The Guest Room

I was raised in a small, two-bedroom, one-bathroom home. Since my sister and I shared a room, there was never a guest bedroom to offer friends and relatives who came to visit. But that really didn’t matter much because the majority of our relatives lived within a couple of hours of our home. It wasn’t uncommon for us to drive to the home of an aunt and uncle, eat at their table, spend the day laughing and reminiscing, then drive home to sleep in our own beds at night. They did the same at our house, so the need for a guest room was mostly a moot point. Occasionally, my sister or I would have a sleepover guest, but we had a very large bedroom that included our two beds and plenty of floor space for pallets or cots to offer youthful guests. (When you are a kid, having your own bed is not necessary for a successful sleepover!) However, as I grew into adulthood, I remember thinking that it was important to have a “guest room” to offer people who visited. 

 

When I married and had my own home, we lived too far away for my parents to simply visit for the day. Their trips to our house always included a few nights spent in our home. And despite the fact that we always had a nice, adequate place to live, we never had the luxury of a designated guest room to offer them. It bothered me that we couldn’t give them their own comfortable private space, but it wasn’t possible. So we made it work the best way we could.

 

In the early years of our marriage, we lived in apartments with limited space, and our living room couch was the only guest accommodation. It was a couch that unfolded into a two-sectioned double-sized bed (a large crack right down the middle!). It was stiff and uncomfortable, hardly large enough for two adults to easily sleep on. And, of course, it was smack-dab in the middle of the apartment with no privacy. But my parents, who were in their 60s by that time, did indeed come to visit because they longed to see their grandchildren and it was worth the discomfort and inconvenience. There was never a thought of staying in a nearby hotel because they wanted to be with us!

 

Later, we purchased a couch that opened into a queen-sized bed that was decidedly more comfortable than our first couch, but it still wasn’t like a guest bed . . . and still lacked privacy. Eventually, our children had decent beds in their rooms and one or the other would give their room up for the comfort of their grandparents during those visits. It was a step up but still not a true guest room, since either set of grandparents might have to step on forgotten Legos or push aside a Barbie house to make room for their alarm clock on the table. 

 

During all those years until my children were grown and away from home, I felt like an inadequate hostess for not having that designated guest room to offer our family and friends. While I enjoyed having overnight guests, I was often embarrassed to offer them something less than the well-appointed room of my dreams. 

 

The room I envisioned had a large, comfortable bed with matching side tables on which perched identical lamps that bathed the room in a soft glow. There would be a down-filled comforter that matched the curtains at the window. A fluffy throw rug beside the bed would add warmth to the room. A vase of fresh flowers would sit on the dresser, and perhaps a scented candle. Inviting landscape scenes would hang in beautiful frames on the walls, alongside photos of our family. A folding luggage rack would sit along one wall and the closet would have plenty of space for clothes, equipped with extra hangers.

 

The adjoining private bath would be sparkling clean, unfettered with the used toothbrushes of my children or any of their bath-time toys. Instead, the guest bath would have scented soaps, designer shampoo and body wash bottles, plenty of counter space for my guests’ cosmetics, and a loaner hair dryer. Soft plush guest towels would hang neatly on the rack. Extra toothbrushes, toothpaste, and other amenities would be in the drawer, along with ibuprofen and bandaids and any other emergency items they might have failed to pack. The entire guest suite would be like a well-appointed hotel, but with homey personal touches. 

 

Personally, I always feel especially pampered when I visit people who have guest rooms such as I have described. While it’s not essential nor do I expect it, it’s still a surprisingly nice touch. Despite my desire to offer that kind of hospitality, I never felt I was able to provide such accommodations for my guests.

 

With those memories as the backdrop, I read a blog earlier this week that opened my mind to a new understanding of my relationship with the Lord. The author quoted Exodus 25:8 ~ “Then have them make a sanctuary for me, and I will dwell among them.” The Lord proceeded to give detailed instructions to Moses on how to build the Tabernacle. If you haven’t read that passage recently, you might scan it with a fresh eye regarding how specific the instructions were for this structure. Don’t miss the fact that this was a blueprint for the Guest Room the Israelites were to build, because God wanted to come stay with them! He didn’t need the extravagance for his own comfort, but He wanted them to feel that they were honoring him with their best . . . to take pride in the preparation and in their craftsmanship that would give the best they had to God. 

 

The difference in the analogy lies in the word DWELL. God wasn’t just planning a weekend trip to check on how things were going. To dwell meant He was going to move in and live among them! And despite his explicit instructions, I really suspect He would have been happy living among them with more humble amenities. After all, look at the simple, primitive accommodations He provided in which His Son would be born. For God, it wasn’t about having a palace or rich furnishings. He just wanted to know that his people wanted him among them, and would welcome and honor him when He moved in. In the words of the September 10^th blog by Erin Davis, this God—"the God who spoke the stars into being . . . who measures the waters of the earth in his hand—that God chose to dwell in a tent built by human hands.” [1]

 

My parents would have been more comfortable in a well-appointed guest room, so why were they willing—even eager—to keep coming to visit? Because they longed to be with us. They loved us, missed us, couldn’t wait to spend time in our presence ~ no matter the cost or inconvenience. The lack of a glamourous guest suite did not keep them away. They were just happy to be wanted, thrilled to be welcomed into our home. Their desire to be with us was stronger than their need for comfort. 

 

And so is God’s. He just wants to be with his children. The God of the Universe has always wanted to have a relationship with us; He wants to dwell with us! 

 

My parents were people with limited resources. While they lived comfortably and we always had what we needed as children, they were not rich people. If they had been wealthy, though, they would have been tempted to step in and offer to help their grown children. If they had had abundant resources in their hands, it would not have surprised me if they had looked at the modest home we owned and begun a building project for a larger, more spacious home for us. 

 

In a similar way, I think the Lord’s desire to dwell with us extends to His provision of a new home more grand than anything we ever imagined we could have for our own. We will no doubt be surprised at the lavish palace He has been preparing for us when we come to live with Him. He will hold nothing back in the accommodations He is preparing for those of us who are His Kids. Unlike my inability to provide the perfect Guest Room, God has all the resources, as well as the desire, to prepare a perfect place in which we may one day dwell. 

 

He has promised it; we can count on it! 

 

---

[1] https://shereadstruth.com/god-dwells-among-his-people-in-the-tabernacle/

Thankful for our Local Heroes

A few days ago, a fire alarm pulled our local Fire Department volunteers out of their homes and businesses just a couple of days before the Thanksgiving holiday. Firefighters, whether professional or volunteer, never know what kind of call they may get, and when they jump on the truck they have to be mentally and physically prepared for whatever awaits them at their destination. 

On this occasion, it was a cotton module fire at the local COOP Gin. I don’t yet know all the details of this fire, other than one module initially caught fire.  And, since the wrapped rectangular modules (aka “bales”) are placed in rows next to one another on the gin lot to await the ginning process, the fire quickly spread to nearby modules. That scenario was risky enough, but it was complicated by extremely high winds that gusted all afternoon, making the containment of the fire a severe challenge. 

Ultimately, neighboring volunteer fire departments from the communities of Lockney, Floydada, Ralls, Lorenzo, Idalou, New Deal, and Abernathy joined our local guys, and many fought through the night to keep the fire from spreading to homes and fields adjoining the gin property. 

Since the cotton gin is only three blocks from my house, I am one who is extremely grateful to these folks, who serve our local community in keeping us safe from fires 24/7. These volunteers don’t do this in a full-time paid capacity. Most have full-time jobs other places, and often have to leave those jobs at a moment’s notice to join a fire in progress.

The fire this week brought back many memories. My dad, Charlie Martin, was a volunteer firefighter here in Petersburg for many years while I was growing up. I don’t know how many years he served, but at one time he was Fire Chief, as I recall. His volunteer duties were a normal part of our family life.

I seem to remember that one night a week was “fire practice” and they met to drill on different techniques and make sure the equipment was in good shape. Dad owned an auto mechanic shop, and it was quite common for the fire siren to sound during the day while he had his head under the hood of a car. He had to abruptly leave everything and run down to the station, don his equipment, and catch the truck that headed toward the fire in progress. They never knew the extent of the blaze or how long it would take to control it until they arrived on the scene.

As a little girl, I was proud of my dad for being a firefighter, but also frightened at the danger he continually faced. I vividly recall being awakened in the middle of the night to hear the fire siren wailing through the darkness, summoning the men out of their warm, safe homes. My heart would race at the sound, even as I heard Daddy jump out of bed and throw on his clothes. Within seconds, he was out the door and racing in his pickup for the station downtown, five blocks away. I would lay in my bed, praying for his safe return and unable to fall back asleep until I heard him pull quietly back into the driveway. 

During the hours he was away, I was also fearful for the victims of the fire. We were a small farming community, so we likely knew the people whose house was ablaze or whose cotton trailer had caught fire, whose barn was up in flames or whose farmland suffered from prairie fires. It was a sobering time because these were not impersonal blazes. They affected the kids I sat beside in school every day. Fortunately, I cannot recall that there was ever loss of life from these fires, but it was always a frightening scenario because of the potential losses.

Daddy didn’t talk much about the fires, at least not in our presence. I wish I had asked him about some of the stories—what he thought about on his way to a fire, the times he was afraid, the occasions when they faced a seemingly insurmountable task, or the times he felt gratified that he had helped someone in the community. 

Dad never considered himself a hero, and probably the other guys didn’t either. It was simply something they did to help out. But to me, he was always a hero. A hero is usually someone who doesn’t set out to do grand, heroic things. They are just doing their job, or stepping up when someone else won’t. They see a need and think it’s their duty to volunteer, to fill the need. I would guess that many times, a hero is scared about what he’s about to do, and feels inadequate for the task. But he does it anyway—and I think those characteristics are keys to why they are heroes. They are willing to do something unselfish, outside their comfort zone or training, because it will help someone else and because it needs to be done.

God bless the firefighters around the country, both professional and volunteer ones. Support them in any way you can, and thank them for doing their jobs. And to our local volunteers who worked this Thanksgiving week to keep us safe, a special THANK YOU!

Resurrection Morning

Easter has a rich meaning for me as an adult ~ things that I appreciate now that I never comprehended as a child.

When I was a little girl, Easter was mostly about hunting Easter eggs, wearing my new dress (complete with white shoes, gloves, and a hat!) to church, and a Sunday dinner of ham and all my mother’s special dishes that included one of her signature desserts.

My sister and I usually posed before church on the front lawn for a photo, taken with the family Kodak camera. It often turned cold and/or rainy on Easter morning, so we sometimes had to bundle up in a coat that hid the lovely dresses our mother had made us for the occasion.

My parents hid hand-dyed boiled eggs (and sometimes plastic ones too) around the inside of the house for a quick hunt after

I first woke up. Then we ate breakfast and dressed for church. If little girls hurried, there might be time for one more hiding-and-hunting session before Sunday School. 

After lunch eaten at our kitchen table, I changed into play clothes while one of my parents (or more likely my big sister) hid the eggs once again in our back yard, and I would go hunting again. The hiding and hunting happened multiple times during the afternoon if the weather cooperated.

My Easter basket was a small, plain basket stuffed with Easter grass—nothing like the big

colorful Easter baskets children have today. And I used the same one, year after year, until one special Easter when I was about four. A good family friend, Oleta, drove up to our house the day before Easter that year. Her family and ours had been close for a long time, and she and my mother had a special friendship. Oleta, who had never married, lived with her parents. A tiny, perky lady with a good sense of humor, Oleta was a grocery checker at the local market. I was always drawn to this lady, who had no children of her own, because she was kind and fun-loving, and paid special attention to me. On that Saturday, I was outside playing on the swings west of our house. Oleta drove into the circular drive in the empty lot by our house and stopped under the trees where I was playing. I excitedly ran to the car to greet her; she rolled down the window and handed me a new, filled Easter basket and then drove away.

I don’t think I had ever seen the large filled baskets in the stores before that day (Mama had probably worked hard to keep that knowledge a secret!). I thought the plain little basket I carried every Easter was what everyone had. Oleta’s basket was larger and was stuffed with candy, little Easter toys, and plastic eggs. It was as stunning to me as winning the lottery, and I ran inside with excitement to show my mother. I don’t remember receiving gifts from Oleta before or after that day, for any occasion ~ and I don’t know what prompted her generosity on that occasion in the early fifties. But I was stunned and thankful for such a magnificent gift.

Another Easter, perhaps a year or two later, my Aunt Velma and Uncle George came to the house on the Saturday before Easter. They brought me tiny feathery Easter chicks that I had seen for sale in the stores. The little stick feet were fragile and the chicks were more loose feathers than anything—not exactly something you would play with. But I had never had one and I was thrilled, and promptly put them on the living room table to be displayed.

When I was a little bit older the neighbor next door, Willie Mae, brought me my first chocolate bunny. I saved it for quite a while, hesitant to eat any of it and mar the shape. Then I prolonged the delight by eating a small bite every day to make it last.

These stories make it sound like we were so poor that my parents never bought me anything. But truthfully, we were so rich in all the things that count. Yes, money was tight and they did not squander money on frivolous things very often. But I always had all I needed, and didn’t feel deprived. Easter was not so commercialized then, so children did not have all the toys and baskets and candy that are considered mandatory in the 21^stCentury. 

I mostly remember Easter being a secular holiday and don’t remember elaborate celebrations to commemorate Christ rising from the tomb; that recognition became more obvious only as I grew older. Yet perhaps as a child enjoying all the secular fuss of the day, I grasped the concept on a deeper level than I realized. While I may not have made the connection until much later, the stunned awe and joy of those early simple Easter gifts laid the foundation for the anticipation and joy of the greatest Gift of all. Dressing in our finery that was provided by loving parents anticipates the day we will pose in our heavenly home, clothed with the robes our Father will provide.  Searching for the hidden eggs will be a distant memory when someday we discover all the hidden gems of knowledge and wisdom, and the rich sense of love, that we were never meant to understand or anticipate while still on Planet Earth. 

The surprising and unexpected generosity of friends and family who gave gifts to a little girl ~ well, that is so much like all the sweet surprises of gifts from our Heavenly Father who gives more than we ever expect—who gives even before we know we need something—who gives things we never dreamed even existed. There will never be an Easter basket big enough or fancy enough to hold all those gifts that are ours because we are beloved children of The Father!

I'm so very thankful my heavenly Dad made the ultimate sacrifice of his Son on my behalf, and I hope you will celebrate Resurrection Sunday with me today.

New Horizons

The long-awaited day had finally arrived.

Every May as long as I could remember,  I had ridden with my parents to the school auditorium, located in the old red brick elementary building in my small community. I had watched as cap-and-gowned eighteen year olds had marched down the aisles to the sounds of a local pianist playing Pomp and Circumstance on the school’s black grand piano. I had dreamed of the day I would experience this enormous rite of passage myself ~ and that day was finally here.

Our entire senior year was filled with those once-in-a-lifetime moments.  For my class, preparations for graduation actually began the year before, as we purchased and began wearing our Senior rings. We had been doing fundraisers our entire high school career, working toward funding the Senior Trip, but as we ended our Junior year the momentum increased.

We met to make such important decisions as class motto, class flower, class colors ~ decisions so momentous that the only choice I remember is the class colors of Blue and White! We researched and voted on the location for our Senior Trip, a dude ranch near New Braunfels, Texas. (We also voted on three lucky teacher/sponsors to accompany us on said trip, which was undeniably the highlight of their lives!)

Each season during the year of a high school senior brings a heart-gripping wrench as they realize it is the very last time they will ever experience certain events: one’s last football season, basketball season, band competition, livestock show, awards banquet, UIL competition. All those experiences are coming to an end. And while most high school seniors are chomping at the bit to be free and get on with their lives, there is that sobering realization that everything is about to change. In our case, there were about a dozen of us in a class of forty-two seniors who had attended twelve years of school together. We each had plans following graduation—plans that would take us in many different directions, separated for the first time in our lives. Our small town was the only community most of us had known. The world outside Petersburg, Texas loomed large—simultaneously exciting and frightening.

Our last days together as a group culminated in the Senior Trip, taken shortly before graduation. We felt carefree and light as we boarded our chartered bus with our sponsors and headed to the Texas Hill Country. We laughed, reminisced, played, pulled pranks, and mostly thought of little except those few days of unencumbered, stress-free fun before life turned serious again.

A few days later, on our graduation day in May of 1966, the Mamas and the Papas were singing Monday, Monday while OUR Mamas and Papas were either singing the blues or singing Hallelujah, depending on the level of trouble we had caused them. Our Class of ’66, however, was perhaps remembering the lyrics to our class song from 8th Grade Graduation: “I see a new horizon; my life has only begun.” *

I remember driving myself to the school that warm May afternoon, since we had to arrive early to dress and rehearse one more time. I parked in the empty parking lot, glancing at the sky while potential thunderclouds gathered, and felt a surreal sense that I was actually about to step into a brand new phase of my life—a life that I sensed would not always be sunny and clear but might at times be clouded by dark, difficult days.

As I carried in my clothes, I thought of my mother and me, carefully choosing my graduation dress to be worn underneath the long traditional gown. My dress was white, fashionably hemmed to just above my knees. There was a lace overlay on the bodice, a gathered skirt, and a baby blue sash around the waist. I would wobble down the aisle in white high heels as well, my brown hair styled in a sixties “flip” underneath the mortarboard cap. Uppermost in my mind was not what my college major was going to be, or what career I would choose. I was mostly anxious that I make it across the stage to accept my diploma without tripping or otherwise embarrassing myself!

My parents, grandmother, and some aunts and uncles would be on hand to applaud for me and wish me well. I had already received many graduation gifts and cards from people who had known me all my life and wanted to acknowledge this momentous occasion.

I did, indeed, manage an uneventful stroll across the stage that night. Along with my fellow students, I listened dutifully to the speaker as he addressed our future decisions and potential accomplishments. While I don’t remember details, I vaguely recall hearing his challenge to make the most of our days, and soberly took his words to heart.

But here is what I wish I had heard . . . what I needed to hear and understand that night: every decision you make has consequences. 

The students who are graduating from high school and college this spring, fifty-one years later, are hearing similar words of wisdom spoken from podiums across our land. Most of those students will barely hear the words, so intent are they on rushing headlong into the next phase of their lives. Our class of ’66 was no different. But oh, how I wish this girl had thought more carefully about not just walking across the stage without tripping, but about taking deliberate, steady steps in life. 


I am currently enamored of a book written by Lysa Terkeurst entitled The Best Yes. In describing how to make the best decisions for our lives, she states in chapter six that "Today's choices become tomorrow's circumstances." I like that. She continues by quoting a passage from Andy Stanley's The Principle of the Path: 

     "The direction you are currently traveling--relationally, financially, spiritually, and the list goes on and on--will determine where you end up in each of those respective arenas. This is true regardless of your goals, your dreams, your wishes, or your wants. The principle of the path trumps all those things.
     Your current direction will determine your destination. And like every principle, you can leverage this one to your advantage or ignore it to your disadvantage. Just as there are paths that have led us to places we never intended to be, there are paths that lead us away from those places as well."

For those of us in the class of ’66, there is no way to undo all our historic bad decisions. Most of us made mistakes and poor decisions that didn’t seem very significant at the time. However, in different ways, some of us are still living with the repercussions of many of those choices today. But it’s not too late for us to make better choices in this final stretch of our lives. And just maybe, we can influence our grandchildren and great-grandchildren to make more prudent choices ~ choices that honor their own moral values, that weigh the consequences of their decisions, and that align with the path that takes them where they want to go. It’s not impossible to choose well, but it does take discipline and the strength for delayed gratification.

Do the young people in your life a favor and let them know that yes, they CAN wait for the right things, be people of integrity, and make honorable decisions. They have within themselves the ability to be grownups and make tough, responsible decisions. Let them know you love them and have confidence in their ability to choose well. And though the tune may sound ancient to them, maybe they will hum a little of Beyond the Blue Horizon on their own.

* "Beyond the Blue Horizon" is a 1930 song composed by Leo Robin, Richard A. Whiting, and W. Franke Harling. Jeanette MacDonald introduced the song in the film Monte Carlo.

Judy Martin Bowyer, Copyright 2017

Hats Off to the Museum

Last Friday, I was privileged to speak at the Texas Tech Museum Association luncheon as they celebrated a current exhibit at the museum appropriately named "Hats and Purses and Shoes...Oh My!" Approximately ninety women gathered, many dressed in hats and attire from eras long past, to view the exhibit and hear my memories of shopping in Lubbock, Texas in the 1950s.

In an attempt to describe the event, the first phrase that ran through my mind this morning was this old description, once seen in newspaper accounts of ladies' gatherings in the 40s and 50s: "a good time was had by all." Poor grammatical structure to be sure, but I think it adequately describes the level of excitement in the Helen DeVitt Jones Sculpture Court at the Tech Museum that day.

While I recalled incidents from my own shopping excursions as a youngster, and shared pictures of former stores and merchandise from that era, the ladies themselves reminisced and shared tales. Some told of working at Hemphill-Wells department store during its golden days, others recalled owning Mouton coats, riding the bus to downtown Lubbock to shop, eating at the tea room in Hemphill's, and of the city's power brokers who dined there. The excitement of shared memories warmed the room, and most left with smiles on their faces. Jouana Stravlo (Tech Association Executive Administrator) and Gretchen Scott (Volunteer Chair of the Association Resource Committee) joined forces with the museum’s curator of Clothing and Textiles, Dr. Marian Ann Montgomery, and the museum’s Executive Director, Dr. Gary Morgan, to create a memorable luncheon.


The excellent meal catered by Top Tier, lovely table decorations designed by Jouana Stravio and her assistant Natalie, along with the special display of old hat boxes from the museum’s collection, set the tone for the day.

The exhibit itself is enlightening: there was an elegance attached to many of the ladies' accessories that hinted of a West Texas mindset I have observed my entire life.

We women who grew up on the Texas South Plains came from hardy pioneer stock, to be sure. My own ancestors homesteaded here in the late 1800s when life was very tough, and it took hard work and perseverance to survive. Yet there was a lively spirit, a sense of joy, and a love of things beautiful that was evident even then. Those pioneer women designed colorful quilts, crafted lovely household furnishings, and stitched dress-up attire for themselves and their families. My own experience testifies to the fact that in the 1950s, we were not just the daughters of farmers, or cotton gin managers, or school teachers. We had a sense of style and wanted beautiful things despite the rugged landscape and plain views surrounding us everyday.

The museum exhibit displayed some of the most elaborate shoes, handbags, and hats you can imagine--items that would seem to be most out of place here. Imagine holding onto a wide-brimmed hat in our gusty West Texas wind, or walking across muddy dirt farm roads in high heels to get to the car on a rainy Sunday morning. A common memory of school days in the 50s for me includes wearing dresses to school no matter how cold or windy it might be. We recently laughed during my high school reunion at the days of marching band practice as we tried to remember our half-time routine while playing our instrument, trying to read our music that flapped in the wind from the flimsy music holder, while at the same time attempting to keep our full skirts from blowing up to reveal unmentionables. That experience in itself typifies the West Texas can-do spirit!

The Tech museum exhibit typifies all of those elements of society from a by-gone era: the eternal need of women to look lovely and fashionable, paired with a practicality borne out of the necessity of living in a place hundreds of miles from the nearest well-known fashion and culture centers.


We were too remote from the Dallas/Fort Worth, Austin, or Oklahoma City standard bearers of culture, so we had to create our own. Stores like Hemphill-Wells gave us our own little slice of culture and dignity, and how we ladies grasped at anything of beauty and grace to which we might cling!

If you live in the Lubbock area, take a few minutes to visit the museum to view the exhibit. The museum is located at 3301 4th Street and this particular exhibit will be on view until January 15 in Gallery 7 just off the Helen DeVitt Jones Auditorium. The Tech Museum is doing an outstanding job keeping our local culture alive, and preserving the memories of what it has always meant to be a West Texan.

50th Class Reunion

“Remember the time on the band trip to Oklahoma and we girls ended up hiding some of the freshmen boys in our room so the band director didn’t catch them wandering on the girls’ side of the hotel?”

“I recall one of the times I got in trouble was a summer night when a couple of us were walking the streets of Petersburg and lost track of time; our parents were on the verge of calling the sheriff when we finally arrived home.”

“Can you remember how silly we were, buying a pack of Winstons  ‘for my uncle’ and driving out to a country road where we could smoke and not be found out?”

“Remember the time I took the car without asking while my parents were out of town for the day ~ I took a corner too fast and slid into a muddy ditch at the edge of town. Had to walk to somebody’s house and call my dad—things were kinda frosty at home that night!”

“There was that time we all drove up and down Main Street the last day of school, having water balloon fights to celebrate the beginning of summer.”

Anecdotes like these will abound when we have our 50^th Class Reunion one month from now. While we were a small class from a small high school in a small town (small wonder we have managed to stay in touch with each other!), we made up for our smallness with a lot of heart. Many of us grew up together and sat through twelve years of public education side by side. We went to Sunday school together, suited up to play high school sports in the same locker room, marched in band together through snow and West Texas sandstorms, and dragged Main in our second-hand cars throughout high school, racking up countless miles but going nowhere. We joined forces through 4-H projects, FFA livestock judging competitions, FHA meetings, three act plays, band practice, and countless athletic events.

Go, Buffs!

Most of our parents were able to spare the time to be room mothers, PTA volunteers, and band boosters. They supported us with hours of their time, waiting in the car for us to finish band practice or following the football bus to yet another out-of-town game. They bought Girl Scout cookies, FHA bake sale items, and Christmas trees to fund our Senior Trip.

Our teachers were a hardy lot, working long hours for low pay to put up with our cocky attitudes and rebellious streaks as we made our way through adolescence. By and large, they were willing to see past the childish pranks and hormone-driven drama to the potential buried in each of us. Determined to save us from ourselves, they persevered until we had safely walked across that stage and grasped the diploma that certified we were ready for adulthood (whether we really were or not).

Few of our parents are still around to see us pass this milestone, but a handful of our teachers are, and some of them will be at the reunion to reminisce with us. We have all gone our separate ways these last fifty years. Marriages, divorces, children, grandchildren, careers, successes, failures, joys and grief have all been parts of our collective journey. We may be very amazed to reconnect next month and hear what diverse paths we have traveled after having had such a commonality in our childhood.

As teenagers, we judged our value by the following:

If:

·      we were popular in high school (whatever that meant)

·      we made the honor roll

·      we got more detentions than anyone in the class

·      we put the most points on the scoreboard, or warmed the benches instead

·      we made a career as an attorney standing in the courtroom or we spent our years working for the Sanitation department . . .

None of those benchmarks define who we are today. They may indicate how we responded to the pressures we faced, or what decisions we made based on what was expected of us. We may have made life decisions because of our own faulty view of our capabilities or who we thought we were. Who we are where it counts ~ the way we treat others, how much kindness and generosity we extend to our family and friends, and whether we are fulfilling what God created us to do ~ that is what defines us.

Put aside any uncertainty, timidity, or insecurity to which you might cling, and make your plans to attend the PHS Class of ’66 Reunion.  Come remember the youngsters we were fifty years ago. Plan to laugh a lot. Celebrate the remarkable upbringing and education that our families, our school, and our community provided for us to make our start in life.

We want to see your face on the weekend of August 19-20! 

This replica of the little car I drove in high school sure brings back memories!