Some of you know that my dad died in May of 2020 and my mom passed away in March of this year. Because 2020 was what it was, we were unable to hold a public service for Dad, so when our mom went, we made the decision to hold a memorial for both our parents. As a group, my siblings and I asked my elder brother, Stuart to give a eulogy for Dad and I was asked to speak about Mom.
We gathered together on a windy Kansas day, in a country clapboard church, in the prairie town where my parents lived and served the final decades of their lives, and remembered. Every male in the family wore one of my father's ties, and together we honored the special couple who made us all a family.
I share this here for myself, as a keepsake. But also, these words are testimony to the work of the Holy Spirit in the lives of our parents. I am a keeper of stories. I have always learned history through folklore and listening to others tell tales of their experiences. In the end, it's how we all hold on to who we are and who they were.
These are the words my brother shared so poignantly about dad.
Dad’s Memorial
Dad went home to be with his Lord on May 25th,, 2020. I want to reflect on a couple lesser-known aspects of his life that I believe laid the groundwork for the man, the husband, the father, and the pastor he became. I was thinking about how to sum up Dad’s life in a couple words or a phrase, and I believe Charles Spurgeon said it best. He said, A good character is the best tombstone. … Carve your name on hearts, not on marble. And while there is a stone out there with Dad’s name on it, the impact he had on so many hearts over his life is the legacy Dad left.
And that legacy is seen in the sixty-four plus years of ministry – and impressively, twenty of which were after he retired.
That legacy is also seen in the countless people he visited or called on the phone every day. I’m sure many of you were at the other end of many of those calls. And he never stopped doing that – in fact even during those last two weeks of his life when he struggled to communicate, he continued calling people all over the country to ask how they were doing.
I want to pause here to illustrate this. Dad was never fully dressed until he put a pen in his pocket. He always had that pen with him. And at home, he also had a little black book in that pocket too. Every time he got a call, and every person he called, he would take that pen and write their name in that book, and that became his prayer list for that day. For him, that pen represented how intentional Dad was in his shepherding and care for others.
And finally, that legacy is seen in his family that was so important to him, many of whom were with him during his final days.
But this family legacy doesn’t happen, and we’re not standing here today if God, in His perfect timing, hadn’t brought John and Alta together.
Mom was a freshman at Geneva College in 1951. And according to her, the girls on the third floor of McKee Hall were crazy about this boy named John Tweed. Back then all incoming freshmen were interviewed by a senior, and wouldn’t you know it, John Tweed just happened to be the senior to interview Alta Blackwood. Well, they clearly hit it off immediately, and next thing you know they’ve celebrated sixty-five wedding anniversaries together. And speaking of anniversaries, we recently found a journal from Dad on one of those anniversaries - their 31st. And to show you what a romantic this man was even after 31 years of marriage, I’m gonna read a portion of it:
He wrote: This afternoon I have a game of golf scheduled with Ken Smith, Joe McFarland, Marty Wilsey, and Ken Hoffman. There is a 40% chance of rain so we may not get to play. Otherwise, we don’t have much planned for our anniversary.!
Now in Dad’s defense, he did go on to talk about the nice dinner they had, and loving her and other stuff, but I read you the good part. God’s calling in Dad’s life.
So with family as the backdrop, I want to reflect on something that I think will give you some new insight into Dad’s character, and something that I believe was a defining moment in his life.
Now on its surface, it’s not too surprising that Dad chose a life of public ministry, especially when his role models – his father and older brother – were pastors and professors. But what made Dad’s response to God’s calling particularly remarkable was that - as many of you know- Dad struggled with a speech impediment from childhood, something he was very self-conscious about his entire life. So now at Geneva, here’s a young man who stuttered and hated speaking in public. Yet despite that, he majored in Speech and joined the theater.
To put the genesis of Dad’s calling in some perspective, I want to take you back a little bit. In fact, I’m gonna take you way back. It’s the evening of June 30, 1940. Dad is ten years old and living in Glasgow, Scotland where his dad, J. Boyd has been serving as a pastor. Dad’s preparing to take a ship back to America and his family throws him a farewell party, during which many people wrote really sweet words of encouragement to him in a little autograph book. There are lots of notes in this book, but I want to read just two:
His sister Alison quotes a poem by A.W.Pink: She wrote, A Sabbath well spent brings a week of content and will lighten the cares of tomorrow. But a Sabbath profaned – whatever is gained – is a certain precursor of sorrow.
And from his mom: She wrote from Proverbs 3:6, In all thy ways, acknowledge Him and He shall direct thy paths.
So from two influential people in his life at that time, as a ten-year-old boy, he learned the importance of the Lord’s Day, and following God’s path for your life. Two short, almost incidental notes, but they were very likely the first seeds of God’s calling in his life.
I want to share with you a little bit about the final weeks of Dad’s life. While those were private moments for our family, I do want to give you a little window into that time because it’s important for you to know that the way Dad lived his public life, he also lived in private.
All of us being there together was such a tremendous blessing – certainly for Dad, but also for us. We looked through old pictures, told stories, laughed, and cried (we have a few – what my daughter calls squishy people in our family, so yeah there was some crying!) But some of the best moments were when Dad told stories…and we even dusted off the ukulele and Dad played and sang a couple songs. (I believe we recorded a couple….can show by request)
But more than anything it was really a time of worship for us….something that was so important for dad his whole life, and growing up - something dad made sure our family did every evening. Every evening.
And I tell you that for a little context for the end…dad lived his life in daily worship, and that’s how we spent his last two weeks. Every night, we would get him ready for bed, then everyone who was there would gather around his bed, we’d read scripture, we’d sing Psalms (so many Psalms)
And then we’d pray. I remember one of the first nights someone asked, Who wants to pray? Dad immediately piped up, everyone. So we all did, and then we’d kiss him goodnight, and pray God would give him one more day so we could do it all over again.
So I’ll end with this. A good friend of mine recently shared a story about being with his dying mom. She was a type-A planner, and an organizer and she had every detail of her affairs in order, including filling her car with gas so her family wouldn’t have to do that when she was gone. Thankfully she had also recently given her life to Christ. She was completely prepared to leave this world untethered from anything that would keep her from focusing on what was yet to come. She knew where she was going, and she was ready to die as my friend put it, with No Reserve, No Retreat, and No Regret.
That’s how the Apostle Paul finished his life here on earth. Shortly before his death, Paul wrote in Second Timothy, chapter 4, The time of my departure has come…I fought the good fight, I finished the course, and I kept the faith. Paul lived a full life for Jesus, served God with all of his heart, and was ready for his transition to heaven.
I want to read one more note written to ten-year-old John before he left Scotland in 1940. It’s from his father – And not just an encouragement as he set off on a long trip, but more as he embarked on his journey in life. He wrote My dear little son: My prayer for you is that you may grow up in the nurture and admonition of The Lord, and someday you may become a faithful minister of Christ. Your affectionate father.
An inspired nudge from his father to serve. Maybe the final seed of a calling that grew into a lifetime of selfless and sacrificial ministry.
So while we still miss Dad, it’s comforting to know that, like Paul, after lifelong service to God, Dad finished his race well and confidently entered glory with No Reserve, No Retreat, and No Regret.
A Eulogy For Mom
Thank you for being here today to remember our mom. She would certainly love seeing all of you, visiting together, and catching up. Ironically, what she wouldn’t like so much is being the center of attention. She was always much more comfortable off to the side, investing in one person at a time. In this, she and I are much alike. It’s not easy to stand up here and speak from my heart. But it’s worth spending a few minutes honoring the life of Alta Marie Blackwood Tweed.
My mom had many fine attributes, but a few words that kept coming to mind as I wrote are the ones I’d like to share.
My mom was tough. She was born during the Dust Bowl years of the Great Depression on a farm in Quinter. As a child, she never knew a time when there wasn’t plenty of hard work to be done. Early frigid mornings before school milking cows, afternoons plucking chickens (a chore she thoroughly hated) gathering eggs, weeding the garden, minding younger siblings. The Blackwood kids knew hardship: They lost one home to a fire, lost their dear mother very young, survived a couple tornadoes, lived in poverty at times, and moved from place to place as circumstances changed. Mom was only nine when her mother died, which meant that in addition to the weight of that loss, there was even more work to be shared by the children. The Blackwood women are as tough as they come. Cooking, cleaning, washing, mending, tending animals, farm chores-they did it all and did it while young and still in school. It was a difficult upbringing. But it certainly gave mom a mental and physical strength that she carried throughout her life.
Upon marriage, she may have escaped the farmwork, but not the work work. She was a faithful helpmeet to my dad, raising five children, often working outside jobs at odd hours to help make ends meet and still finding time and energy to care for a sick child, help with homework, sew costumes, and attend our activities. She was tough every time life asked her to be. I can see that fortitude now, but growing up, all we knew was that our mom loved us, opened her arms to us, was always a safe place. In fact, the final words she was ever able to speak at all were I love yous to Carol, Cindy, Stuart, Alan, and myself.
My mom was hospitable. If you could have asked a young Alta what job she would never choose she would have promptly answered: Farmer’s wife or Pastor’s wife. She understood the challenge of full-time ministry, that as a pastor’s wife, you share much of the labor, but you get none of the salary. Still, she fell in love with Dad, married, and went on to serve beside him for decades. With no regrets. She taught children’s church, typed bulletins, led youth groups and women’s ministries, hosted prayer meetings and Psalm sings. She loved visiting after church and no one was a stranger for long after she met them. And she always always welcomed folks into our home.
When I think of Sabbath afternoons of my childhood, I recall a dining room table stretched to its limit and a card table added for good measure. Extra chairs and plates were put out to accommodate last-minute guests. Heaping platters of simple, good food, served up by Mom. You see, Dad had this habit of impulsively inviting folks over after church, and Mom always had to be prepared to stretch a meal. I honestly don’t know how she did it but I don’t ever remember running out of food, so she must’ve been pretty good at it. We didn’t have much, but my parents gladly shared what they had. To this day, some 30 years after leaving home, I still run into people who tell me stories of how often they visited my house, how good the fried chicken and lemon sponge pie tasted, and how her warm welcome made them feel loved. Many of these visitors were college students far from family. They have told me that our parents gave them a home away from home whenever the need arose. I know for a fact that our doors were never locked. It may have seemed effortless, but Mom was often painfully shy, lacking in confidence, and worried she wasn’t good enough. She'd be quick to confess the time she forgot to add sugar to a rhubarb pie or the days when she over-baked the dinner rolls. But she didn't let those anxieties stop her from opening her heart and home.
The evidence of my parents’ hospitality is sitting back there in a tattered guestbook that they kept from their wedding day on and pulled out every time a visitor stopped by. If you’re here, there’s a good chance your own name is written somewhere on its pages.
And finally, I want to share with you the most important thing about Mom: her unswerving faith in her Savior. She grew up in church, worshiping week after week all her life. But worship was more than a habit, it was a way of life for her.
As children, the Blackwood kids learned lots of memory verses. When Mom sometimes had trouble falling asleep at night, she made up this game: She would go through the alphabet using one letter after the next to recall a Bible verse until she fell asleep. She played this game all her life, any time when sleep eluded her, including the final weeks of my dad’s life when the nights were long and frightening. God’s word soothed her mind and comforted her heart. In recent years, Mom often couldn’t remember what she ate for breakfast, but she could recall every one of those 26 bible verses with sharp clarity. Recently, my sister-in-law, Lisa, stitched an alphabet blanket with all the verses on it as a gift for Mom, which is here today.
What my mom knew was that even when she felt inadequate, Jesus was enough. When she struggled, she went to scripture and prayer. Growing up, we learned the habit of regular bible reading from her and it is a great gift to us, especially on days like this. In fact, on the last morning of her life, I was reading Luke’s account of the resurrection. And I couldn’t help but think that because of the Father’s great love for us, because of His power over death, we are not consumed by grief, that this pain, though piercing, is temporary. One day we will see our dear ones again, and be reunited with great joy. It was this sure hope that rescued Mom from life’s harshest moments, redeemed her, and it was this sure hope that her steadfast faith rested on, through every corner of life. And it is her legacy to us, together with my dad.
And now this sure hope has been fulfilled for them.
Praise be to God.