One Hundred Years Ago…

One hundred years ago, January 2, 1919, my Dad was born. 

Think about it.  Woodrow Wilson was still President.  The War to End All Wars was over.  Though automobiles were becoming widespread, his parents still drove a horse and buggy to church.  There was a muddy wagon trail that went to Wauchula one way and to Avon Park the other. 

My father’s father was a rancher, a farmer, a citrus grower, and a preacher.  He either drove his buggy to his country churches or took the train from Avon Park.  There was no electricity in his house (and wouldn’t be until my Dad was an adult).  There was no tractor.  There were no fences, only open range.  You rounded up cattle and sorted them out in the pens, or you roped a calf and branded it in the pasture.  It took a lot of saddle time to be a cattleman in those days.          

Somehow, I never discovered if my father was born at home or if he was born in town.  I imagine he was born at home.  Ten miles of bumpy dirt roads in a buggy would result in a fast delivery.

In his short forty-two years, my father saw electricity come to ranch, as well as the first indoor bathroom.  A telephone line was put in about that same time, a party line where your neighbors could eavesdrop on your conversations. 

The family switched from horses and buggies to Model T Fords and then to Model A Fords.  They stopped driving cattle to Punta Gorda or Fort Myers to ship, and instead began to haul cattle in trucks to the local market.  The fence law was passed and every one had to fence their cattle in. The Wauchula to Avon Park road was moved north and paved.  It no longer took couple of hours to get to town; now they could reach town in about fifteen minutes.

My father saw another World War, and then a Police Action in Korea.  The Atomic Age began when he was 26.  Television made it to the ranch in the 1950’s. 

In his forty-two years, my father would be an All-State Football player, All-Around State Rodeo Champion, producer and announcer of rodeos, a Sunday School teacher, and a friend to many. 

The first Russian flew in space April 12, 1961.  Daddy would die fifteen days later, before the first American would ever go into space.  He missed the Beatles, color television, Vietnam, the mini-skirt, the moon landing, Disney World, Watergate, Reganomics, Gulf Wars I and II, “I did not have sex with that woman,” home computers, 9-11, smart phones, Google, and Netflix.  The heart attack that killed him would probably be averted now by a catherization and a few stents.   

A hundred years is not that long really, not in the long span of time.  How could so much happen so fast?

Then I think about my own life.  I came along just as the space age began and television shifted from black and white to color.  On the hundredth anniversary of my birth, will my grandchildren (hope I have some by then) be amazed that we had to drive our own cars?  Will they be shocked that we did not have in-home robots to clean, cook, and do laundry?  Will they be surprised that one great grandfather died of cancer, since they have been vaccinated at birth to prevent it? 

Will my grandchildren even understand what it means to “go to the store” since a drone from Amazon Target Mart makes daily deliveries?  Will they think the idea of cellphone is quaint since everyone is now implanted at birth with technological uplinks?  Will they be amazed that we had relative peace for sixty years, until a massive three-way war between China, Russia and India broke out and engulfed every other nation?

I think about my dad being dropped into 2019 and coming to see me preach.  What would he think about the contemporary music, the lights, me not wearing a tie on Sunday?

Then I think about my grandchildren and wonder if they will go to church at all?  Will it all church turn into an online experience?  Or will Christian faith dwindle to just a few folks who stay faithful to Jesus? 

Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, said, “Remember your creator in the days of your youth, before the evil days come…”  This is not just a verse for people under 30.  It tells us to live each day mindful of God.  Change is constant.  God is stable.  No matter what the future holds, there is a God who holds us.  When you know you are in his hand, you are ready for whatever comes.

Son of Kong…

When I was a young man, I took my girlfriend at the time to the Silver Spurs Rodeo in Kissimmee, Florida.  Before Kissimmee became the home of Mickey Mouse’s empire, it was a cowtown.  The Silver Spurs is the most prestigious rodeo in Florida.  My father, my grandfather, and my Uncle Pete have all been the overall champion of the rodeo.

When I went to the rodeo that day, my father had been dead for thirty years.  A whole new generation of cowboys were roping calves, riding broncos and bulls, and wrestling steers.  For me, however, being in the arena brought out a wistful longing: I wish I could have seen my father rodeo. 

My father picked up the nick-name “King Kong” in high school.  It was about the time when the first “King Kong” movie came out in 1933.  Bigger than most of his football team mates, it was a natural nickname.  When he started rodeoing, most of his friends simply called him “Kong.” 

My uncle Pete was probably the best in the family as an all-around cowboy, but from the stories I’ve heard over the years, Daddy was at his best in steer wrestling and bull-riding.  Steer wrestling involves jumping from your galloping horse, grabbing a steer by the horns, and wrestling him to the ground.  Daddy set the record time in Florida of throwing a steer in 1.8 seconds.  The current world record is 2.4 seconds.  Daddy was in a class by himself.

Bull-riding means getting on the back of a bull in a tight chute, getting a firm grip and a far-away look, hollering to open the gate, and then staying on the back of the bull for eight seconds.  Judges score you on the difficulty of the ride.   If you think it sounds hard, you should try it (and no, bull-riding machines in country bars are no match for the real thing).  Maybe it was Daddy’s size, but he had a knack for staying on and scoring high.

My father died when I was eighteen months old, so I have no memories of him, just stories and pictures.  In the stands at the Silver Spurs Rodeo, I admit I felt again the old emptiness, wishing just I had seen him just once throwing a steer or riding a bull. 

Bull-riding is usually the last event in a rodeo, because it is the most exciting and most dangerous of rodeo events.  That day, three or four riders had come out of the chute and been thrown off in the first three seconds.  It looked like no cowboy would make his ride.

Keep in mind I am sitting with my girlfriend in the covered stands with about ten thousand people.  An old Florida cracker cowboy was seated next me, his wife on the other side of him.  I greeted him when I sat down, but he wasn’t much for conversation. 

After the fifth rider had been thrown off, this old Florida cracker cowboy turned to his wife and said, “Darlin’, a lot of these boys are pretty good, but nobody was ever as good as ol’ Kong Smith.”

My stomach did a flip.  I grabbed the man’s arm.  He pulled back as he turned to see who had a hold of him.  For a moment, I thought he was reaching for his gun (there was no concealed-carry law in those days).  We made eye contact and I blurted out, “Kong Smith was my daddy.”

The man went white as a sheet, almost like he had seen a ghost.  He gave me the once over, and then drawled, “From the looks of you son, you must be.  I’ll bet you’re the youngest.  I forgot your name.  You were just a yearling when your Daddy died.”

I wish I remembered the man’s name.  He told me about Daddy, about rodeoing with him, working cows with him, and having some high times together (he obviously didn’t want to go into details with his wife listening in). 

For that moment, the emptiness was filled.  I received another small piece of my father, another few stories to add to my soul.  That Florida cracker cowboy gave me a gift that day: he made me proud to be the son of the man I don’t remember.

The Apostle Paul talks about Jesus redeeming us so God the Father can adopt as sons.  To be adopted as the son or daughter of God means more than going to heaven; it means we can be proud of our Father in heaven, who gives us grace, who guides our lives, and who helps us live in confidence.  It is not our reputation that matters; we hold the reputation of our Father in Heaven. 

Are you proud that you are a child of your Father in Heaven?  Are you living in the confidence of being his son, his daughter?

I remember walking out of the arena after the rodeo was over that day.  I held myself a little taller.  There was a touch more confidence in my stride.  That day I remembered I was the son of Kong.  His reputation rested on me.

Every day, walk a little taller.  Every day, put more confidence in your stride.  If you follow Jesus, your Heavenly Father’s reputation rests on you.