One of the

earliest memories I have is sitting in my mother's lap as she read Bible

stories to me. From her, I learned of man's fall in the Garden of Eden,

of the Great Flood of Noah's day, and of David's victory over Goliath.

Because of her, there was never a day in my life that I didn't believe

in God.

I can't recall

when we began walking, as a family, to Golda Memorial Methodist Church,

which was high on the hill behind our house, but I must have been young.

For some reason, we stopped attending when I was eleven years old.

When I was

fifteen, I was invited to attend the youth group at another church a couple

of miles from our house and my church life started over. After a few months,

Mom and Dad began attending as well. The church, which, at the time, met

in a small, white, wooden country-style building, was over a hundred years

old. Under a new, dynamic pastor the congregation grew rapidly and plans

were made to build a new, modern facility.

I loved the

church, the youth group, and the pastor. But abruptly, some months before

the new building was finished, my parents stopped attending. I was permitted

to attend, however, and continued in my relationship with that congregation

until I left for the Marine Corps at age nineteen.

I never knew

the reason my parents quit going to church until years later. It seems

that, one evening, a layman, who was a leader in the church, visited my

dad at home and expressed a need. "Bill," the man reportedly

said to my father, "we need your help in building the church."

The man knew that Dad worked as an electrician inside the Tennessee Eastman

Corporation, and said, "We want you to wire the new church. It will

save us a lot of money." Dad then explained that he would be willing

to help but that he couldn't do all the electrical work since he was an

industrial electrician and wasn't licensed in the city as a commercial

electrician.

The story goes

that the lay leader, a big "muck-luck" (a Tennessee term for

someone high up in the pecking order) at the Eastman, threatened Dad with

the loss of his job if he didn't cooperate. Dad, never a man to be intimated,

bodily threw the man into the front yard. He kept his job but, with the

exception of weddings, funerals, and my ordination, from that day in the

mid-1960's, neither he nor Mom never set foot inside a church again.

Dad's faith

turned inward. He retained his belief in God but lost his faith in people,

especially church people. When I began to study for the ministry, he tried

to discourage me, warning that the people in the church would only bring

me heartache and pain. Even when I served as a pastor of a church less

than five miles from their home, Mom and Dad never came to hear me preach,

although they would, years later, profess to enjoy listening to my sermon

tapes.

For Mom, a

spiritual coldness began to set in. After several tragedies, including

the death of her mother, the Bakker/Swaggart scandals, and the lingering

death of my father, Mom quietly declared herself to be an atheist. I never

believed it, but she wouldn't discuss it with anybody.

Before Dad

died in 1996, he said to me, "Son, I've made peace with God and am

ready to go, but I'm worried that I will never see your mother again.

Promise me that you will help her return to God." I promised and,

a few weeks later, he died. Mom's spiritual coldness grew even worse and

no one was allowed to talk about God to her.

She became

bitter, angry, and unapproachable. She asked that I quit sending sermon

tapes. Even though many people were praying for her, I knew that I would

not be able to fulfill my promise.

About a year

or so ago, my oldest son, a police officer, was visiting my mother. As

they were sitting together on the sofa and looking through old photographs

and laughing, Jason suddenly began to cry, which is not a thing he does

easily. Shocked, Mom said, "Honey, what's wrong?"

Between sobs,

Jason said, "I'm afraid that if you die Mamaw, I'll never see you

again. I love you so much and I want to be able to see both you and Papaw

again."

Mom's spiritually

cold heart began to melt and she started to cry. They held on to each

other and, a little later, Jason led her through the Scriptures and my

mother repented of her sins and confessed Christ as her savior. She began

to read the Bible again and, although she was too ill to leave the house

and go to church, she asked to receive my sermon tapes.

On Tuesday

night a week ago, about 10:30 p.m., I performed "last rites"

for her. On Thursday morning, at 6:30 a.m. at Indian Path Hospital, serving

as my mother's priest, I administered the Sacrament of Holy Baptism and

brought Thelma Kathleen Luster Epps into covenant with the "one,

holy, catholic, and apostolic Church." On Monday at 4:40 a.m., with

my brother, Wayne (who promised her that she wouldn't be alone when she

died), and my youngest son, James, by her side, she passed quietly to

rejoin her husband and all those who "die in the Lord."

Last night,

I preached her funeral and, this morning, on a cold Friday on the last

day of February 2003, I will lay her beside my father in the frozen, snow-covered

ground on a hillside in East Tennessee and pray the final prayers. My

middle son, John, will take sand and mark her casket with the sign of

the cross as she "returns to the dust." Even now, as I shed

tears of joy and not sorrow, I marvel at the faithfulness, grace, and

mercy of a God, who said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you,

even until the end ..."

My mother abandoned

God and fled the Church, but he never abandoned her. And, in the end,

he sent the only person that she could have listened to, her first grandchild,

to take her by the hand, and bring her back home. Thanks be to God!

[Father David

Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church which meets

Sundays at 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. in new facilities on Ga. Highway 34 between

Newnan and Peachtree City. He may be contacted at [email protected].]