The Garfield Years

A picture someone took of us in the church sanctuary (November 1994)

Delivering a children's sermon ... so that the adults could understand my sermon!

Kung Fu and Ballet kept Paul and Rachel quite busy (1995 and after)

Easter - 1995

Family!

Here we are with Kathleen’s parents (and my nephew Jonathan)

... then Rachel with my mom.

In August of 1995, we were brought to Florida (near Kathleen's former 3-year residence in the state) for a job interview ... which like my other interviews seemed to go nowhere. The men liked me but the women wanted another female pastor to continue the feminine tradition of the church. That was just as well for me ... because the heat and humidity were even worse, far worse, than had been the case in Mobile.

MY FATHER DIES ON HIS 82nd BIRTHDAY (March 1996)

Growing up with my father

My recollections of my father when I was growing up was that he was gentle (though quite firm when Sis or I were disobedient, which thankfully was not often!), soft-spoken – and lofty. His adoration of my mother was total. I never heard a raised voice pass between them, much less anything that even remotely qualified as a disagreement. Father lived for mother first and then us kids next. That was the understood priority of things in our family. I never questioned it as a concept of what family life was ultimately all about.

My father's world was orderly – in keeping with his chemical engineering career. While his world was not distant, neither was it intimate, at least not in the way that at the time most people understood such a relationship should be. We did not play any sports together or do father-son events together. Indeed, the time he joined me at a weekend Boy Scout campout was so exceptional for him that I never forgot it.

Yet I understood through just the way we went at life on a daily basis how much my sister and I were loved by our parents. For instance, dinner times (unfailingly started at 5:30 on a daily basis) were very special, a time of family closeness, built especially around conversations that reached out into our world and brought that world to my sister and me in a special way. And Sundays were not only time of worship together at the Presbyterian Church in town, but also a very special Sunday meal afterwards (in which my father usually played the role of head chef!), and then an evening together again at church (Sis and myself at Westminster Fellowship youth meetings and my parents attending Mariners' Fellowship for adults at the same time) followed by some special event at home upon our return, my favorite being the making of sticky and deliciously syrupy popcorn balls!

And then there were our two-week trips together in our car, across different regions of the country (also Canada), which started up when I was in the 6th grade. They brought the family together in a kind of closeness that was deeply special for me. And they also left a deep impact on me, in particular in shaping my love of travel (my sister Gina responded the same way!)

My deep admiration for my father as I stepped into manhood

I always viewed my father as a very noble individual. But it was while I was in graduate school in Washington, DC, that this sense took on a concrete meaning. As already mentioned, my father had been tapped by Monsanto Chemical Company in the late 1950s to formulate and head up a new program in anti-pollution technology and corporate policy. For several years during this period he attended courses at Washington University in St. Louis to earn a Master's degree in the newly created field of Pollution Control. By the early 1960s he was helping Monsanto take the lead in this area – and was appointed by the Illinois Governor to the Illinois Pollution Control Board as their main technical member. By the mid-1960s, as the pollution problem came forward as a great national issue, my father found himself called to Washington for consultation on some pending piece of Congressional legislation. I was impressed.

Being part of the Washington D.C. scene myself in the 1960s, I understood the importance of Dad's appearances in Washington. Also it gave us a chance to get together occasionally for lunch and just talk about things. I realized that it was also my hope that one day I should be so important a person in our country that I too would be invited to Washington to impart my knowledge to the nation's policy makers. In this, Dad was clearly my role model – very much so.

Our relationship as I myself became a professional

I would say that this then pretty much remained the nature of my relationship with my father during my twenties and thirties – even into my early and mid-forties

He and Mom were transferred to Belgium in early 1977 (living in Belgium was one thing in which my parents followed my lead however!) – and for the next few years they settled comfortably into Belgian life. My dad’s job was to help the Belgian government clear up the Antwerp harbor, and the Schelde River that flowed (via a tiny corner of the neighboring Netherlands) to the North Atlantic.   The Dutch would not let the Belgians expand their vital harbor at Antwerp without first making the Schelde River "drink-water pure." That was my father's responsibility: to help the Belgians advance towards that goal.

And as mentioned earlier, their home outside Antwerp served as a useful gathering point for Martha and me – and our friends that traveled with us in Europe during those several summers. My parents were gracious and generous hosts. They were, as always, awesome.

From Belgium my father eventually took his retirement. And then he and Mom traveled around the world on their way back to the States – taking an entire year to do so! Again – awesome. And once back in the States they remained always on the move. Most of the time I had no good idea of where they were located: in Illinois, in Arizona (where they had two more homes, one in Phoenix and one in Flagstaff), or off somewhere in the U.S. or the world.

We would try to get together at Christmas and maybe one other time during the year – though never more than a few days with each visit. My parents would usually combine a visit to Alabama and later to New Jersey to see me and my family with a similar visit with some of the many friends they had made over the years. It seems that we got no particular priority in the scheme of things – no more nor no less time was spent with us than with any of the many other people they would visit on such a swing through the region.

The later years of our relationship

Our relationship continued on its usual path during the years when I was installed as a pastor in Garfield and my parents were in their later 70s.

However, I began to realize that my father was taking a deep interest in a bible-study group in Arizona that he had put together with some other men, and this group was becoming of increasing importance to him. This was sort of a new thing in the Hodges family. I had grown up with a "reasoned faith," not a biblical faith. It seemed intriguing now to see my father in his later years starting to take a deep interest in this matter. It showed up wonderfully in the discussions we now found ourselves having about the Christian faith – and what it meant at a deeper level than just good moral common sense.

This was the first time in my life that Dad and I had really ever talked about personal things (my mom and dad had always left personal things for me and my sister to work out on our own.) This was the first time that he truly seemed interested in what I had to contribute. He had always been proud of my work – but not until late did he take an active interest in the details of my work.

His declining health

My father had always been the one with this or that minor health problem – even from the days of my youth. But Dad never complained about anything. Actually however, he was in pretty good shape despite the "this-or-thats" which came on from time to time and which he managed to get past amazingly quietly.

As he entered his eighties he was still going strong – though not as strong as Mom, who though almost two years older than him showed absolutely no signs of aging (she would die some fifteen years later of no particular cause, just days short of her 99th birthday). They were still going to Europe each summer for a couple of months at a time, each living out of a small suitcase that they toted behind them as they trouped to England, Belgium, Scandinavia, Italy, Poland, Russia, Finland (they had a strong preference for northern Europe, though also a longstanding love affair with Italy). Mom could outwalk many people thirty years her junior. Dad, I suspect, had a bit of a time keeping up with her. But he would do anything for her – even keep up as best he could. But the "this-and-thats" of his health were coming on a bit faster and I knew he was slowing down a bit.

In early February of 1996 (on my parents' wedding anniversary) Dad went into the hospital because of colon blockage – thinking it would be a same-day-surgery matter (he had undergone this procedure some years earlier). But the surgery didn't seem to correct the blockage. So about a week later the surgical team went back to redo the operation. This too did not seem to improve matters any – but left my father extremely weakened. He was having an even more difficult time recovering. Weeks went by and he was still in the hospital.

It was now March and my sister and I were getting worried about his failure to recover. I made up my mind to fly out to Arizona to try to cheer him up – though Sis and I were afraid that my unexplained arrival might cause him alarm. But it just so happened that his 82nd birthday was coming up on the 18th, so it was decided that this would be a sufficiently appropriate reason for me to make my way out to Tempe.

When I arrived a few days before his birthday I was surprised that it was my sister who met me at the airport, because she was not due to arrive from California until the following day. She greeted me with the news that even as we spoke the doctors were attempting a third operation on my father. I knew that this was sort of an all or nothing shot. The doctor thought that a third try might work – though it might also leave him so debilitated that he would not long survive the attempt. All Friday night I prayed for him – knowing as certainly as an experienced pastor knows how these things can go. On Saturday he was awake, though weak and unable to speak. Sunday by midday he seemed to be gathering strength, better than the doctor had seen in a long time (though from my point of view he was still extremely weak). But late in the afternoon his condition worsened. That night I expected a call from the hospital. But on Monday, his birthday, we awoke to the news that things were about the same – which actually was not good news.

By noon the doctors were trying various procedures to keep his blood pressure from dropping away to nothing. I knew that my Father's body was trying to shut down. Sadly the medication only seemed to be convulsing my father, giving him a frenzied aspect that deeply tormented me. By noon the main doctor was advising that we stop the procedures and let things take whatever course they would by nature. I called my sister, who late the day before had returned to work in California, to ask her what her thoughts on the matter were. She was very close to Dad – and it was very hard for her to say the words. But she knew it had to be. She had in fact already said her goodbyes the day before. So anyway, we gave the doctors the go-ahead to disconnect Dad from all the attachments.

His death (his 82nd birthday)

A gentle peace came over Dad – who could communicate only with his eyes. For about an hour Mom and I sat with him in this quiet calm. I read from the Psalms. But finally I admitted to being exhausted. I needed to get a little rest, even for just a half hour. Their house was only a block away from the hospital so I decided I would walk back. But I was home only for a few minutes when I got a call from Mom, asking me simply to return to the hospital. I asked no questions. I knew what that meant.

When I walked into the room I found that I had the strangest disinterest in his body, which now just seemed like something thrown aside. Instead my thoughts rose up – high above me. Where are you Dad? Are you with God? Are you still with us in this room, spiritually at least?

Since I could not bring myself to approach his body, I asked a nurse to come in and cover my father. She did not understand what I was asking for and just sort of tucked him in with a blanket. I just let the matter drop. But I really did not want my thoughts about my father distracted by something (a body) that to me clearly had no further connection to my father who now lived on in eternity.

This was my first chance to really come face to face not just with my well thought through theology on death – but my actual gut deep response to the death of someone as dear to me as my father. I now knew that I really did believe what I had been encouraging others to believe. I knew that I really did believe in that after-life, that spiritual state of being in God's company. It was no longer an abstract theological matter for me, for it involved someone that I loved deeply.

The memorial service

There was a strange finality about my father's earthly existence as my mother and I left the hospital. There would be no funeral – for Dad's body had been left to the hospital for whatever uses med students studying there would have for it. That was fine with me.

I realize that funerals are not for the deceased – who rest in God's care – but are for the living, to help them cope with death as they are best able. To me all the emotions poured out over a body lying in a coffin have long seem misplaced. I understand that most people need to express their grief through all these (very expensive) shows of tribute that go with the typical funeral service. But to me personally, a death is a time for remembering how God gives life and takes it away – that all life comes from God and all life ultimately returns to him. Death is a time for remembering that earthly life is but a portion (a small portion at that) of the larger handling of our eternal being by God.

A funeral is to me an opportunity for people to say their goodbyes, to give account of their continuing love for the one who died, to find a way of saying thanks for the part that the beloved played in their lives, to give honor as honor is due to the life and now the memory of the beloved. But it's also a time to remind people of the basics of human existence – and of the wonder and mystery of how that existence, through our faith in Jesus, ends in such a sublime fellowship with God.

But you do not need the presence of a body to do any of that. Thus it was that instead of a funeral we had a memorial service. There was a huge turnout of the retirement community and the church that Mom and Dad belonged to. The choir sang, many, many people offered testimonies declaring how my Dad had made such a huge difference to their lives. My sister, who returned to Arizona for the service, read a poem she wrote – and I read from the Psalms. And thus it came to a conclusion.

Some enduring thoughts

I still feel the "presence" of my father. And sensing that presence, I have felt a new kind of kinship with a wider realm of the departed saints. I feel connected with greater things – much, much more than I had previously. It's hard to describe what this really is all about. It's just something that's there, just like my father is "there." Anyway, I now view death not as the great divider – but as the great translator of our being.


October 1995 ... the last pictures I have of my father
(Paul is taking great delight in having broken Elizabeth's stick ... and making her cry!).

Life goes on in Garfield

Christmas - 1996 Just my mom to visit us

But my mom got to see our Christmas story re-enacted in church –
with Elizabeth serving as Mary!

Easter 1997

MINISTRY TO THE (POLISH) HOMELESS

Matthew (September 1996)

In late September a new area of ministry opened up for me in Garfield. After my father's death in the spring, my mother decided to sell our Collinsville home (the one I had grown up in) in order to live permanently in Phoenix. Thus it was that in late September I headed out to Collinsville to pick up my boyhood furniture and som other household items. My first morning back in Garfield, as I was setting out the trash for pickup, Kathleen spoke up: "Some of the parishioners are complaining about couch cushions lying at the bottom of an unused stairwell. Obviously someone has been sleeping there. There's probably a big mess to clean up."

Indeed, I knew that alcoholics used our facilities regularly to sleep off a drunk – for I was forever cleaning out empty wine and vodka bottles from under the hedges around the church, and nasty clothes which they constantly left for me to get rid of. (I was not only the pastor, I was also the secretary and the sexton or janitor at the church!)

But as I came up on the scene, I was more than a little surprised to find someone still sleeping on the cushions. As I gazed down upon this person, with the slight bite of a cool late September wind nipping at me, I had but one thought. This can't be. This person will never make it through the winter if he has to live like this. Every winter we would lose 2 or 3 (Polish) homeless along the Passaic River (two blocks away) where they huddled among the trees, weeds and trash trying to survive. I knew that the police kept close watch on the abandoned chemical plants along the river – so they didn't even have that as a refuge.

Now I didn't make any kind of decision about "saving" the homeless of Garfield. Years of working at the Hanover Street Ministry with Trenton's homeless showed me the folly of thinking that I could do anything like that. But I made the decision on the spot to do something – even just a little something – to help out. I talked a little bit with the man, Matthew, though with his lack of English and mine of Polish, communication was elemental.

The beginning of the "Commerce Street Ministry"

I talked with Session about my desire to open up Fellowship Hall three mornings a week: Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings, from about 7 to 9 for coffee, sandwiches and Bible study (the Hanover Street formula). The response was very affirmative.

I then put the word out through the various N.A. (Narcotics Anonymous) and A.A. groups that met in our church (we housed 6 such meetings) – one of which was Polish. In fact the Polish group was very excited about the idea, some of the people even putting in money toward the purchase of food/coffee supplies. I made up neon green posters announcing in both English and Polish the start up of the "Commerce Street Ministry" (named for one of the corner streets where the church was located) effective October 1 – and posted them wherever I felt that they might catch the eye of the drifting homeless population.

Startup was very slow. Only a few would show up – sometimes none at all during the first month. But by the end of October, with the weather turning cooler, the numbers began to grow (slowly) – four or five, sometimes six, would come in. I found that oatmeal and raisin cereal was much more popular with them than peanut butter (which they disliked) and jelly sandwiches, so I switched my breakfast offering accordingly. I covered expenses through receipts for funerals (I was rather popular with a number of funeral homes in town!) which I otherwise would have turned over to the church. In fact I did a number of funerals in December so that I was able to buy about a dozen pairs of snow boots to give out – and about a dozen Polish Bibles for us to use in our study.

People I was working with in the Food Pantry turned out to be supporters of the ministry. The director of the Food Pantry had a thousand dollars' worth of grocery certificates to give out, and so passed about $150 worth on to me. Richard (our Sunday School Director – and what some affectionately termed our "Associate Pastor," though he was only a lay leader) and I used that money for Christmas packages of socks, razors, shaving cream, tooth brushes and paste, and candy bars to give out to the guys (mostly about 20 or so males, and a few women from time to time).

We also served a huge Thanksgiving meal at the ministry on Thanksgiving Day, compliments of the mayor, Louis, who purchased the turkeys, and Adam, a young Albanian Muslim restaurant owner in town who wanted to show his thanks to his adoptive country and to God by preparing the meals. We prepared for 20, with 15 showing up – and had a marvelously good time (one showed up later that evening and had a meal with our family!)

I also put on a Christmas meal on Christmas Day, though only a handful of guys showed up (I was told the rest were still sleeping off a major Christmas Eve drunk).

The shoes didn't last too long – but got traded for drinks, though I noticed that there was some shoe trading around within the group as well! One of my guys came out to our 11:00 p.m. Christmas eve service tipsy – and shoeless (even sockless). I was out of shoes, and very busy trying to get the candlelight service ready. But an elderly parishioner dashed back to his home and came up with a pair for the man. Our Polish guy worshiped with us that night in tears.

A couple of them did freeze to death along the river – though none of them happened to be from any that I knew (though the guys knew them well). One was a Polish woman in her 30s.

The 20 or so I knew personally didn't always come out every morning we were open, though some were regulars. During the height of winter (though thankfully it was a quite mild winter by comparison to most) daily attendance averaged around 8 to 10, sometimes more, sometimes less. Then as winter passed and the spring came on (though colder than usual – just as the winter was warmer than usual) we dropped back to about 5 or 6 in attendance. Some were getting jobs, as construction work picked back up for the spring (though there was relatively little building going on in this overbuilt part of the world).

The ministry matures

I always looked forward to Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings. I didn't have any special agenda: I set out the coffee and fixed the oatmeal – no big deals. And when we seemed settled, we opened up the Bibles, someone read in Polish and, if I had in attendance one of my guys who spoke a little bit of English and could translate for me, I gave them a very brief commentary on the text. We passed out lots of clothing (again, compliments of my friends at the Food Pantry who constantly brought around clothing for me to give out) and otherwise just relaxed. I tried to give them this "hassle free" time to get their mornings started – and they obviously appreciated it.

I couldn't do much to help them out about sleeping arrangements. There were so many legal problems related to opening up one or another of the abandoned buildings in town that what I had hoped would prove to be a simple solution just did not come to pass. I myself had an old metal storage shed in our back yard in which two or three spent the nights staying out of the wind and away from the police. But it was hardly an adequate solution – either for them or my children, who keep a lot of their things in there.

But my family from the very beginning understood the seriousness of their plight – and my children were more than happy to help these people out even in their own little way of letting them sleep in their shed.

Shutting down the ministry

When the spring came and numbers dropped off in participation, I realized that my work was coming to a close: we had gotten them through the worst of the winter that had so alarmed me. By June participation was so small and irregular that I finally called off the ministry until the fall.

But by that fall, my tenure in Garfield was obviously coming to a close and I just couldn't see getting something restarted that I was soon going to have to abandon. Nonetheless, several of the men from the church (myself included) did prepare a huge Thanksgiving meal to which about a dozen of the old Polish street group came. But by that time I knew when and where I would be moving on to. But at least it gave me a chance to say my goodbyes to them.

CLOSING THE GARFIELD CALL (August-December 1997)

We finally stem the financial outflow (1994)

From a very low point for me in 1992-1993, things seemed to have been turning around in 1994. In May of that year we held a very intensive stewardship campaign to reverse the steady drain on the church's reserves ($1,000 month since the day of my arrival in late 1990). The reserves were down to almost zero and something dramatic had to be done. So we did the dramatic. We challenged the church members to become tithers. The appeal fell on totally deaf ears from the "families," who had not/would not increase their giving even a penny in all the years I was in Garfield, even though it was they that were always so critical about the financial condition of the church. But the appeal did touch the hearts of the more evangelical members – and almost all of them pushed forward in their giving, a number of families stepping up to the 10% tithe mark. As a result of this change in the giving pattern, we finally were able to balance our costs with our income, something that hadn't been achieved apparently in 15 or 20 years.

But: the departures of a number of our evangelical families

But the new spirit of giving was also a sign of the new sense of health among the "newer" members, the evangelicals. The down side of this new spirit was the readiness of these newer members to push on with their lives – meaning, leaving Garfield for greener pastures. That fall one of the mainstays of the evangelical circle and one of our biggest tithers, announced that he and his family would be moving back to Iowa sometime before Christmas. This would be a real blow to us for this was a family with young children, the husband was a member of Session and a regular in our youth ministry and prison ministry.

Soon thereafter came another announcement, again from a family with youth, the husband serving on Session, and both husband and wife active in our prison ministry and the Tres Dias renewal movement – and very generous givers. They would be moving about an hour west of Garfield to an area recently brought under development.

Both of these couples I had helped to bring back from the brink of divorce. And now with their lives patched up, they were ready to move on.

Then the following year (1995) another older, retired couple announced that they would be moving to Pennsylvania where they had bought a house.

This was one of the old "families," but a couple that, however, had been very strong supporters of my ministry ... both very active in the prison ministry, Session and prayer circle. The husband had been something of a spiritual director for me – a real help during the darkest hours of my ministry in Garfield. This couple was also very lavish in their financial support of the Garfield ministry, but thankfully would continue to be so, even from a distance, for the rest of my days in Garfield.

Things start to cave in

At this point you could feel our spirits sag. Thankfully we had not lost all our tithers, and some that moved away continued to send money to support the ministry. But definitely the wind was taken out of our sails just as we were beginning to make some headway. It wasn't just the financial loss we were feeling, though certainly that was a big piece. But the departure of these particular individuals took the very heart out of our evangelical fellowship.

In 1996 we had to appeal to Presbytery for financial support. My pension/health plan had not been paid in a while. We were meeting our other expenses. But I could not afford to jeopardize my standing with the Board of Pensions (which also paid for our medical insurance).

In early 1997 we had to go to Presbytery again, for an additional $5,000. Each time we begged for support we had to go before the Presbytery's Committee on Ministry for our appeal. This time they announced that this would be the last of the money they would be giving us. Furthermore, they recommended that the church admit that it could no longer afford to pay a full time pastor, and downscale my call to a half time position. We told them that we still hoped for miracles.

From February through June or July we managed to barely keep up with our financial obligations. But that summer, we had to face up to the fact that we all were getting stretched to the limit. What was left of the evangelicals could not go any further in covering the shortfall. The only recourse left was to reclassify my status to half time. That would cover the church's basic costs and leave the church with a little bit to maneuver on. We again called on the Committee on Ministry and told them we were ready to make the shift. We were throwing in the towel.

Now what are the Hodges to do?

Of course there was no thought as to what the Hodges family was supposed to do about having its income cut in half (that amazingly never came up in the discussions about the church's situation). There was no talk of how we might make up the difference financially for the running of our household. That was because there was no such plan. No one had any idea at all as to how that could be done.

In any case in August of 1997 I underwent a halving of my cash salary (though we still had full use of the manse). I was now "half time" though nothing really changed with respect to my pastoral duties – which had never been that heavy anyway in such a small church.

Something that briefly looked hopeful as a salary supplement was a halftime position as new chaplain at nearby Bloomfield College. But as I followed discussions during the summer of 1997 about the possibility of such a position actually opening up, I realized that nothing was going to happen soon on that issue. The position had not been agreed on by the College administration, and there was not enough money available to pay for such a position even if it should get approved in the next year or two.

In the meantime, love gifts started coming in from various sources. One church in the Presbytery gave me a $1000 check to help out. My old buddy Courtney, back in Indiana, sent along $500. Some of the members of the church started giving us supplemental money. We found that by cutting back on everything to just the essentials, we could get by. In fact, oddly enough, we started putting a bit into savings – for when the money didn't come in like that. But that moment never arrived.   Like Elijah with his little jar of oil, we always seemed to have just enough to survive, but little more than that.

While all this was going on, I found myself very busy during August, September and October with my studies, and with various seminars I was sponsoring on science and theology.

John is born (September 21, 1997).

Meanwhile, while all this chaos was deepening, another member was added to the Hodges family roster.

Our approximate 2 year spacing between our children looked at one point as if it were going to be repeated yet another time – except that toward the end of the second month of pregnancy Kathleen sensed that something was not developing right, and a sonogram confirmed it. Though her body had been triggered for a pregnancy, the egg had not really developed.

Another two years went by and again Kathleen found that she was pregnant. We were much more watchful this time – until sonograms announced that everything was proceeding quite normally. It was good to see Kathleen pregnant again; she seemed like such a living symbol of life and its unbounded hope. But anyway, this would be our fourth. This would be quite enough for the Hodges.

Kathleen woke up on a bright Sunday morning sensing that the time was close. Sunday morning – hmmm! I was more concerned at this point at getting a neighbor over to the house to take care of the children so that we could get away to the hospital than I was about what would happen to Sunday worship arrangements. In any case, by the time we had the kids settled at home and Kathleen in the car with all her gear, it was approaching 9:00 a.m. As we backed out of the driveway, the first of the Sunday School teachers were arriving. We waved goodbye to them as they looked on in bewilderment!!!

The hospital was about 20 minutes away (Valley Hospital in Ridgewood, where Paul and Elizabeth were born) and we arrived and were quickly escorted to a delivery room. By this time, it was noted on her medical records that Kathleen was a fast deliverer. At around 10:00 we were settled in. The doctor arrived – a young woman who was a new member of Kathleen's obstetrics group – and things indeed moved quickly.

At 11:41 a.m. John Miles Hodges was born, 8 lbs, 11 ozs. He was very responsive and had excellent color. But there was something in the way he was breathing that gave caution to the doctors, so he was put in infant-ICU for observation. But two days later he went home with Kathleen, adjudged to be in tip-top condition.

He was built with a bigger frame than Rachel and Paul had been at birth – more like his sister Elizabeth. Indeed, he would soon find himself drawing the nickname "Bubba" from an amazing number of people who just instinctively wanted to assign him that title.   So did I.   Kathleen didn't like the name – but it kept popping up with people (but he soon would become quite lean in physique!).

Once again Rachel had a new doll to play with – though now at 8 years of age she could actually be of real use with her domestic instincts. Paul was pleased he had a brother to play with – though it would be quite some time before he could do so. I wondered as I watched Paul's excitement if the six years difference would prove to be too much. Elizabeth rather looked on John as the pet she had always wanted. We had to watch her, for she was a bit rough with the baby – having learned to play tough with an older sister and brother.

Sadly, my father had not lived long enough to see his 4th grandchild, John,
born the next year – September 1997 (my sister Gina never had children).

Christmas 1997 - our last in Garfield

My Mom is 85 at this point ... and looking quite good!

My mom with John (note the boxes behind the couch / The girls' last Christmas pageant

Go on to the next section: Interim Pastoring

Miles H. Hodges

THE GARFIELD YEARS January 1991 to December 1997

THE GARFIELD YEARS

January 1991 to
December 1997