Megan Diane Cope (born August 26, 1984)
Archive for the 'memories' Category
Is it really possible that I posted this FOUR YEARS AGO on this blog?
Megan Diane Cope died nine years ago today [now thirteen years]. Who — in our success-driven world — would want her genetic make-up? She was, after all, mentally retarded.
And yet . . . she changed our worlds. She was a quiet, loving witness to the gospel. She was an incarnation of God’s love. She received whatever gifts of service we offered to her without expecting more. She embodied the truth of 2 Corinthians 4:7: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”
Her ten years here were too short. So today, again, we grieve her absence, and we look forward to seeing her again to thank her for helping to set our worlds right.
I grew up with gospel meetings. Not revivals; gospel meetings. Denominations had revivals.
Some who are older than me remember two-week meetings, but I only go back to one-weekers. One in the fall; another in the spring. Every year.
You’d think those are bad memories. And yes, those probably weren’t my favorite two weeks of the year.
And yet — I remember the excitement at our church of knowing that someone was coming with urgent messages. Most years, Guy Napoleon Woods came. Other favorites were Hugo McCord, Bobby Key, and Walter Buchanan (my favorite because he was always so much fun at Green Valley Bible Camp near Bentonville).
I remember Guy N. Woods as a man in whom there was no doubt. His book “Questions and Answers” was like our “Pearl of Great Price” — not exactly the Bible, but still a pretty holy book.
But with the others, the memories are much better: the church getting ready in prayer, the discipline of going to the assembly every night (while other kids were playing ball!), and the attempt to write down every scripture mentioned.
I’m not wanting to go back to gospel meetings. Not at all.
But . . . remembering them makes me ask these questions: In what ways are we providing biblical teaching for the church? In what ways are we reaching out to people who are lost (in every sense of the word) — so that we seek to go out rather than attract?
I got a note from a friend of mine on the West Coast who’s been asked to preach next weekend. He — a guy who regularly does stuff that would make me shudder! — said it’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever asked to do. He asked how I’ve done it week after week, year after year, decade after decade.
The question made me tired. That IS a lot of sermons.
I started fulltime in 1982 with a wonderful church in Wilmington, NC, that gave me the freedom to grow into the job. And since then, it’s been Sunday after Sunday (with plenty of breaks), year after year, decade after decade.
Sometimes I think I’m about out of gas. Are there older preachers out there? Have you had the same feeling? Sometimes I think I’ve given what I have to give.
Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s a privilege. I get to lead the church in the Lord’s Prayer. I get to lay my hands on babies to represent the church, saying, “May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be on you forever.” I get to see the faces of people as the word of God is spoken in their midst. I see the tears of hope-within-grief; I see the yawns from exhaustion. I get to sit on row one, right in front of Bob and Roye Sue. I’m permitted to listen to people remember at times of death. I’m still in the sanctuary as the last words are spoken over coffins by children and spouses.
I can’t ever imagine regretting all these Sundays. And years. And decades.
My senior year at Harding, I was unleashed on two unsuspecting congregations: one in Alread (go to Clinton and then west on hwy 16 through beautiful Ozark hills), and then one in Sheridan.
Here’s what I remember about that year of preaching:
1. I’m glad no one was taping sermons then. I’m especially thankful there are no surviving MP3s for a podcast. (Note to anyone in Alread and Sheridan: if there are any surviving reel-to-reel copies, I’d be willing to buy them in order to destroy them.)
2. I loved the drive time. A beautiful blonde was sitting by my side every mile of the way.
3. Even if I didn’t feed the congregation well, they certainly fed us well! It was a nice break from the regular fare of Pattie Cobb cafeteria on the Harding campus. (Does anyone else remember eating there?) We’re talking home-grown vegies and large quantities of beef.
4. There was great joy in standing before the church speaking about things that matter. My life hadn’t caught up to the things I spoke about — it hasn’t yet! — and yet there was electricity in speaking words of faith and hope.
5. This tiny church (Alread) and small church (Sheridan) launched me with encouragement and compassion. How many churches are there out there — within driving distance of Abilene, Searcy, Oklahoma City, Lubbock, Henderson, Nashville, Malibu, etc.– that have graciously listened to people who knew way more about Greek and Hebrew than they yet knew about life? Blessed are the encouragers of the world.
Some of my favorite Christmas gifts when I was young included: an NFL electronic football game (perhaps it wouldn’t compare favorably with a Wie), Cowboy pistols and holster (apparently an annual gift from my maternal grandfather), a 007 spy kit, a football uniform (with shoulder pads and helmet), and my brother’s rock-em-sock-em robot. There were also the wonderful pairs of boxing gloves my parents gave my brother and me one Christmas. Was that a good idea? But it worked — at least it did for me since I was 4 1/2 years older. Dad was the problem. He’d been a Missouri Golden Gloves champion as a young man, and boxing him was NOT FAIR.
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Donald Trump looks small when he’s mean and vindictive. No defense for Rosie here, but there is irony in having Mr. Trump as the moral compass for young women who stray.
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Here’s my “If You Come to Abilene for Christmas” guide.
Bar-b-que?
1. Sharon’s (across from Towne Crier). Now our favorite bar-b-que place in town. Be sure to get the corn.
2. Betty Rose’s. I like the smaller version on S. 7th. Maybe it’s because it’s so close to the office. The friendliness of the people there matches the excellent food.
3. Joe Allen’s. Not quite the same ambiance since they left the shack on Treadaway . . . but still good.
4. Harold’s. Two kinds of sauce: “hot” and “d——— hot.” Believe the sign before you lather it on. I haven’t been since . . . yesterday.
5. Harlow’s. NW side of town.
Mexican/Tex-Mex?
1. Alfredo’s. It’s the only place in town Eddie Parish would get Mexican food. (That’s saying a lot since Eddie and Judy’s kitchen WAS the best place in town to eat Mexican food.) I will vouch for the guacamole. I’ve made sure to taste-test it scores of times before offering you, my dear readers, this recommendation. I did it for you.
2. Los Arcos. Randy Harris has made this a cult favorite. He ought to eat free there. They actually had to add on a side room. We call it the Harris Fajita Room.
3. Abuelo’s. “Los Mejores de la Casa.” About the best meal in town — though pricey by Abilene standards (about the price of a bagel and OJ in NYC).
4. Pappasito’s. I’d list it first, but it’s a little ways out of town. (2 hours and 15 minutes to the east, including a bathroom break at Love’s.)
5. Rosa’s. This is a sentimental favorite. We’ve crammed 30 people in there many times and laughed ourselves silly. If you go on Tuesday, you’ll be joined by a couple hundred ACU and Hardin-Simmons students for the Taco Tuesday special.
Oriental?
1. Szechuan. The list stops here. It was — I kid you not — named in some list of the best 100 oriental restaurants in the United States. Unfortunately, they’re closed right now for remodeling. Maybe you’ll no longer have to go at 10:45 a.m. for lunch just to get a table.
Steaks?
Hey, this is steak country. You can’t go wrong. The chains are good: Texas Roadhouse, Logan’s (so I’ve heard — we haven’t been yet), and Outback. But I’d stick with a local: either Joe Allen’s or Lytle Land and Cattle.
My favorite place to get a steak is HEB. It’s eight minutes from their meat market to my grill.
Something comes alive inside when I’m here in the Ozarks. The towering oaks, the cliffs, the hills, the lush grass, the ponds and streams.
What’s continually surprising is how Wal-Mart is changing this part of the world. With prices much higher in NW Arkansas, the dramatic growth is now heading north into McDonald County, Missouri. Tiny little towns where I sold newspaper subscriptions as a boy are now booming with people working in Arkansas and living in Missouri. I’ve heard that Jane, Missouri is projected to be the fifth largest city in Missouri in another decade. (Bet you’ve never heard of Jane, MO.)
It isn’t just Wal-Mart people locating here at the world’s largest retailer’s headquarters. It’s all the other companies that have offices full of people who can work constantly with Wal-Mart. (Someone estimated that Proctor and Gamble alone may have hundreds in their office here just to work closely with Wal-Mart.)
I’m sure lots of people who come must think they’ve fallen off the earth into some redneck decade of the past. When you land at the NW Arkansas airport (xna), if you look out the window you realize there are airstrips with cow pastures all around.
One slightly sad thing is that as you drive through McDonald county you don’t see scores of old pick-ups. You see hundreds (and thousands during rush hour, I’m told) of expensive SUVs. And — I can hardly believe this — I saw a sign advertising single family homes in the 290s. Are you kidding me? In NW Arkansas/ SW Missouri? The governor’s home is supposed to be in the 290s!
Ah, well, a bit of nostagia. Hopefully these people coming in are still floating on Elk River and staring in amazement as they pass the bluffs of Noel. Hopefully they’re still going to Twin Bridges to fish. I hope they can take in the “Shepherd of the Hills” play. (Branson was a tiny town with a small play and a little “Silver Dollar City” when I was growing up. The only country music played on the car radio from a station out of Springfield.) I hope they can go on a hay ride to see the spook light near Seneca and can drive into Neosho to spend an afternoon at Big Spring Park — catching crawdads and climbing the hills.
I went to bed last night with the sounds of the cousins (and Aunt Diane) playing spoons. It’s such a wonderful sound.
The turkey was delicious; everyone in our family made it to grandma’s; we took an afternoon walk with perfect, sunny weather; and the Cowboys won.
That’s a good day. (How was YOUR Thanksgiving?)
Warning to Matt and Chris: DO NOT READ THIS POST. IT WILL FREAK YOU OUT.
When I share with people about how Diane and I met, I sometimes mention how I saw her at the College Church of Christ. It was a Friday night and there was a special focus on evangelism. It was a small crowd made up mostly of Bible geeks. An unaccompanied, beautiful, blonde elementary education major sort of stood out.
That’s the official story.
The real story is that that was the second time I’d seen her. The first was in a gym. She was playing volleyball with her club.
And she had on tight jeans. Not tight like painted-on tight, but like most jeans were then: tight at the top (which is, of course, the bottom) and bell-bottomy in the legs.
Though I was a pristinely pure Bible major (cough, cough), I, ummm, noticed her. Five foot, two. Eyes of blue.
So, yes, looks matter. Not like the heart, the personality, the character of a person. But when you’re finding a spouse, physical attraction often is what gets your attention. (More on that below in the 13th comment.)
She’s still hot. Even though she’s 50 today, she doesn’t look a day over, say, 35. (Is that still a compliment for a woman?)
All right, all this confession to say this: there was a zip and zowie back there that helped bring us together. But through all the many years together, so much more has come in the warp and woof of marriage. In daily routines, in shared chores, in deep sorrow, and in great joy. In faith, hope, and love.
It’s a great mystery, this marriage thing. But a mystery which today, on my Beloved’s 50th birthday, I’m very thankful for.
I grew up in the world of “Gospel Meetings.” The denominations had revivals; we had gospel meetings.
Twice a year, we had preachers come in and speak every night for a week. The two who came most often to our church were Guy N. Woods, our unofficial pope, and Hugo McCord. I also remember Bobby Key, Bobby Dockery, and Walter Buchanan, three men whom I always liked to hear.
But we were hardcore. It wasn’t just our gospel meetings in Neosho; it was all the area congregations having their fall and spring meetings. We were always encouraged to “support XYZ church” in their gospel meeting. So we were known to travel to Hottel Springs, Seneca, or Joplin to support their revivals. I mean gospel meetings.
Here’s the funny thing: while I think there’s a part of that culture that is funny (not as in IDIOTIC funny but as in THAT’S MY FAMILY funny), those aren’t bad memories. While I probably wouldn’t have volunteered to go to worship every night for a week, there was a certain excitement about it. The Bible would be preached. Some wandering sinner might be saved. The song leaders were usually hyper-caffeinated. Afterward the middle-aged men I liked so much would gather outside for a smoke to talk about sports.
Now I’m wondering: what is it we’re doing now that one day will seem sort of funny to my kids, but that will be a fond memory as part of their faith formation?
In the mid-1980s, I held a gospel meeting in Aurora, Missouri. My song leader the last night of the meeting?
None other than the man in black himself. (Randy Harris, not Johnny Cash.)
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ACU students were buzzing with excitement because fall break is here. Guess what fall break is. Today. That’s right: it’s one day off. But you package it with the name “fall break,” and everyone is giddy with relief.
Great game last night for ACU, defeating the #4 team in the nation. They’re now 7-0.
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Wanted: Two tickets to Game Four! Here’s something I wrote on this blog three years ago:
My insular world of Neosho, Missouri protected me from much of what was happening in 1968. That fall, I entered 7th grade at Neosho Junior High School and started my downtown paper route after school.
So much was happening in the world that year. The Tet offensive was launched in January. Martin Luther King was assassinated in April, and Robert Kennedy in June. Only later did the impact of the My Lai Massacre begin to sink in as we heard news reports about Charlie Company and Lt. William Calley.
Occasionally I’d get to watch “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.” Goldie Hawn and Lilly Tomlin made quite an impression — in their own ways. Tiny Tim was singing, “Tip Toe Through the Tulips,” Mike Wallace was launching “60 Minutes” (Don’t you know some exec said, “It’ll never last”?), Peggy Fleming was skating, and Joe Namath was wearing a mink coat!
But in my world, it was Bob Gibson. My beloved Cardinals were headed back to the World Series (after their wins in 1964 and 1967), led by the greatest pitcher of his era. You may disagree — but, hey, start your own blog!
In 1968 Gibby won the National League MVP and the Cy Young. His ERA for the year was 1.12, with 268 strikeouts and 13 shutouts. Maybe most remarkable is that he completed 28 of his 34 starts. Can you imagine a pitcher today having half that many completed games? I still remember having my little transistor radio nearby on any day Gibson was pitching.
That summer my maternal grandmother and my cool, young aunt (who was probably 20ish at the time) took me to Chicago. We were visiting lots of relatives along the way, but I think my Grandma wanted to be there for the start of the Democratic Convention when her candidate, Robert Kennedy, would be nominated. After his assassination, she changed allegiance to Eugene McCarthy, and in August we headed for the Windy City, with Grandma preaching Democratic politics to anyone who would listen.
I’m sure what my aunt remembers most about the trip is the beginning of that stormy convention. (Will there ever be another quite like the 1968 Democratic Convention? And yes — I was there!) But what I remember is that these two women I loved took me to Wrigley Field. And of all luck, they were playing the Cardinals! I had so much fun, they took me back the next day.
In October, we (yes WE — I considered myself part of the team) were facing the Detroit Tigers. With the newspaper connection, we again scored tickets, this time to game 6.
I was in a bit of a predicament as a Cardinal supporter. Because the Cards went into game 5 with a 3-1 lead. If we won that game, we’d repeat as WS champs. But I wouldn’t get to see them in game 6. So I rooted for St. Louis, but didn’t mind much when they lost.
The rest is sad history for a Cardinal fan. We lost both the sixth and seventh games. But that’s not the really sad part. The saddest was that we wouldn’t be returning to a World Series until the 1980s.
In October the Cards lost the World Series and in November Richard Nixon was elected president. My grandma and I were both sad.