Close your eyes and imagine a little old wooden church out in the country, the black pot-bellied stove in the corner sighing and releasing its heat, determined to conquer the chilly breeze whistling softly in the night air. The young couple nervously looks about the congregation. The groom tapping his foot to the soft interlude of music anxiously thrusts his hands into his pockets. The soon-to-be father in law eyes the groom with that, “you better treat my baby right!” gaze. The petite bride, dressed in white, fidgets with her veil as they prepare to “jump the broom” into holy matrimony.

My parents, James and Lillian Gregg, were married on February 6, 1947. My mother spoke fondly of that cold, wintry night with glee in her soulful eyes. Both were in there twenties with the world in their hands and they were committed to conquer every obstacle that came along their way. Then I came along, fifteen years after they have taken their vows. My parents, now well into their forties, finally had a little one of their own.

Our home was blessed and prosperous. My father worked two full-time jobs for over twenty years, making certain that every home life necessity was well taken care of, my mother whose career was in nursing, decided when I was four, it was time to come home to be a full-time mom. Having older parents was such a blessing in disguise, for they knew how to nurture me and bring me up in the admiration of the Lord.

Did they argue? Please, yes Lord. Sometimes our home sounded like the modern day version of the “The Thriller in Manila”, but my father knew where home was and he returned nightly for many, many years to come.

Now my parent’s marriage had their difficulties, as all marriages do, some days it felt we were on a never-ending roller coaster ride, but those two individuals truly loved each other.
Infidelity was never an issue, “Buddy and Cile”; their pet names for one another knew how to keep the fire going. My dad, rest his soul, would tease Mom about certain ladies and she would reply by “rolling her eyes” laughing and shaking her head.

I knew my Dad adored my Mom, but I did not realize how much until she passed away. At the funeral, he cried like a spanked baby, tears flowing as his body quivered softly. He was so overwhelmed with grief; he did not accompany the loved ones to Mom’s final resting-place. I suppose the thought of seeing his beloved “Cile” being committed to the earth, was too great of a burden for him to bear.

In the months that followed, Dad’s only conversation was Mom. My son and I tried other topics of interest, but to no avail. As time passed on, his health soon started to deteriorate and on March 9, 2001, my dad went home.

Yes, the pain is real and the sorrow great, but I am gaining strength day by day. My parents are gone to be at rest; both have traded in time for eternity.

But when I look into the mirror, I see Dad’s naturally curly hair and broad shoulders, Mom’s high-cheekbones and piercing, soulful eyes. Nevertheless, the love they gave and imparted in me shall never die.

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