LAKE CHARLES, LA – December 31, 2010. The bishop of Eastwood United Pentecostal Church in Lake Charles passed away on Friday, December 31. Funeral arrangements have not yet been announced, but will be handled by Johnson Funeral Home.
Funeral arrangements for Pastor Murrell Ewing:
The wake will be Tuesday, Jan. 4th from 10 am – 2 pm at Eastwood.
The funeral will be Tuesday evening, Jan. 5th at 6:30 pm.
The burial will be on Wednesday Jan. 6th at 11am at Richie Cemetary in Moss Bluff
In lieu of flowers, please make donations to Murrell L. Ewing Mission Fund.
Donations can be sent to:
Eastwood Pentecostal Church
PO Box 16778
Lake Charles, La 70616
It is not as we had thought–this week of Christmas. Things have gone awry, and here, alone, we sit, Jerry and I.
The plan was this: On Monday Steve and Dearrah would drive up from San Diego. Chris and Joel and their families would meet here too, driving down from Carson City, Nevada. We would eat together, exchange gifts, they would spend the night, then leave on Tuesday.
In the middle of the week, Andrew and his family would drive up from San Diego, Rebecca and Nathaniel would also come, and on Friday, Michael and Melina would drive over from Lake Havasu City. We would exchange gifts and have our special dinner on Christmas day.
I was content with these plans (actually I want all the kids and the grandkids and the great-grandkids here for the holidays–every holiday–all at the same time, but that just can’t always happen, you understand. Too many other people involved who also need a turn at having the loved ones at their places on the holidays. I get that.) and after Brother Reece’s funeral on Thursday, at Costco and Stater Brothers, we again filled our car as we laid in groceries for the feasts and festivities we were expecting.
Trouble began. Storms. On Friday, it began raining in earnest, and to this moment here on Wednesday evening, it has not stopped. We didn’t even go to church on Sunday, for by then the ground was so saturated that news of dangerous mud and rock slides were numerous. On Sunday, alone, the skies saturated Crestline with a drenching that measured ten inches! Our annual precipitation is nearly 42 inches. In this storm alone, we have received more than 34 inches. It is a rare thing–a weather phenomenon. Lake Gregory has risen more than two feet.
We called Steve on Sunday afternoon to report what was going on, and talked with Chris and Joel who were trying to make up their minds about coming down at all. Massive snow had fallen in the mountains around them, and conditions were treacherous. By Monday, they had decided. Steve and Dearrah would stay in San Diego, and the boys would drive straight there, bypassing us here in Crestline. We understood the danger in traveling here and agreed with the plan. The boys started out together, Joel in a four-wheel-drive truck, and Chris in a passenger car with chained tires to cope with the icy and snowy highways. Conditions were so bad that Chris was only able to drive 15 miles an hour and was sliding all over the place. When a chain broke, he decided to turn back, so now he’s in Carson City alone with his wife and two babies. Joel made it to San Diego about midnight Monday.
Andrew was set to drive up today, as was Rebecca but we advised against it. Roads are closed, roads are flooded, the earth is saturated and boulders with no notice let loose and bound onto the roadways, houses in Highland have been swept away, a bridge broken, and it is still raining. Today we had thunder, lightening, snow, hail, sleet…and rain…and rain.
Forecasters say this storm should move out tonight, so we’re hoping our children can dash up here tomorrow and Friday. In the meantime, we’re all safe with little damage. Rebecca’s garage playroom has flooded ruining the carpet and the lower walls, but it could be much worse. Jerry and I are cozy, our house is dry, phone service and electricity haven’t floundered, we’ve plenty of wood for the fireplace…..and lots of food!
There are graphic pictures from the LA Times here showing flooding in southern California and more details from Fox News here. A hotel was evacuated in San Diego, and even Sea World was closed for one day because of rising water.
When I was young, I believe I enjoyed and appreciated them, but I’m quite sure that here in my older years I more intensely cherish my friends, recognize their importance, and have an understanding of how dear they are to me. A double break was a couple of weeks ago when we were with our friends Don and Abigail O’Keefe, returning to their home after visiting with our dying friend Bob Robison and his wife, Shirley, that we chanced on two more friends. It happened this way.
“What shall we do now?” was the question after we had lunch, and after we had lightly discussed the matter and had decided there wasn’t time to go to San Francisco. We were nearing the town of Benicia, situated on the shores of the bay when I saw a sign that indicated some historical significance. “Have you explored here?” I asked.
No, they hadn’t, so Don turned off the highway, maneuvered the quaint streets and parked in the historical district, a tree-lined section of this charming small town. Turns out that at one time in the early days of the settling of California Benicia was the state capitol. We paid the small admission price, and by passionate people were given a delightful tour of the facility and of the Victorian house next door.
As I rounded a corner in the garden area, I saw that strewn across the ancient brick sidewalk were small red balls that appeared to be some kind of fruit; a variety unfamiliar to me. “That’s the fruit from our Strawberry tree,” one of the guides told me when I inquired, and then I came to the wide area where leaves as large as two of my hands together were spread in a cool way on the cement.
It was as I was walking about in these gardens of the home that I began wishing our friends who live in Benicia could be with us. Had we known ahead we would be prowling about their town, we would have called them, I’m sure.
Back in the car we were heading down to the water, when Jerry said, “There’s Sister Fertado right now.” We looked, and sure enough she was striding down the street. Don made a u-turn and as we pulled up beside her, Abby rolled down the window. “Hi!” we said to our friend. Startled, she smiled widely, we explained what was going on, and could we get together for coffee or something, and could she recommend a place?
Her husband was walking on another street, she called him, and soon we were deep in conversation, seated together, coffee drinks in hand.
It was a multifaceted day; one of history, of friends, of flowers and leaves and a strawberry tree, of sorrow, of joy, of discovery, and of the happy chance meeting with the Fertados of Benicia.
When I was young, I believe I enjoyed and appreciated them, but I’m quite sure that here in my older years I more intensely cherish my friends, recognize their importance, and have an understanding of how dear they are to me.
It had been raining–the day last week when we went to San Francisco with our friends, Don and Abigail O’Keefe. When in their garage we had entered the car, we carried umbrellas with us, and I saw as we viewed the people walking the city streets, that some of them also had umbrellas in their grasp.
Others did not. I viewed him in the wet and dreary distance as we walked toward Pier 39, and saw that as person by person passed, he would extend his bare head (though covered amply with thick black hair) from the folds of his vivid bag, and in a voice that rang unexpectedly cultured and strong say, “Have you anything for an Irishman? An Irishman who is a veteran? Have you anything for a veteran?” A small patch of coins lay on the cold pavement before his huddle, except that I see in the picture the coins are not visible, so perhaps he swept them inside his tent when he withdrew his head, I’m not sure.
His immediate image was colorful, but in my mind the image was scribbled with gray smudges, for once this pitiful man had been a mother’s newborn baby, and now he was a sad victim of the street. I’ve heard the arguments–valid ones, I suppose–that here in America it really is never necessary for a person to live in this manner. There are numerous shelters and welfare programs. True enough. Yet the vision is a sad one. Whatever has caused this human being to live in such a way–whether it is his mindset, his laziness, his true disabilities, our wretched economy, his addictions–whatever, it is sad.
It is especially sad during this holiday season…for not far from this spot are spangled Christmas trees and smiling people with gift packages in their arms. They have dressed well for the day, now walk about the bustle of the twinkling shops, and then will scurry home to their warm places and to their beautiful families.
Carols sound joyfully over the splendid scene: Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…
In recent days and weeks, a dark ribbon of strangeness has circled our lives–Jerry’s and mine, (as it has some of yours) but then perhaps it is not strange, for now we are older, and is it not common among older folk that friends and relatives suffer and sicken, even to the point of death? But today came word of the fatal accident of a younger one, a grown child of a friend of ours, and while we were in the Bay Area last week, we learned of one of Jerry’s young colleagues who has announced to his church that cancer has invaded his lymph system. Yesterday drove the funeral procession of a minister who long years ago was a part of our church in Garden Grove; next Thursday is a funeral for a minister we have known for decades, and on Friday a memorial service will flare tribute to one of our dearest friends, also a minister. For years he and Jerry served on church organizational boards. They assisted with the production of innumerable conferences, seminars and evangelistic meetings. Our children attended youth camps at the same time, and more than once our families played and vacationed together.
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Too soon, it seems, our journey here is over. With notable exception we shrink from death, sparing our minds and emotions, guarding our health, obeying the doctor, swallowing our pill, hoping to push away the inevitable. It’s a strange thing, this reaction to death among believers, for do we not expect life after death to be beautiful, to be perfect, to be lived in the presence of God? Perhaps it is the going, the crossing, the wide river; and though we have faith in God and in His Word, there is decided mystery that envelops the traveler. “Aloneness” beyond comprehension is his wrap, his tightly pulled cloak. Contrary from birth and its silver promise is this leaden finality, the finality of death. Neither in the dying room, nor in hospital chambers are balloons or banners or celebration. Elated faces are not seen. “Death is never pretty,” one of my wise sons reminded me yesterday.
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Business. Is our business finished? Should we not live every day so that at the morning and at the evening we may ask The Question; Am I ready? Are my affairs in order? For be assured, there is no defeating death, there is no holding back the pale. No bloodied limb can stay his progress, no strength or brawn will prevail. With sure hand, he raps the door of both the pauper and of the king. Pray our leaving is with joy.
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There is a strange sort of separation and quiet as a person lies dying: I’ve been near a few who wrangled with death. Giftings are gone. Power has eluded the hand. As though encased in thickened glass, the leaving is done. The earthy is finished. The eternal is.
I write of crystal and china and napkin rings and apple pie; of candles and pictures and little boats on water and Tinkertoys and cold and heat; of accomplishment and the search for pleasure and, perhaps, of fulfillment and satisfaction. Trivia, all. Beautiful trivia, harmless trivia, yet, trivia.
…..for
…my friends die, and in a few days is the funeral. Others stand at the brink, and in short hours Jerry and I will go to his bed, where we will discreetly–or not discreetly– cry, and where we will hug and kiss…and where we will pray…for a safe passage…and for eternal security, for him and for us.
…one of my sons called this morning–the one who for long years foolishly bowed to the god of this world–called to say he would this morning be teaching his first Sunday school class, and how nervous he was, and how excited. He told again of functions he attended “before” and where on occasion, he gathers yet, and of his changed role, and of his transformed image. While there, he looks about. He smiles. He is no judge, except for gratitude.
…”how do you respond to the Word of God?” asked the preacher, where, here in Phoenix yesterday afternoon, we attended a church dedication. How indeed? How do I respond?
…sad, we are, Jerry and I, here in our hotel room this morning. For slashed as a silver sword through a dark world is the life of our friend, and then he is gone, and then, so are we.
“…It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.” Hebrews 9:27
I was twelve when she left us and went to Heaven, and I am just not sure how much of it she showed me before my mother died. I know my sweet stepmother, Betty Sue, taught me lots concerning the subject, though, and because it interests me I have read widely and watched other people, and now at this fine old age of mine, I’m quite sure I know how to properly set a table. I enjoy doing it, am attracted to beautiful dishes, napkins, and tablecloths–that sort of thing. Our family is so large and there are so many small children that when they’re all here, I rarely use my finest china and crystal for it must be hand-washed, the silver counted–all that–so we use one of my other sets of dishes, nevertheless, always setting the table nicely, nearly always using cloth napkins, napkin rings, place mats, sometimes chargers etc. When my children were small, I taught all of them how to properly set a table, and have helped with this kind of training with some of my grandchildren. Sometimes I’ll put one of them in charge of the table decorations, letting them prowl about in the cupboards where are figurines, candles and the like, giving them a little guidance, but letting them make the final decisions. There have been some sights, I assure you.
Sometimes, an occasion arises when it seems appropriate to use my finest things. Friday was such a time when our dear friends Larry and Pam Baker came up to Crestline to have dinner with us. From a high cupboard, I took down my Lenox china that Jerry bought for our 25th wedding anniversary, and from another cupboard my crystal stemware and goblets. I shinned up the silver flatware, and spent a long time selecting the table cloth, napkins, chargers, and napkins rings. I love doing this, and while I cooked the food and spent time polishing the crystal and laying the dishes, I thought of my friends who would be eating with us. I considered how precious they are, and how deserving of the best I could offer them.
Not all was formal, though, for these snowmen salt and pepper shakers fairly cried to be allowed at the table. How could I resist such little creatures?
From my viewpoint, it was a wonderful evening. We ate simple food, ending with apple pie made from apples Jerry and I had picked from our tree in the back. We drank coffee and laughed and talked of fishing and retirement and life and the Work of God; we spoke at length of both trivial and serious subjects. Seated on stools at the bar in the kitchen, Pam and I spoke of God and our families and softly cried together. Just before this fine couple left, in our living room, before the warm fire, we four prayed, asking God for His direction and for His help in our lives.
…and a couple more things about our Thanksgiving, and words from my heart, my aging heart, my young heart.
For one thing, on Saturday evening, we went downtown where the first ever Christmas boat parade was scheduled on Lake Gregory. The air was icy and blowing, and after we parked our vehicles and were walking down the hill to the water, we could see the tiny decorated boats gliding and turning, and we hurried, even as we pulled our caps more tightly about our ears and wrapped more snugly the scarves about our necks. It was too cold. Within minutes Shawnna, Brady and Ella had returned to the car. “Want hot chocolate?” Andrew asked the boys, for we had taken a thermos each of cocoa and coffee, and yes they did, and yes, did I, and we tried to warm up…but it was just too cold, and within half an hour, before the tree lighting and before Santa arrived, we retreated…now up the hill to our cars.
Though not before I had walked to the water’s edge and secured images of the little missiles that hours before had been simple boats but now cavorted on the chilly water as dragons spurting out steam, glittering trees, and sleighs with reindeer. The carolers were in place, and they would sing of the manger and the angels and of Baby Jesus born that long-ago night in Bethlehem…the night we look to and cherish and celebrate.
From deep in my heart I want to say this: Be with your family on the holidays if at all possible. Be with your friends. Sacrifice, if you must. Carve out hours to just sit. Sit with your parents and talk. Or not talk. For time slithers, golden and black simultaneously, and we are its inevitable victims. On one of the evenings as we sat about the great fire in our living room, Andrew’s phone beeped, and it was the message: Brother Royce Elms has died. Died? He who had been down at his church earlier in the day, he who had just made the trek to California from Texas for his brother Bernard’s anniversary service? That one? That Royce Elms? Yes.
And that night in our home in Crestline, Brother Elms became the touchstone, a striking-out-point of reminder of life and death and devotion. “We’ll always be here on the holidays, Mom,” Andrew said. “It’s the right thing. This is how it should be.”
Don’t misunderstand me, please. I realize there are two sets of parents and other relatives within a married couple’s life, and although I’d like to have all of mine at every holiday, I realize that is not possible…not fair. What is right, though, what is fair, is that we value life and its fleeting style.
