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| Homemade Valentine Gift Idea! |
It's not too late.
Valentine's has challenged Don and me for years, especially after his mother died of a heart attack in the wee hours on Feb. 14, 2008. After years of single parenting on the day the world turns all things pink and red, I thought being married would change the ache I'd fought for years.
Continued grief blanketed the lovers holiday instead.
But while I'll confess I didn't have a card for my man yesterday, my dad delivered a stack of this months Hometown Advantage papers before night fall. And on page 11, a quarter page photo of Don's mom and dad accompany the testimony column I wrote this month.
In honor of my spouse and the love we share with or without pink and red shaped hearts, I'll post the story here:
"She was looking out the window of
Franklin Chevrolet in Statesboro, GA when he walked by. He passed with an air
of quiet confidence that intrigued the young beauty. The date was March 7,
1949.
Six months later, Fostine and James
married.
Young James had spent some time overseas
during the war and then a few years in college. But he’d come home to farm—like
his dad and grandpa.
In 1794, a 500 acre tract of land,
originally offered as a land grant after the War of Independence, was purchased
by a man named Levi Davis. That land was passed down for five generations, until
James entered the family business. His grandfather had more than doubled the
acreage of land that was originally deeded but split it among family members
after his death. The young farmer made it his life’s goal to piece the land
back together.
And he did--inch by inch and literally
row by row.
He farmed tobacco and peanuts while she raised
four young boys. They relied on the rain, sun, and God’s provision. Some years
they celebrated a plentiful harvest, others they were just thankful to have
survived. But James and Fostine saved, lived sensibly, and went to church on
Sunday. And eventually new tractors replaced older models and tobacco crops were
abandoned for cotton.
By the time a head on car collision sent
four of them to the hospital, James’ faith anchored him in the storm. Their
third son had been driving his parents and younger sibling home when a drunk driver
lost control at over 100 mph and crossed the median, hitting them head on.
Concerned the car might catch on fire,
James removed his wife and youngest son. But at first glance thought his older
son had died at the wheel. He broke his own hand working to free the trapped fifteen
year old, and heard a slight moan. Normally reserved, his tears flowed free as they
waited for emergency crews to arrive.
Fostine suffered severe chest and facial
injuries as well as a broken femur that kept her bedridden for months. But
family and community surrounded them. Broken bones healed. Her boys returned to
football and the crops continued to grow. James bought more land. Marriages led
to grandchildren. And years went by—fifty years.
When they gathered with family to
celebrate their golden anniversary, grandchildren had changed their names to “Big
D and Mastine”. Big D owned the property he had worked to amass. And Mastine
enjoyed their nine grandchildren; four that lived on the property and others
that visited from out of town.
And it was Mastine—the grandmother, who
painted, wrote, laughed with ease, and endured pain every day after the car
wreck—that surprised everyone most that day. She’d unburied a note she penned
shortly after Big D walked outside that window for the first time. She only saw
him from afar but overflowed with these words she read on their fiftieth
wedding anniversary:
“All
I can say is that I’ve found him. But what good does that do when he doesn’t
know I’ve found him? He doesn’t recognize me as his dream girl; still, I hope I
am. But what if I’m not? That’s what worries me.
Let
me tell you about him. He’s tall… tall like I like them, boys that is. About
6’2. He’s also big like I like them, boys of course, with slim hips and a way
of walking that leaves me weak. His hair is blond, also like I like them, not
too blond but just right. He’s fairly quiet, but back of that is everything I’ve
ever dreamed, sweetness that’s wonderful, tenderness that I can’t describe,
intelligence, not an over-supply but more than I have and that’s all I want.
That isn’t all but that should give you an idea of how beautiful and wonderful
this dream man of mine is, if only I was his dream girl. ‘If’… what a horrible
word.”
Mastine died of a heart attack very
early on the morning of February 14th, 2008—every bit his dream girl,
every scar a reminder of the journey they had traveled; their life well lived.
She fell in love in an instant and then lived a lifetime through sickness and
health, in sorrow and joy, till eternity called her home.
And I married the son Big D thought had
died in that wreck on her 77th birthday, Aug. 26, 2006. So when Don and I
celebrate through thick and thin, we celebrate their lasting heritage of love."
“Love bears all things, believes all
things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (I Cor. 13: 7)
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