Besides, the young minister had invited me to attend. I
didn't care for Dr. Shirey's sermons. Not yet. But I did like
him, and no doubt his sermons would improve. After all, a
preacher is like wine. To warm the heart, each must age.
Young Dr. Shirey visited the nursing home every Tuesday
afternoon, talking and passing the time of day with each of us.
He always let me talk of my late husband Wallace, of our children
and grandchildren. Lovely youngsters, little Vic, Nan, Jodie. Dr.
Shirey seemed to understand why I refused to go live with any of
my children after my health failed so.
Sometimes the young preacher and I discussed religion. One
day I took up practically an hour of his time with the tales
about my preacher grandpa, Grandpa Dave. Dr. Shirey was intrigued
with the old man's ministry. And for some reason or other, he was
delighted to hear about Grandpa's double buggy and his matched
white mares, Martha and Mary. He said it made him wish he could
have been a country preacher back in horse-and-buggy times.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25