Four Winds

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=168 BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="002a11c3.png"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Home Page"><U>HOME</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id4.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Book Page"><U>BOOKS   </U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id6.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Articles"><U>ARTICLES</U></A></div> <bR> <div>  <A HREF="id7.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Tapes"><U>TAPES</U></A>   </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id8.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Spiritual Warfare/Occult "><U>SPIRITUAL WARFARE, OCCULT   </U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id77.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Sexual Abuse Issues"><U>SEXUAL ABUSE ISSUES</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id11.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Exposing the Darkness Seminar"><U>***EXPOSING THE DARKNESS SEMINAR***</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="mailto:greid@elp.rr.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="mailto:greid@elp.rr.com"><U> <img src="HTMLobj-824/aniGif.gif" border="0" align="bottom" width="67" height="50">  </U></A></div> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <bR> <div> <B><IMG SRC="37317cd0.jpg" border=0 width="279" height="205" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> <B>Chapter Two</B></div> <div> <B>The House of the Four Winds</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>I'd been a Christian for 8 months. I got dragged to a little country church in Topanga Canyon, CA by my two closest friends, Don & Lucy. I didn't care for church.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>    After 3 Sundays, I changed my mind.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Walking to my car one Sunday, I saw a little white-haired lady in an old Buick about to leave. I'd seen her in church but we hadn't met. She smiled at me and said hello, and it was love at first sight. She had big bushy brown eyebrows over the clearest blue eyes I'd ever seen. Not knowing why an old lady would say hi to a zit-faced 16 year old kid like me, I was compelled to talk to her. She said her name was Doris. I saw Jesus in her.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Doris invited me and my friends to her house after church. We readily went.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Her home had a gate with the name "House of the 4 winds" over it. It was nestled on top of a hill in the midst of pine, eucalyptus and sycamore trees. The wooden gate opened into a garden with a fountain and heady flowers of all kinds. And old wooden staircase led into her small upstairs kitchen. We walked to her living room with a window view of the canyon. It was a simple home with a fireplace and lots of knick knacks on shelves.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     She brought in a tray of snacks - triscuits and wheat thins - (I eat them still) - and strawberry cooler and apple juice. </B></div> <div> <B>    </B></div> <div> <B> I was HOME. I can't explain it. We talked to Doris like she was an old friend. And then, we listened. From her heart came wisdom, encouragement, insight, but mostly, love - love for Jesus, and for us. I was in the presence of the Lord.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     That one visit became many, as we often made the upward drive to the House of the Four Winds. Always, there were the snacks - always, the sense of home, of love, of unconditional acceptance.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     For 5 years, we spent Christmas Eve with Doris, decorating her tiny tree and exchanging gifts. Doris had never married, and we became her kids. Don dropped away, but Lucy and I were faithful, then I dragged other friends along too, but a little core family remained - me, Lucy, Kris, Paul and my closest friend, Craig. She loved us all - fiercely and devotedly. </B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     On our second Christmas together, I had painted a beach scene with the words to Doris' favorite song on it. It wasn't very good, really, in fact it was awful. But tears came to her eyes when she unwrapped it, softly oohing and aahing and she whispered, "Greg, it's beautiful!" I realize now, that's how she saw each of us. I wasn't anything near handsome, and I thought I was ugly and unwanted, a kid with a ton of problems no one could care about. But she thought I was beautiful. How could she? I couldn't understand, but I was so hungry to be loved, I took every bit of love she gave me.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I was shocked on my next visit to see that she had put that awful picture right next to her fireplace for all to see.</B></div> <div> <B>     </B></div> <div> <B>     I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me, and I did. She gave her reply, which was to be her standard response to praise of any kind: "I don't deserve it, Mister, but I thank you for it."</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     The next Christmas, she presented us with specially made enamel-on-copper medallions with a crown over a cross. "The cross is our earthly sufferings", she explained. "The crown is our reward." Each had 3 different colors, with one color to match all the others. A bond between us - a covenant of love. She wrote a note to go with my blue-orange cross: "The blue is for His ocean, and the waves on my wall." I loved her more with each visit, each loving prayer and gentle hug. She became "mom" to us all.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Time passed, and I learned of her life. Born in Burk Burnett Texas, she was raised in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. She accepted Jesus as a child and by her teens was teaching a young boys' Sunday School class. She didn't marry, choosing rather to care for her aging parents till they died. She moved to California in the 50's and worked as a Jeweler's bookkeeper. Her house burned to the ground in 1962. She rebuilt, and there she stayed. She was a faithful church member through 3 pastors. Her simple life was work, church, reading, praying and loving her Savior, and caring for kids like me.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     At 19, I was off to Bible School. Doris was faithful to write. I filled my letters with questions and troubles, and her letters were filled with wisdom and love. "Remember", she wrote me during one painful time, "Without the rocks, the brook would lose its song." It was simple things like that got me through. I sent her 5 smooth Texas rocks to let her know I understood.</B></div> <div> <B>    </B></div> <div> <B>      We were at Doris' on Christmas Eve on my school break - just Lucy, Kris, Craig, Paul and I. After gifts were exchanged, and we decorated her little tree, she carefully - solemnly - took down a tray with bread and a silver cup with grape juice. "You are my son, and now you're a man of God", she said to me. "Will you serve communion?" Of all the gifts I'd ever known, this moment stood above them all.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     It was to be our last Christmas together.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I moved to El Paso the next year. Doris' letters became few. She wrote to say she was moving to Arizona with a young couple from church who had "adopted" her. I was jealous, but only a little; now 85, she needed a real family to be with her.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     The next Christmas, I was puzzled not to have a card from Doris. I wrote again. "Is everything OK?"</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     February 9th, I got a letter from Valjean and Faye, the couple she moved to Arizona with. "We hate to write with bad news, but Doris has cancer and has 6 months to live. She wants to see the country and we're planning a trip. So please make plans to come and see her if you can. We love you."</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I did not believe.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I called Valjean and Faye that evening. "Greg", Faye said, her voice trembling, "Doris has taken a bad turn. She may not last the week. Can you come? "I'll be there tomorrow", I said.</B></div> <div> <B>    </B></div> <div> <B>      Doris' other "boy" and my closest friend, Craig, was living with me in El Paso. When he came home from work, I was sitting in a chair holding the letter, my eyes red. "What's up?", he said, and I handed him the letter. I then told him the rest. We cried for hours, until there were no tears left.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I called Paul and Lucy. They were both in shock. They asked me to go for them too, and let them know when her time came. Craig, too, was unable to go. I left the next day for the long and sad trip to Prescott, Arizona to be by Doris' side. </B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     "Greg", Valjean warned, "You won't recognize her. Be prepared." I walked into the room they had prepared for her final days at home. Once 140 pounds, she was now just a wisp, a crackling rice paper shell with a dimly flickering spirit inside. She was in a drug coma. The bone cancer was so bad she required double morphine round the clock.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I stood above her, stroking her hair. She came to. "It's Greg, Mom. I'm here. I love you." Eyes flickered recognition. An attempted,  painful smile. "I love you." Then she slipped off to sleep once more.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Back in her trailer alone that night, I wrote half a song I knew would be for her homegoing. "Let's not say goodbye...let's not say farewell...let's just say see you in the morning." I couldn't finish it. The words and music would not come.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I dreamed that night. I was on an open plain, dark as night. It was an eternity world, a passage between death and life and I knew it. Doris came up to me. She gently kissed my cheek, and she was gone. I knew then she would not recover. She was going home.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     The next day, Faye and I went to her room and sang some of her favorite hymns. When I sang "In the Garden", she came out of the coma, and lifted her stick-thin frail arms in worship, crying, smiling. "Are you ready to go home, Doris?", Faye asked. "OH, YES!", Doris said in a clear, almost little-girl excited voice. "I love you, Mom", I said and kissed her." "I love you too", she said, and faded back to sleep.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Faye and I went to the kitchen, sat and began to talk. Suddenly, instinctively, we both got up and ran to her room, just as Doris took her last breath. First, disbelief - then, the tears. We thanked Jesus for loaning her to us...that the pain was over...that she was Home.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     It was Valentine's day - the day her Sweetheart came for her, and I saw Him sweep her into His arms, laughing, dancing, as they went upward and faded away.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I cried when they put her body in the ambulance. I was numb the rest of the day as we arranged her service.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I called Paul that night. I knew it devastated him, and he felt guilt, guilt that he had disappointed her. But he just said, "Thanks for being there for me." When Lucy answered my call, I said "It's Greg, Lucy," and she knew and began weeping. "She's home, Greg! No more pain! Oh, the memories, the memories!"</B></div> <div> <B>    </B></div> <div> <B> I finished the song that night, and on my 22nd birthday stood by her still body and sang:</B></div> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <B>     You always told me, there's a brighter day  on the other side of tomorrow</B></div> <div> <B>     And you always told me the Savior's loving arms  </B></div> <div> <B>   Wait for us in that Land where there is no sorrow</B></div> <div> <B>     So thanks for all your love and your care    </B></div> <div> <B> And may this song breathe a prayer  </B></div> <div> <B>  That my life show His love like yours did to me</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     To me remained the task of going through her things, most going to salvation army, some mementos to keep.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I found a box of letters. In them was a stack of notes. I cried as I read them. They were from those boys she taught nearly 65 years ago! They had kept in touch until that very year - to tell her they loved Jesus, that they thanked Him for her love and for telling them about Him. </B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I realized then, I was just the LAST of her kids! She had spiritual kids EVERYWHERE! What a legacy! I laughed and cried. Still - she had told me - (how blessed I was!) that I was one of her favorite sons. </B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I went home, life returned to semi-normal and I busied myself with traveling and speaking, never speaking of Doris until 4 months later, when a total stranger was driving me from one church to another, and I began to talk about her, and  all the pain and loss and sorrow I'd stuffed inside for months came flooding out on this poor stranger, as I told of this little saint who had loved me, raised me in Jesus, never gave up on me, taught me how to live like a Christian - and how to die like one.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I'll never "get over" her death. But we've got an agreement. She's going to meet me when I get Home, at the Eastern Gate. And because I was with her in that moment she went Home, I will never fear the moment of my own Homegoing. She will be there. Jesus will be there.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     I still cry when I think of her. I miss her. I always will.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     It's been 16 years. I have a lot of "kids" of my own - not of body, but of spirit, of my heart. I love these kids dearly. They come to see me. I usually bring out snacks and drinks, and we talk about Jesus. They have shared six Christmases with me. The torch has passed. Each kid is beautiful and special. I keep every note, every little gift they give me. They love me. I don't deserve it, Mister, but I'm thankful for it. </B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     Each year, I feel a little closer to Doris and understand what she did in my life. This is the family of God - passing on a spiritual heritage of love and grace to the next generation. "Love is stronger than death." I can't wait for her to meet her grandkids.</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>     G'night, Mom. See you in the Morning.</B></div> <bR> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id156.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Never Alone"><U><B>CHAPTER THREE - NEVER ALONE</B></U></A></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>