Taps

As is true for most people, the lonely sound of the bugle playing "Taps" has always made me feel a pervasive sadness. I remember first hearing it as a child at the end of an exciting day at Brownie Scout Day Camp.  I already felt dejected that our day was over, and then that music made it sound so final. 

Hearing Taps now,  as I sat under the tarp at my father's gravesite, with that incongruous sense of being both little girl and adult, I felt the wistfulness, the consuming sadness. The day was gray and overcast, with a slight misting rain.  My older brother sat on my right, the folded flag on his lap.  The presentation of the flag to him, with the accompanying salute, was incredibly moving.  The intensity of the soldier's gaze revealed the passionate sincerity of her respect for my father's service to his country in World War II. 

My younger sister sat on my other side, my left hand clutching her right.  Looking out from where we sat, I saw several faces of Dad's past--of my past--former basketball players, former students, family, and friends.  To the left of the covered site stood the honor guard for the gun salute.  They had fired three rounds.  I felt my brother's arm slip around my shoulders, and I laid my head against him.  As I looked at Dad's resting place, I remember thinking, "And now we are three."  Both of my parents and my younger sister are now buried in the cemetery outside of that small Indiana town where I was born. 

As odd as it may seem, I find it difficult to comprehend that Dad succumbed to anything, even death. He was so strong, so physically fit, so determined, so "never say quit."  The military burial was appropriate for him.  He would have liked it, even though he had not talked about his war experience until his later years.  We knew he had been in the war, of course.  He had a sword and a German pistol that he had brought back.  We also knew he had met our mother when he was "on maneuvers" in the hills of Tennessee.  It was a favorite story.

I have been going through Dad's things these last few weeks. And there has been a "fleshing out" or a filling in of  my father's story.  I thought I knew him.  And I did.  But there was just, well, more . . .

Dad was born in the mountains of West Virginia in 1922.  So his youth took place in the 20's and 30's, the depression era.  In all, there were 10 children in his family--eight boys, two girls.  His father was a Methodist preacher, and they moved every two to three years, from one small mountain town to another.  In each of those locations, the town bullies would always find them to put them to the test--to see what they "were made of."  I discovered a timeline diary in one of his old scrapbooks.  The first five years are mainly noting if they moved or if he had a new sibling.  Here is a picture of him at age 4.

Beginning in 1928, the year he turned six, there is a little more.  He wrote:  "Moved to Parsons, West Virginia. Lived there 3 years. Brother born. Named Joe, on the first day of August. Started to school here.  About six good fights; one with Wilson boy."  Six years old.  I knew he had it rough growing up, but I never pictured him having to fight so young.  Amazingly, I found two group school pictures from these very years.  I had never seen them.  I didn't know they existed.  They were faded and difficult to scan. The final quality is poor in the details. But this was the best I could get it.  Dad is in the front row on the right end. You can see how small he was.  This was one of the things I learned about Dad that I never knew.

He was very small growing up.  I knew him at 5'10-5'11" and that seemed big to me.  But at the age of 15 and a sophomore in high school, he was only 5'2".  When you put that together with the testing of the town bullies, I begin to understand why he was so feisty and quick to go on the defensive. When I look at this picture, I have to wonder is "the Wilson boy" in this group?  The following year, 1929, he writes, "First girlfriend . . . Juanita Bennett."  I wonder if she is in these pictures.

In 1931, he saw his first football and basketball games. "Liked basketball best," he wrote.  He was nine.  He also said fights were more numerous (apparently too many to count).  Now he was also fighting with his brother, John.  I guess it became a way of life for him.  In 1932, he learned to play basketball in the back alley. Here is a photo from that year.

In 1933, he writes, "Started getting ornery; went with Virginia."  He was 11.  In 1934, they moved to Huntington and things seem to be worse.  He writes that he was in street brawls; he was "caught by cops"; and some drunken woman beat him up!  He was 12. 

In 1935, about the time of the above photo where Dad is second from left and holding a ball, he began junior high school.  Although there were still some fights, he was getting more involved in sports.  In 7th grade he made the basketball team and ran track.  He played his first baseball game and got on a league team. In 1936, they moved to South Charleston, West Virginia, where they stayed for five years.  He played basketball, football (noted that he was the quarterback and the lightest man on the team), and he started boxing. In his junior year, he felt he didn't do so well in basketball, but his coach told him he was the "greatest set shot he ever coached." 

Dad graduated from high school in 1940, and from there went to Taylor University in Indiana where he became a basketball star.  I use that term because it is used repeatedly in newspaper articles. He had a two-handed set shot that he could hit consistently from half court.  You see, when you're not tall, you have to have an outside shot.  And if you're really not tall, it has to be really outside.

But more noteworthy than all his accomplishments on the basketball court at Taylor, he writes in 1941 that his freshman year at Taylor was the "first year of life with no fights."  Taylor was a Christian college and apparently they lived what they believed.  His roommate, Bill Meadows, was a particularly strong Christian.  Dad's room was on the third floor of the Swallow Robin dorm.  There is an "x" on the dormer window of his room.

This picture is actually a postcard.  I found a second postcard along with it.  This second one was a postcard that had actually been sent.  The picture was of the campus and the postmark was 7 Jan 1939.  My dad would have still been in high school. It is written by his future roommate, Bill Meadows, and is addressed to my grandfather.  It reads:

      Dear Preacher,

          My trip out here was a good one.  It did not tire me as much as I thought it would.  I was never so glad to get back to any place as I was to this campus.  God has been speaking in a wonderful way to me.  Yesterday we prayed for your meeting and I never have had as much faith as I have now. I know God will answer our prayers.  Don't forget to pray for me.  The days are more full than ever before but I'll try to write a letter soon.  Tell Junior(my dad) to write to me.  I shall keep praying each day.

     Devotedly, Bill       Added notation:  This is a picture of part of the most beautiful campus on earth.

I may be reading into this, but it almost sounds like my grandfather conspired with Bill to pray for my father and his decision for Christ.  Two years later Dad was Bill's roommate at Taylor.  And his life began to change.  Not all at once, of course.  But it began here.

I found a picture of Dad with his three younger brothers and sister, along with Bill Meadows.  I think this is perhaps from the summer of 1939 (after the postcard date).  Bill, the college man, is clearly the one in the suit.  My Dad is on the left, sporting what looks like a bandage on his head.  Battlescar perhaps?

And lastly a penny photo from around the time of his freshman/sophomore years.  I think he looks very handsome but very much the rebel.

I read the signings in his freshman yearbook.  There were many.  I think he must have gotten every student on campus to sign.  It gave me pleasure to read the flattering things they wrote to Dad.  It is not surprising that he came back to Taylor for his sophomore year.  This second year he roomed with a guy he called Wee Miller.  I assume he was smaller than Dad (or just the opposite?), who was now about 5'9".  Dad wrote this in his final year of his diary, "Good roommate. Best buddy I ever had except Johnnie (his brother)."

Dad began his junior year at Taylor in the fall of 1942, but he went into the army in December of that year.  I have found an autograph book filled with goodbyes from his classmates sending him off to war . . .

     "Well Doc, have a good stay in the Army. We'll meet in Tokyo and start a revolution. Be a good soldier and remember 'If God be for us who can be against us.'

     "Wherever you go, remember me as a friend. You'll never know how much your life has counted for the Lord, as far as my brother and I are concerned. You've really set a fine example.  Keep up the good work."

     "When you get in the Army, remember us back here at TU. We are always remembering you and praying for you. Prayer changes things and prayer changes people. Keep up your prayers and Bible reading. 'Cast thy care upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee.'  Keep trusting in the Lord and failure is outside your realm of activity. Keep praying for us. So long, we'll see you again after it's all over."

     "There have been times when you would have liked to amputate my head--but you were a forgiving soul. No matter where you go--remember that you are serving a king who has never lost a battle--Victory is yours through him. He will lead you safely through."

     "Old boy, I'll remember you as a classmate who played the game square both on and off the floor, and who became angry chiefly at injustices.  If you are always a square shot and play not for the crowd in the game of life as you have in basketball you will not lack in friends. And above all remember Christ, the best friend a man ever had.  When we meet again, I'll grip your hand."

     "It doesn't seem right to say goodbye--but anyhow lots of luck to a grand guy--meaning you.  Whatever happens don't forget TU and all the kids."

     "We're going to miss you a lot around here. More than just on the basketball floor. Who am I going to have to get into trouble with now? We have had a lot of fun together. I think you rememer most of the things we have done. But above all, don't forget that experience we had a few weeks ago, and just keep trusting God."

     "Hayes, you're a screwball, but I'm going to miss you a lot. Perhaps we'll meet again; maybe sooner than we think.  Keep your religion; there isn't anything else really worthwhile, as you know."

     "Hi Ya Kid--Gee we're sure going to miss you. We've had such swell times together ever since we were freshmen. Remember the anticipated fight with the upper classmen--the river parties and everything in general.  No matter where you go--remember me and I'll be yelling for you in life like I was on the basketball floor."

     "Gee, will this place ever be dead without you.  I've really enjoyed knowing you and I hope you'll write once in a while.  Remember all the swell times we had in Columbus and other places too!"

     "I've known you for three years.  You've got the right stuff in you and I hope that you never change. We've been good pals in basketball."

     "If you can only throw a hand grenade like you can a nice basketball---the enemy will be definitely defeated!!"

     "Now that you're in the army I can't see how we can lose the war.  Really have had a whale of a time playing ball with you during the last three years. Good luck pal."

Oh, he would come back all right.  But all these students, the class of '44, would be gone. He would graduate in 1947.  Meanwhile, he had the greatest war of all time to fight across the sea . . .

Day is done, gone the sun, from the lake, from the hills, from the sky; All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

This is the Morning

So Dad is reunited with Mom, with his parents, his sister, and others who preceded him.  He is no longer in pain or distress.  That body that he took such good care of yet failed him in the end is no longer a hindrance to him.  He can sing and dance and praise the One who ransomed him from eternal death. 

We talked about that in our last phone conversation on Monday, June 30.  I had called to check on him, and he told me I needed to come right away.  I told him that I was coming on Thursday, with my daughter, Katie, for the 4th of July.  He told me, "No, I won't be here on Thursday.  You need to come now."  I explained that I was waiting for Katie to get off work so we could come together and save gas.  He became a little agitated and said, "I'm dying.  You have to come now!"  Dad has always had a touch of  Fred Sanford in him . . . but he could be right this time . . . and I didn't know what to do.  I told him I would do my best.  I also told him not to be afraid.  And he confessed that he was (a huge admission for him).  I reminded him that he was going to get to see Jesus, and Mom, and his parents, and his sister, Jean, and lots of people he loved.  He said, "Keep talking.  I need your words."  So I talked about what I thought he was going to experience (words were so inadequate).  And he seemed to calm.  I was also able to tell him that my daughter, Sarah, had interviewed for a teaching position at a school where he had taught for 10 years.  He was pleased and said, "Good.  Good."  He wanted me to tell everyone he loved them, and he named all my children.  He told me he loved me and I told him I loved him.  And that was the last time I heard his voice . . . for now.

I decided to come a day earlier, on Wednesday.  But when I was at a meeting with a friend on Tuesday afternoon, I got a phone call from my husband.  The facility where Dad was living had called and wanted me to call right away.  They told me he had collapsed on them when they were moving him from his bed to a wheelchair, and he was unresponsive.  It did not look good, they said.  I told them I was on my way and would be there in 3 hours (the time it took to drive there).  I threw things into a suitcase and headed north.  On the way I tried to reach my younger sister, Angie, who was on vacation with her family.  She didn't have cell service in her cabin so I had to leave a message.  I called my brother.  I called my daughters.  I called my cousin.  When I was 10 miles from the exit to his town, my brother called.  He said the facility had just called him.  Dad had stopped breathing 10 minutes ago at 7:10 p.m.  I pulled into the facility parking lot at 7:40--30 minutes too late.  The nurse took me to his room.  She said he had become responsive again.  He had told them he was going.  They told him it was okay, but that his daughter was coming and would be there by 8 o'clock if he could wait.  He told them he couldn't wait, but to "tell her I love her."  And he left this world.

I am sad for myself . . . but I am happy for him.  I am happy that he was able to go so peacefully.  I know where he is and who stands along side of him.  Like the apostle,  Paul, the time had come for his departure.  He had "fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith."  He has been awarded his crown in exchange for that old rugged cross.  Here is a picture of Dad at age 67 (almost 68), finishing a race in Indianapolis, the Indy Mini Marathon.

Note that he is just stepping his foot across the finish line.  He has finished a grueling 13.1 miles.  Dad ran this race several times.  He would run it two more years after this one.  His last time would be the summer he turned 70 years old.  He brought home a 3rd place medal in the masters division.  Not bad, in the earthly sense.  But that medal can't compare to the crown he received at the end of life's race.  I'm sure he would agree.

We delayed the funeral past the holiday weekend.  We had it on July12, with visitation the day before.  During that week prior to the service, my daughter Katie and I were able to put together a slideshow of almost 200 pictures from Dad's life.  We started with his baby pictures and went through to the pictures I took on Father's Day of this year, the last time I saw him alive.  Katie is very good with technology and she was able to put it together with music.  I scanned several team pictures from each of the locations where he coached/taught.  It was during this time--when I was going through photo albums and scrapbooks (some of which I had never seen before but had found at Dad's house)--that I came to see my father in a different light.  I had always viewed him as my father, my protector, my encourager, my hero--always as he related to me.  Now he emerged as a person, a boy, a man, a husband, a father.  And I hope to write about that on my next post.     

The funeral went well.  I saw many people that I hadn't seen for years as one always does at funerals.  Dad would have loved to have seen them again.  There were former players and former students from nearly every location that he coached.  The pastor did a great job at the service on Saturday.  He had been Dad's pastor for several years and had baptized Dad by immersion a few years ago.  Dad had been sprinkled as the Methodist church does when he was a baby, but never immersed.  At the funeral service, I was able to speak and thus offer a tribute to Dad.  My son, unable to come from China, was able to send a video tribute to him.  We opened a mike for anyone who wanted to offer their thoughts/feelings about Dad.  Several rose and came to speak--some to share a funny memory, others to express what Dad had meant to them.  It was good.  I realize now just how much visitations and funerals are for those left behind.

Left behind.  Those are the words that bring the lump to my throat.  I remember that scene from my childhood where Dad didn't see me and drove away, leaving me behind with emotion undiminished by the passage of half a century.  And this is where I learn to take my focus off myself, to focus on him, to celebrate his life, and to rejoice that he is now overflowing with joy in his eternal home.  No more pain, no more tears, no more fear.  As C. S. Lewis put it, "The term is over; the holidays have begun. The dream is ended; this is the morning."

Gaining Heaven

    Taylor W. Hayes

                                                                18 Aug 1922      --       1 July 2008

                                         "For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain."  --Phil 1:21

Currently Reading The Holy Wild: Trusting in the Character of God By Mark Buchanan see related

More Than Conquerors

As I write this morning . . . as the birds are singing in the trees behind my house . . .  my heart and mind are elsewhere.  I usually like to read in the early morning in the summer.  I sit out on my screened porch with my coffee and a good book.  For me, that is a little taste of heaven on earth.  But this morning it is hard to concentrate.  I am very much a single-minded person (read: cannot multi-task to save my life), and this morning I have two fronts demanding my thoughts.  At this moment, my first born, Tyler, and his marvel of a wife, Katrina, and their two precious little girls are in Singapore.  They left Adelaide, Australia, last night at 10:25 my time (Tuesday morning for them), provided all went as planned.  They would have landed in Singapore at 5:40 this morning.  They will be there until this afternoon at 1:10 (my time) when their flight to Beijing is scheduled to depart.  International travel is a challenge under any circumstances.  I can't imagine doing it as a complete move, and with two little ones, a 20-month old and a 1-month old.  So I am praying for their safe travel, for their as uncomplicated-as-possible travel, and that the girls are able to adapt to all the change going on in their lives.  Once they are in China (landing at 7:20 tonight), they must travel another hour and a half to Tianjin, the city where they will live.  They have temporary housing for their arrival, but they must quickly find permanent accomodations.  So it will be a while before they can kick back and relax.  Come to think of it, I really don't know if they know how to do that.  They are so "others" focused . . . you know, the way we're all supposed to be, but most often aren't.  Okay, perhaps I should restrict that application of self-focused to . . . myself.

So while I am praying for Tyler, Katrina, Ella, and Kayla, my thoughts are also directed to my father.  We received a call yesterday morning from the folks at the facility where he is living.  He is not doing well mentally.  For some reason, he is declining suddenly in his thinking skills.  They said he is fine when he is talking with others in the dining room at meal times, but alone in his room he is not so good.  He is confused and doing things that seem inexplicable.  Previously, he might say something kind of odd, but we could figure out what prompted it and what he was really trying to say, as accurate words are escaping him.  For example, when I called him and he told me he was sitting in his room stark naked(!) . . . what he was trying to say was he couldn't find his cap and there was nothing on his head.  Now, those explanations are harder to discern. 

The people at his facility want to move him to their building or wing for dementia residents.  After the first heart pain of hearing this, we realized that this was a good idea.  He will be more closely looked after and thus he is safer.  But even better, we had the option of a roommate for him.  That way he will have someone to talk to.  He is better when he is not alone.  He hates being alone (even though he is expertly skilled in talking to himself).  He told me once (actually several times) last year that he had never been alone.  He went from his parents' house (10 kids in the family) to a college dorm, to the army barracks and foxholes, to life with my mother and our family.  I am sad that he will not be in the room that I thought was so nice . . . but perhaps "nice" surroundings are less important. (is there a lesson in there?) 

So we agreed, and they are moving him this morning.  I spoke with him yesterday evening.  It was hard.  I didn't mention to him that they were moving him.  I was afraid it would worry him all night.  I am praying that it is good for him, and he doesn't get too stressed.  All his life he has been strong and in control, very independent.  Even now, he wants his car brought to the facility.  In his car, he felt like his old self somewhat.  He wasn't having to lean on his cane and move at a snail's pace.  He didn't have the excruciating arthritis pain in his hip.  Of course, driving is now out of the question.  But he's not entirely unaware.  Let me share how he closed our conversation last night in a stream of words, "I'm on the verge of death and I know that.  We'll get through this.  God is with me.  We need prayer.  We're gonna be all right. I want things to be right for you. I love you so much. I was so tickled that you came in and showed you care for me.  Remember I love you and I'll be talking to you later--in Christ's name, in Jesus' name, I'll talk to you later."  Dad is very conscious that whenever we hang up, there is no assurance that we will talk again, at least on this earth.  I, too, am conscious of that.  That is why I wrote down what he said and why I write it here.  I want to preserve the memory.  Also, writing it down somehow makes it more real.  It sounds strange, but I think I'm still not fully grasping that my father, that physically fit tower of strength my whole life cannot conquer this.  He is going to leave.

I have a memory from when I was about 7 years old.  I was walking home from a friend's house, and I cut through the school grounds.  Up ahead, I spied my father's car, a 1955 green and white Buick, the motor just starting.  I began to run, calling out to him, wanting to catch a ride the rest of the way home.  But Dad didn't see me or hear me, and he drove away.  It was just an ordinary occurence. But I remember that hurt feeling of abandonment over 50 years (half a century!) later.  It is not unlike what is coming, I think.

How contrasting are my two centers of thought this morning.  My son and his family are embarking on their lives in China, and my father is concluding his life of almost 86 years.  But you know what . . . I have that wrong.  Dad is not concluding.  He is getting ready to begin.  This world is not our home.  This is not all there is.  This is just the introduction.  His life, his eternal life, is preparing to begin. The curtain will be going up, not down.  There will be my focus.  He is about to experience something far greater than the thrill of victory in a mere basketball game.  He will conquer this present challenge through Christ's victory over death.  There will be my focus.   He will stand next to my mother and his parents praising the Lamb whose blood purchased him for God.  Yes, there will be my focus.

". . . in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.  For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."  --Romans 8:37-39

Fixing on the Eternal

In multiple ways, Sunday was both the best and the worst Father's Day I have ever known.  Let me explain the paradox by sharing some of the day.

My father had gone into the hospital a week prior and was diagnosed with pneunomia.  His doctor took advantage of having him there and ran some tests on his heart.  Dad's last tests were done in January, and they found that his heart was only pumping at 25% of capacity.  Not good.  Though that percentage tends to drop with aging, it should not be anywhere near that low.  He has a defective valve on his heart that could have been dealt with surgically, but Dad would have none of it.  Consequently, his heart is having to pump extra hard to circulate his blood, and it is not succeeding.  He suffers from edema (fluid retention) because of this, and his skin is breaking down because of it. 

So the new test results came in, showing his heart to now be pumping at 14% of capacity.  The doctor said his condition was "dire," and if it continued to pump for 6 months it would be a miracle.  Although we knew he had been in congestive heart failure for some time, and obviously, we don't live forever, still the news came like a physical blow.  Harsh reality is just that--harsh.  It is the thing you know but choose not to think about.  Yet, I suppose there is an argument to be made for not thinking about sad realities until you must.

So now we must.  The doctor recommended him for hospice care--further evidence of the reality--and he was accepted.  This enabled us to continue with our plan to move him into an assisted living facility in his hometown.  In situations that only God could have orchestrated, we moved Dad on Saturday into a beautiful two-room apartment that opens onto the courtyard in the facility where he wanted to go.  He was ecstatic. It was so lovely that he began to wonder if he could afford it.  We assured him that his being a veteran of WWII, combined with Medicare, would make it affordable for him.  That made him smile.  My sister, Angie, and I spent the day hanging pictures, bringing in furniture (with help from her husband), and trying to make things seem like home.  While we were busy, Angie's children enjoyed the courtyard and some good books.  I managed to get their picture.  The courtyard really is nice with lots of flowers, walks, benches, and a large pole with the American flag.

I was focused on pictures of Dad and I neglected to take pictures of his apartment. Of course, we still have some pictures to hang.  One of them is too heavy and we will have to get a picture hanger. So I will have to get pictures next time.  But I will share some of him and others who were there.

First a side view of him, wearing his WWII Veteran's cap that I brought him from one of my trips to Washington D.C. years ago.  They did have him on oxygen with a tube under his nose, but he pulled it off.  It hooked around his ears and he said it was annoying.

Next is a close up shot that Angie's daughter took for me.  I am so glad she did.

And we took a few pics of us with him.  The first one is with my daughter, Sarah.  She had visited him in the hospital, but she came for a brief visit to see him in his new "digs."  She had to be back at work by noon on Sunday as basketball camp for this week began at that time.

Next is one with both Sarah and me with Dad.  I am trying very hard to refrain from being one of those people who gush about how awful they look in a picture.  I'll just say I wish there hadn't been a glare on my glasses . . .

And a last one of Angie and me with him.  I must note, however, that Dad is always freezing (another side-effect of his heart not pumping properly). Consequently, he can't bear the temperature to be under 80 degrees F. When you're working, that temperature guarantees sweat.  And you can tell in this picture (note the flat hair). And no, that doesn't count as gushing.

I want to include one last picture, not from this past weekend, but from long ago.  It was about 1949.  I would be born later that year in November.  Dad and Mom were standing outside of their house in Eaton, Indiana, not far from where he is now. 

I don't remember ever seeing this photo before about a month ago.  I found it in a box of my grandmother's pictures.  I was moved by how handsome Dad looked, but especially by the expression of adoration on my mother's face, and the clutching of his hand on hers at his waist.  Dad would have been about 27 here and Mom about 25.  They had been married 5 years.  Their journey together was still just beginning.  They were married a total of 55 years.  They had 4 children.  Dad had a successful career as a teacher and coach--a winning coach, I should add.  Dad retired in 1993 after 45 years of coaching.  It was just in time to become Mom's caregiver.  She was stricken with alzheimer's disease.  Dad cared for her every need for over 5 years until she passed away in 2000.  Now it is his turn to be cared for, in these, his final days.  Does the brevity of life not strike you here?  Our time on this earth is so short.  It is far too short for the petty things that we let upset us.  

So this Father's Day was difficult, knowing it was my last one.  But it was good.  I know where my father is going, and I will see him again.  I was able to make him smile and tell him I love him.  He was able to tell me the same.  It was good to wait on him--bring him a root beer (he loves root beer).  It was good to make him as comfortable as possible, to mark all his clothing with his name, mundane tasks, but they were all I could do.  God has charge of the rest.  Dad is in His hands.   

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."  --2 Cor 4:16-18