Hastle

When certain people exit this world, you feel as though a little bit of goodness and light has departed with them. Another one of our close friends in Suches passed away about a month ago, and I am finally pausing to reflect on his passing. He was the older brother of our friend who passed earlier in the year and possessed the same kindness and strength of character. When Dad was serving as pastor at the hill church, we would often go home with the Parkers for Sunday dinner. They lived in a small frame house in a comfortable nook between two hills. An old red barn sat diagonal to the house and cows dotted the land beyond. Florine could work as hard as any man, and Hastle plowed along with as much intensity as someone half his age. Their kitchen was small, but friendly, and the chicken and dumplings were simply beyond comparison. Florine's sweet tea was so thick that it almost had texture, and Hastle would drink fresh milk that came from one of their own cows. After dinner, the stories would begin. More often than not, Hastle would be telling life stories to Dad while Florine conversed with Mom about something completely different. Sitting in between the two, I could never decide who to direct my attention to. As a result, my ears were often tuned into both at one time.

Hastle was tall and lanky with a warm smile and soft-spoken manner. Age had been kind to him, and he looked well short of his 85 years. Until his first battle with cancer a few years ago, his last experience with doctors had been during his service in WWII. Hastle was incredibly friendly and treated me as an equal. I always felt that he regarded me as a friend in the same way he regarded my parents as friends. For a thirteen-year-old, that is monumental. Florine and I have exchanged a few letters over the past couple years, and she always begins them with the words, "Dear friend." I can't explain how much that means to me. I admire the longevity of their marriage and the hardships they endured together. I admire the faith that guided them through everything. Florine refuses to leave the farm, and I think of the family often.

Steady and warm-hearted, the world could stand more people like John H. Parker. He was buried with military honors. Driving back down the mountain after his death, I felt that a little bit of light had exited. A portion of the life that was...a way of caring for people had moved on into the next realm. Heaven must have been glad when he entered those gates.