Home About Contact News Blogs Publications Write2Ignite! Adults Children Writers

Adult Articles Back to Adults Page A Tribute to My Daddy, Tremont V. Matthew Leaving my Daddy in the Veterans Hospital in Gainesville, Florida, was the hardest things I had ever done because I knew in my heart I would never see him alive again. And I knew that I had no choice but to return to my responsibilities in Georgia. With the circumstances of my life as they were I could not stay at his bedside. I wept and grieved for him all the way back home. But Daddy didn't die in the hospital. He continued for another year and a half to fight the cancer that ravaged his body. He was determined to stay alive to take care of "his girls", like he had done all of our lives. A few months after that trip my family and I moved back to Florida to be near him and to help with his care. During that time I suffered with the man who, for most of my life, had been my provider, my protector, my disciplinarian, my mentor, my encourager, my rock. I ached as I watched him die by inches. I mourned as he changed from the strongest, bravest man I had ever known into a fragile, helpless little person. I agonized the night my sisters and I kissed his still form goodnight for the last time. Daddy was a veteran of World War II – "The Big One" he called it. For forty-five years he was proud to wear the scars and to bear in his body the shrapnel of that war. He didn't speak of his wounds often, but when he did it was with great pride. He wasn't perfect; he had some glaring faults, but he was a man of duty and honor, of devotion and great love. After the war Daddy became a welder. He spent forty years welding, fabricating metal parts, and building and repairing huge boiler systems in our area. He was known for the impeccable quality of his work and for his unimpeachable business ethics. Growing up I assumed he loved his profession. But, in the final months of his life he shared his heart with me. He never wanted to be a boiler maker. He never planned to spend his life working with white-hot metal, crawling through narrow ducts in and out of soot, breathing asbestos day after day. What he had wanted to become was a writer - especially after The War. He wanted to put on paper the people, places, and events he had experienced in "The Big One." He wanted the generation coming after him to feel what he had felt, to experience vicariously the fear, the loneliness, and the sense of duty and pride that had driven him and thousands of American G I's. During the final months of his life he shared with me this dream. I realized then, that he had willingly placed it on a shelf to meet the needs of his family. Welding provided a living for us – something that scribbling his memoirs could not do. We both knew it was his duty. He made sure I knew it was his privilege. He never regretted his decision. He never looked back. That is one of the reasons I am becoming a writer. I write for the accomplishment I feel when the words march along the page in just the right order. I write for the sense of humility I feel because God has called me to write, and has given me the education and the opportunity to do it. I write for the sense of pride I feel at making my Daddy's dream come true in a small way. I write to say "Thank you, Daddy, for all you did for me and all you taught me." It is my duty and my privilege. A Little Boy's Prayer In the summer of 1975 my two little boys and I attended a small evangelical church in a rural area of North Florida. Each Thursday morning we participated in visitation time to reach out to women in our community. One Thursday I was taking my turn at baby-sitting while the other moms were out visiting. Six or seven young children were in the room with me tussling and playing make-believe games. I was perched on a pre-school tabletop swinging my legs and watching their fun. Out of the blue my five-year-old son, Stephen, left his friends and stood before me. He stared intently into my eyes. Then, he placed both of his little hands on my thighs and said, "Mama, I think I need to get saved." "What makes you say that, Honey?" "Well, I sin, don't I? I want to go to heaven with Jesus, don't I?" I had to admit that he was right on both counts. I sent up a quick prayer for wisdom as I talked and listened. We talked about sin and hell and faith for a few minutes. Then, Stephen decided that he definitely needed to ask Jesus to come into his heart right that minute. So, I pulled him close and listened while he talked to Jesus. "Jesus, I know I'm a sinner. I do bad things. Please come into my heart and take away my sins and take me to heaven when I die. AMEN!" In my heart I prayed for God to make this event crystal clear to Stephen. I wasn't smart enough to know for sure whether or not he was ready for this step, but I trusted God to know. Stephen's enormous blue eyes stared into mine and a huge grin spread across his freckled face. I helped him pray a big "thank you" to God, and gave him another hug. I couldn't resist the urge to plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. He pulled free and rejoined his playmates and their games. A few months later we changed churches. Our new pastor counseled Stephen and decided that he really understood his salvation experience, and was ready to be baptized. He continued to be hungry for the things of God until he turned about fifteen years of age. Then something happened to that happy little boy's faith. I wish I could say that he found his way and lived the rest of his life to please the Lord. But the truth is, Stephen wandered spiritually for the next fifteen years. He tried to live his own life without staying close to the Lord who had saved him. He struggled. At the age of thirty Stephen's life on this earth ended with a fatal heart attack. I wasn't there beside him when it happened, but God was. I have played the scene over in my imagination many times like this: Stephen grabbed his chest and drew his last earthly breath. He closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor. Then he opened those huge blue eyes in the presence of Jesus. I can envision the Lord spreading His arms wide open and running toward His wayward child to welcome him home. And I can see my Stephen flinging himself into those waiting arms and resting his tired head on Jesus' shoulder. I see them locked in a hug bigger than Mama could ever give. I can see it that way because I was there when Stephen prayed to ask Jesus to come into his heart and forgive his sins. And I can see it that way because Jesus promises in His Word that once Stephen made that choice no one or no thing, could separate him from Jesus and the Father. (See John 10: 27 – 30 and Romans 8: 30 – 39.) Lastly, I can see it that way because God Himself gave me His reassurance that Stephen was welcomed into heaven. During the first days after Stephen's death my husband and I were staying with our younger son, David. On the day we were to view Stephen's body I arose very early and sat alone on David's patio. A thick fog hung over the neighborhood and over me emotionally. I cried, tried to read my Bible, and prayed for courage and peace. Finally I yelled out, "Oh, God, my baby is dead. My baby is dead." Immediately I heard a man's voice speak these tender words in my mind, "No, he isn't. He's with Me." I cannot describe the comfort those words brought to me. In that instant I felt God's peace drizzle over me. Though the fog hung heavy around my body, my heart stepped into the sunshine. In the years since Stephen's death that peace has stayed with me and comforted me time and time again. I am truly grateful that God listens when little boys pray. I am grateful that He keeps His promises, too. I am grateful that my son, Stephen, is in the eternal embrace of the God who loves him more than I ever could. And I'm grateful for the knowledge that someday I'll hold Stephen in my arms once again. Psalm 138:8 The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O LORD, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands.