must be what it was like.
Strangely enough, (and a little embarrassing to write), I turned to Betty for advice and direction. I was supposed to the The Pastor. I was supposed to have all the answers. But I didn’t and I almost missed her direction when it came.
She said nothing! She just smiled, looked into Mark’s parents’ eyes, shook their hands and moved on to the casket. I decided (properly, it turned out) to do the same.
Years later, I was talking to a minister who related this story to me.
His mother had died when he was 11 years old. It was a terrible thing. He never really got over the loss. But the person who gave him the most comfort in the midst of that tragedy was his best friend, Punk.
Punk was a neighbor boy; they had grown up together. When the time came for the funeral visitation, Punk was there with his parents, but never said a word. He just shook hands with the boy who had lost his mother.
“But, he knew,” the minister said. “I could tell he understood what I was going through!” And that was enough.
Betty and I moved on to the casket. It seemed strange, seeing Mark’s body laying there like that. It was like him, but somehow different. Not just the suit, not just the tie, not just the complexion, which looked much better in death than it did on that day he laughed so hard when I stepped in a hole, over my head in the creek. He was different.
It dawned on me the next day, in time for me to get it into my notes that Mark wasn’t really there. He was gone. Like an empty shell (a nut shell, I thought and then decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to say in a funeral sermon) Mark was gone, but his casing was still there.
I worried – a lot – the night after we drove back to Betty’s.
“Now, don’t you worry,” she said in the car on the way back to Victory. “Everything will be all right. Mark’s parents are strong people. They will make out all right.”
That night, I excused myself early instead of watching the little black and white TV with my hostess. I went to bed, taking my Bible, the Minister’s Manual and a pad of paper and pen with me.
I tried to put into words what I thought the family would want to hear during the funeral.
I looked up the suggested Bible texts in the Minister’s Manual and used the ones I thought appropriate.
I didn’t know Mark well, but likened him to King David, who preferred living in the outdoors with his sheep to being in a crowd.
“Mark was like that, at least to some extent,” I thought. “He liked the Conservation Club. He certainly enjoyed the creek. He was so quiet, he had few friends.”
But that made me said, so I scratched it out. It pained me that he had reached out to me that day at the church. I took little comfort in the idea that I was the last friend he made.
I could only be happy when I thought of him in Heaven.
Years later, when I read C.S. Lewis’s books, I could see my friend, Mark, paddling down a pristine Sugar Creek. Not one filled with logs and other snags, not one that was too shallow in spots, but a Sugar Creek in heaven that was just right. The weather would always be perfect, too.
C.S. Lewis seemed to think heaven was filled with the best of this world. The thought made me happy, so I grabbed on to it with both hands and held on the rest of my life.
The next day, I awoke to gray, threatening skies.
All rights reserved
Chapter 17
The funeral was scheduled for Wednesday, so I made a rare mid-week trip to Victory.
I drove to Indiana on Tuesday, so I could attend the visitation Tuesday night.
Betty agreed I needed to make the trip Tuesday and she opened her home to me once again.
That evening, she also invited me to stay and eat with her.
“This is a great dinner, Betty,” I said. “Beats what I’m used to eating at school.”
She looked at me with a sly smile.
“Thank you,” she said. “And, remember, in the country, it’s supper, not dinner. Dinner is the noon meal. We eat supper at night.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
After supper, she cleared the table and set the dishes in the sink.
“We’ll leave those for later,” she said, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’ll get ready and you may escort me to the funeral home.”
I had planned to go alone, but welcomed the company. Funerals always made me uncomfortable and, since I didn’t know what to expect and didn’t know too many people, I welcomed the company.
Victory didn’t have a funeral home, of course. We made the trip to Waynetown in about 20 minutes. I kept watching Betty to see if my driving made her nervous, but it didn’t.
At the funeral home, we found a spot to park right on 25, in front of the place. The evening wasn’t too warm, but you could smell spring in the air. At least, that’s what I was told. And, it’s true. In Indiana, you can smell spring as it approaches.
We made our way into the new-ish looking funeral home, turned right at the end of the short hall and then I could see an organ in a room with a low wall to the right and people gathering in a larger room straight ahead.
Betty stopped to sign the guest register, so I did, too.
I was pleasantly surprised. Although everyone spoke quietly, the were not in mourning as I counted mourning. No one laughed, of course, but it could have been a church social function, the way everyone clustered in small groups to visit.
“No wonder they call it ‘visitation’,” I thought.
Betty introduced me to various people in the room who had come to pay their respects.
I made small talk as they asked about my college and what I was studying.
I didn’t know whether they would be disappointed I was studying to be a journalist or glad I wasn’t trying to be a minister, but they were all polite and even warm as we chatted.
We got in line and soon came my turn to greet Mark’s parents.
I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I felt the beginnings of a panic attack. I never had a panic attack before, but this surely must be what it was like.
Strangely enough, (and a little embarrassing to write), I turned to Betty for advice and direction. I was supposed to the The Pastor. I was supposed to have all the answers. But I didn’t and I almost missed her direction when it came.
She said nothing! She just smiled, looked into Mark’s parents’ eyes, shook their hands and moved on to the casket. I decided (properly, it turned out) to do the same.
Years later, I was talking to a minister who related this story to me.
His mother had died when he was 11 years old. It was a terrible thing. He never really got over the loss. But the person who gave him the most comfort in the midst of that tragedy was his best friend, Punk.
Punk was a neighbor boy; they had grown up together. When the time came for the funeral visitation, Punk was there with his parents, but never said a word. He just shook hands with the boy who had lost his mother.
“But, he knew,” the minister said. “I could tell he understood what I was going through!” And that was enough.
Betty and I moved on to the casket. It seemed strange, seeing Mark’s body laying there like that. It was like him, but somehow different. Not just the suit, not just the tie, not just the complexion, which looked much better in death than it did on that day he laughed so hard when I stepped in a hole, over my head in the creek. He was different.
It dawned on me the next day, in time for me to get it into my notes that Mark wasn’t really there. He was gone. Like an empty shell (a nut shell, I thought and then decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to say in a funeral sermon) Mark was gone, but his casing was still there.
I worried – a lot – the night after we drove back to Betty’s.
“Now, don’t you worry,” she said in the car on the way back to Victory. “Everything will be all right. Mark’s parents are strong people. They will make out all right.”
That night, I excused myself early instead of watching the little black and white TV with my hostess. I went to bed, taking my Bible, the Minister’s Manual and a pad of paper and pen with me.
I tried to put into words what I thought the family would want to hear during the funeral.
I looked up the suggested Bible texts in the Minister’s Manual and used the ones I thought appropriate.
I didn’t know Mark well, but likened him to King David, who preferred living in the outdoors with his sheep to being in a crowd.
“Mark was like that, at least to some extent,” I thought. “He liked the Conservation Club. He certainly enjoyed the creek. He was so quiet, he had few friends.”
But that made me said, so I scratched it out. It pained me that he had reached out to me that day at the church. I took little comfort in the idea that I was the last friend he made.
I could only be happy when I thought of him in Heaven.
Years later, when I read C.S. Lewis’s books, I could see my friend, Mark, paddling down a pristine Sugar Creek. Not one filled with logs and other snags, not one that was too shallow in spots, but a Sugar Creek in heaven that was just right. The weather would always be perfect, too.
C.S. Lewis seemed to think heaven was filled with the best of this world. The thought made me happy, so I grabbed on to it with both hands and held on the rest of my life.
The next day, I awoke to gray, threatening skies.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
"Living in Victory," Chapter 16
Copyright 2006, Terry F. Phillips Sr.
Chapter 16
I was sitting in my room, staring at the walls, moping over my friend’s death when Scott came and stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” he asked.
Scott was my friend from the seminary across town. He should have been the preaching minister at the Victory Christian Church, not me.
I briefly explained the situation to him, stumbling over my words, finding myself getting emotional in the process.
He listened intently but offered no suggestions.
“I mean, I’m sure I’ll do fine, but this …”
I heard my voice trail off, not wanting to finish the inevitable sentence: “I’m sure I’ll do fine, but this is not something I want to do.”
“I’m sure you will, too,” was all Scott offered.
“Any advice?”
“Yeah, let’s see if we can get a court.”
Scott and I played tennis as often as we could. That particular afternoon was sunny and warm. It carried all the promise of Spring.
I grabbed my racquet and we were off.
I was stiff and moved all wrong when we began playing. Scott was up on me by two points when I finally realized I was over-compensating, trying too hard. I lightened up and things went better.
Scott and I were fairly evenly matched and we ended up winning a game apiece when we called it quits.
We got back into his maroon Chevy and headed back toward my room. Scott was a newlywed and lived in an apartment across town from the seminary he attended.
“You really did better after you loosened up,” he said.
I looked at him and saw the smile on his face. He wiped some long hair away from his eyes as we pulled up to a red light.
“Is this something I should remember, O wise one?” I cracked.
“I just think we become our own worst enemies when we think life is all about us, even for a teeny bit,” he said. “Listen to me, grasshopper.”
Then we both laughed.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I said, grudgingly.
“Think of it like this,” he said, becoming more serious. “According to the Bible, who is the most important person in the world?”
“Gerald Ford?”
“Besides him,” Scott said.
“OK, OK. Let me think. How about God Almighty.”
“Good, grasshopper,” Scott said. “And, who else?”
“The Lord Jesus?”
“Right. Now, if you take your mind off God and Jesus, even for a little bit, what happens?”
“I quit praying.”
“Very good. And if you center attention on yourself …”
I thought for a quick moment.
“I take Jesus off the throne of my life.”
“Excellent, Grasshopper. That’s one thing worry does to you. It takes God off the throne of your life.”
We pulled up in front of the house where I lived and I got out.
“Ah, soo,” I said in a poor Chinese accent. “Honable grasshopper, much appreciate wise one’s words. Ah, soo, ah, soo.” And I backed away from the car, bowing as I did so.
Scott laughed at my and drove off.
But my antics cost me – I left my tennis racquet in his back seat.
The next day, I stopped by the seminary bookstore, found a Minister’s manual with suggest readings for funeral services and began planning my strategy.
Chapter 16
I was sitting in my room, staring at the walls, moping over my friend’s death when Scott came and stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing? What’s going on?” he asked.
Scott was my friend from the seminary across town. He should have been the preaching minister at the Victory Christian Church, not me.
I briefly explained the situation to him, stumbling over my words, finding myself getting emotional in the process.
He listened intently but offered no suggestions.
“I mean, I’m sure I’ll do fine, but this …”
I heard my voice trail off, not wanting to finish the inevitable sentence: “I’m sure I’ll do fine, but this is not something I want to do.”
“I’m sure you will, too,” was all Scott offered.
“Any advice?”
“Yeah, let’s see if we can get a court.”
Scott and I played tennis as often as we could. That particular afternoon was sunny and warm. It carried all the promise of Spring.
I grabbed my racquet and we were off.
I was stiff and moved all wrong when we began playing. Scott was up on me by two points when I finally realized I was over-compensating, trying too hard. I lightened up and things went better.
Scott and I were fairly evenly matched and we ended up winning a game apiece when we called it quits.
We got back into his maroon Chevy and headed back toward my room. Scott was a newlywed and lived in an apartment across town from the seminary he attended.
“You really did better after you loosened up,” he said.
I looked at him and saw the smile on his face. He wiped some long hair away from his eyes as we pulled up to a red light.
“Is this something I should remember, O wise one?” I cracked.
“I just think we become our own worst enemies when we think life is all about us, even for a teeny bit,” he said. “Listen to me, grasshopper.”
Then we both laughed.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” I said, grudgingly.
“Think of it like this,” he said, becoming more serious. “According to the Bible, who is the most important person in the world?”
“Gerald Ford?”
“Besides him,” Scott said.
“OK, OK. Let me think. How about God Almighty.”
“Good, grasshopper,” Scott said. “And, who else?”
“The Lord Jesus?”
“Right. Now, if you take your mind off God and Jesus, even for a little bit, what happens?”
“I quit praying.”
“Very good. And if you center attention on yourself …”
I thought for a quick moment.
“I take Jesus off the throne of my life.”
“Excellent, Grasshopper. That’s one thing worry does to you. It takes God off the throne of your life.”
We pulled up in front of the house where I lived and I got out.
“Ah, soo,” I said in a poor Chinese accent. “Honable grasshopper, much appreciate wise one’s words. Ah, soo, ah, soo.” And I backed away from the car, bowing as I did so.
Scott laughed at my and drove off.
But my antics cost me – I left my tennis racquet in his back seat.
The next day, I stopped by the seminary bookstore, found a Minister’s manual with suggest readings for funeral services and began planning my strategy.
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