Saturday, March 29, 2008

In Memory

The pastor that married Tammy and I passed away this week after a long struggle with cancer. He was my friend of more than 30 years. He was a missionary to Nigeria, Taiwan, and Liberia in his lifetime. He was pastor of several churches and Principal of a Christian school as well.

I wrote this for him:

As He Goes Home

All over the world he has walked
He carried the Word of God with him
It was his shield and buckler
It was his undying strength

Throughout the states
Across the ocean
To the fields of Africa
This word and his faith sustained him

He carried the Truth
He carried God’s spirit
He carried his own smile
And his bright vision

He took it to friends
He took it to strangers
Which were merely friends
Not yet made

He was surrounded by faith
He was circled by love
All of which was partially
A reflection of the love within him

By this shall all men know
And we knew
Because he refused
Not to share his fortune

When he got it inside
Those many years ago
It constantly spilled out
And affected us all

Even when the cancer
Tried so hard
To dampen his light
It shined the more

His strength in his frailty
His faith in austerity
His love in the darkness
His hope in hopelessness

Still, in his weakest
He carried us
Today he carries us with him
As he goes home

Thanks for the love

In memory
Addison “Pete” Keaton, Jr.

March 27, 2008
Ron Simpson, Jr

Sunday, March 09, 2008


Yesterday was one year.
One year ago, Dad died.
One year ago, we began a journey that didn't slow down until we had been to five funerals. It still added three more funerals before the family thing stopped. Regular readers of my blog (if I have any after my nearly a month sabbatical) recall the whirlwind.

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of dad's death.

About a week before the day, My oldest daughter called me to ask if the family was doing anything organized to remember the day. I called my sister and nothing was planned. I figured we would all do the remembrance thing in private ways. Kind of like the way that dad affected us all, both generally and specifically.
How did I spend the day?
I woke up early (I usually wake up prior to the alarm going off on weekdays, and my body refuses, generally, to let me sleep in on weekends unless I am ill.) I looked at the clock. It said 6:45. I got up, went to the bathroom, and sat down at the computer to work a little, play a little, read a little, and wait for the sun to come up. I was sending a reply email and it said something about my email being sent at 3:45. I was like, "What??" I checked the clock again and sure enough, it was only a quarter til four. Back to bed I went. I have no clue what time it was when I got up, so no clue how long I had been up either.

The next thing I knew, my phone was ringing and it was 9:30.
We had about 4 to 6 inches of snow on the ground. I was mixed with a little ice. (How much ice needs to be mixed in to make it impassable? Who know?) Tammy and I had things to do, so we ventured out. The roads were mostly good. I had the truck in 4-wheel/all wheel drive, so it was good. We went to Winchester to pick up some things at school, and then off to Richmond to meet with Jesse. He is my Cingular/ATT connection.

We hit a few slick spots on the back road, but nothing to make us turn around. The interstate was great. (75 MPH Great) I bought a new phone from Jesse. One of my students wanted my phone. So, I sold it to him for $50 less than I was buying the new one from Jesse. I had the Cingular 8525 Pocket PC. I bought an 8925 Tilt. Sweet phone/PDA/Pocket PC.

We came back home and chilled the rest of the day, mostly.
So, what did I do to commemorate one of the hardest days of my life?
I lived. I did the daily things that make a life. I did the one thing Dad wanted me to do: to go on living.
I am doing that again today. I am fairly sure I will do it again tomorrow. I hope to do it for a while yet.

Every day, I miss him. Every day, something he has done or said affects some part of my life. Every day, I live, and in doing so, he lives, through me.
I miss you terribly, dad.