Glenda Merle (Kennedy) Taylor
Glenda Merle Kennedy Taylor-Born-September 1, 1939 -Haskell, Tx- Died- October 13, 1995-Houston, Tx-
Married-Date- Rankin, Tx- Alford (Inman) Taylor- Born- August 13, 1931
Children
Ben David Taylor-Born-September 7, 1961-Odessa, Tx
Married Susan Elise Taylor-Divorced -November 23, 2011-Born- June, 27, 1967 W. Monroe, La.
Children
Jessica Elise Taylor-September 22, 2004-Dallas, Tx
Allison- Born- Place-
Married- Date- Place- Lester Blizzard(Full Name-Born- Date- Place
Children
Taylor Blizzard- Born- Place
Harry Blizzard- Born- Place
James Kennedy Taylor-Born-December 18, 1966-Houston, Tx
Married Lou Ann ( Cox) Taylor-Born-March 18, 1966-,Burnet, Tx
Children
Seth Kennedy Taylor-Born- November 28, 1996-Houston, Tx
Wade Mitchelle Taylor-Born-June 20, 1998-Houston, Tx
Married-Date- Rankin, Tx- Alford (Inman) Taylor- Born- August 13, 1931
Children
Ben David Taylor-Born-September 7, 1961-Odessa, Tx
Married Susan Elise Taylor-Divorced -November 23, 2011-Born- June, 27, 1967 W. Monroe, La.
Children
Jessica Elise Taylor-September 22, 2004-Dallas, Tx
Allison- Born- Place-
Married- Date- Place- Lester Blizzard(Full Name-Born- Date- Place
Children
Taylor Blizzard- Born- Place
Harry Blizzard- Born- Place
James Kennedy Taylor-Born-December 18, 1966-Houston, Tx
Married Lou Ann ( Cox) Taylor-Born-March 18, 1966-,Burnet, Tx
Children
Seth Kennedy Taylor-Born- November 28, 1996-Houston, Tx
Wade Mitchelle Taylor-Born-June 20, 1998-Houston, Tx
I want to be the baby!
When Mary Jo and Jim found out they were to have twins, everyone was happy except for maybe one person, Glenda. Mary Jo said "Glenda kept hoping we would drop the twins on their heads, so she could be the baby of the family."
"I made a zero"-A little girl's song!
Lloyd, May 21, 1997
One day Glenda came home probably from the first or second grade. She was singing rather happily it seemed, although something had happened that day at school that might have made her unhappy. She wasn't bothered much by what had happened, apparently, as she was singing "I made a ze ro. I made a ze ro." to the tune of Sol Mi La Sol Mi. Sol Mi La Sol Mi.
One day Glenda came home probably from the first or second grade. She was singing rather happily it seemed, although something had happened that day at school that might have made her unhappy. She wasn't bothered much by what had happened, apparently, as she was singing "I made a ze ro. I made a ze ro." to the tune of Sol Mi La Sol Mi. Sol Mi La Sol Mi.
Death and suffering have their purpose!
On July 4, 2009, Allison wrote the following stirring words about her mom and the time surrounding Glenda's death in an email to Sandra Herod.
Hey, AUNT Sandra--my secretary/friend Susie has a mother-in-law who is dying from ovarian cancer. She and I have been talking about it, of course. I mentioned to her that the last days of death and suffering have their purpose too, and we talked about it for awhile. The she called me to write down my thoughts on the subject.
It became a much more personal (and longer) thing than she probably intended. In any case, I thought I'd send it to you, as one of the small circle of people who love my mother every day and forever.
July 4, 2009
My mother died of ovarian cancer some years ago. She underwent chemotherapy and multiple surgeries, but eventually the doctors announced that there was nothing else they could co. She was sent home to die.
My mother was a Christian woman and was not afraid to die. She saw no point, however, in the waiting process, which bound to be unpleasant. Her attitude was that if she could just know "I'll die tomorrow," she would be OK with it.
That, of course, was not to be. The doctors took her off all nutrition because tumors were blocking her bowels. In effect, she starved to death. It took about six weeks.
Starving to death was not, strangely enough, painful in and of itself. During that time, however her tumors continued to grow, as did her pain. Her hospice care provider, Joe, provided us with morphine for pain. The medication was in the form of an IV drip for pain management and a liquid to put under her tongue for acute pain. Joe also let us know that the morphine could kill her, if we upped the dosage – and that some families, impatient with the process, quietly and without fuss turn up the dosage and speed up the process.
He also told us something else which we did not quite internalize at the time. He said that the last days of life, the suffering, the waiting, served a purpose.
We waited. We served my mother through her final days until the last. SHE waited. She took each day as it came and loved us to the end. And the end came, of course, and one day she took her final breath.
When we looked back, we realized that the final days did, indeed, have a purpose. My father, my brothers and I came together to care for my mother. Each of us had our jobs and our shifts, day and night. We cleaned her wounds and cleaned out her IV ports. We administered her pain medications and brought her ice chips to chew. We bathed her and brushed her hair. No stranger's hand touched her from the time she came home to her death. One or more of us stayed with her at all times, day and night.
At first she was conscious all normal hours. We could talk to her about everything. She helped us prepare for her own death. Her faith began and remained strong. My mother was not much of a preacher. She just had quiet, matter-of-fact confidence in the mercy of her Lord. "I know the Lord will find a way for me" was perhaps her favorite song, and she sang it and believed in it. "If I walk in Heaven's light, shun the wrong and do the right, I know the Lord will find a way for me."
She planned her own funeral with us, too. We would lay on her bed with pen and paper in hand and plan who would lead songs, and what songs they would sing, and who would read the prayers. Then we all sat around her bed and sang the songs she chose together. No, my mother was not afraid to die, thank God.
Eventually her hours of consciousness grew less and her pain grew more. We went from unconsciousness to moments when we would look up and see her eyes open and on us, and she would say "I love you," before unconsciousness took her again.
Eventually, there was a day with more consciousness than usual, when she told me that she thought she would die that day. She had me kneel beside the bed and she prayed for us. She prayed that God watch her family and see them again in Heaven, and she prayed that God come quickly for her.
She did not die, however, not that day. Instead she had a series of seizures, eyes rolling back in her bed, body rigid and, horrifyingly enough, tongue caught between her teeth and blood seeping out. We didn't let that happen again. Instead, my sister-in-law and I spent one night crouched by her side, watching her face for signs of the next seizure. Then we would know to pounce on her and get a wooden spoon between her teeth before her jaws clamped down once again and the shaking started.
That was a long night. She never really gained consciousness again. Instead she seemed to go into a sort of a coma. Her body felt rigid and unyielding to the touch. We still bathed her everyday and cleansed her wounds, but only her breath told us she was still alive.
Finally her breath, too, failed to be quite such a sure indicator of life. She would stop breathing altogether for a minute or more at a time. Many hours we spent, one by one, with our hands on her chest, waiting for the elusive breath to come. Days passed.
One night, after I had gone home for the evening and my brother and his wife had come for the night, the phone rang. My brother informed me that my mother had not breathed for more than five minutes. The end had come.
That night my family gathered together, we veterans of the last long weeks. We toasted each other and we toasted her life and her death. As time went on, we had the long leisure to consider whether Joe was right; whether those last days had, indeed, served a purpose.
Praise God, they had! Pain and suffering had done its job. They had weaned my mother away from life and made death a mercy, not a horror. When death came, my mother was ready to die.
And perhaps even more importantly, my mother's last days had drawn us together more than any other event in our lives, and we were already a close family. We did not spend our days in misery or fear, but in companionship and mutual service. How many hours did my brother and I spend lying down side by side doing the cross-word puzzle together in the sunshine of my mother's room, with her unconscious form on the bed beside us! All things made way for our shared love of our mother, the most important woman in the world to us. We learned to live in the moment. We really did not suffer from the thought of her eminent death, because right then she was alive and there was work to be done. We stopped everything to join in her final days of death.
Also her final hours were opportunities for all her friends, specifically her many church friends, to gather around her. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to serve. The real problem was that we had so little for them to do. We jealously guarded our time with our mother and wanted no "relief" from her 24-hour care. So they sent cards. Mail call was a big event every day. Daddy would sit on the bed when my mother was awake and open an impressive stack of mail every day. We used to joke that if each person would have enclosed a dollar with each card, we could retire.
They brought food, as well. Oh, did they bring food! Little old ladies came with casseroles and pies. Businessmen in Mercedes pulled up at the door with marinated meats and dainty side-dishes. If we had had any decency we would have opened a soup kitchen. We never turned down the food, though, because it was people's way to show their love for my mother who had always shown love in action to those around her.
Those final days when we knew she was dying gave time for many people to say goodbye, each with their own privacy. Her many brother and sisters came into town, singly and in groups, to cuddle close to their beloved sister one more time. Many of her nieces and nephews came, too, to hug their Aunt Glenda and tell her what she had meant to them. People from all over her life checked in, from childhood friends to old boyfriends to her current circle of people. Each needed and wanted time with her, and each had time.
Death and suffering focused us all. Life became very simple and pure. As her hours of consciousness lessened, all lesser things fell away. "I love you" became the only words she would say in her few minutes of consciousness, and when her voice could no longer say it her eyes could. Irritations, details, annoyances, trivialities were burned way by those days of death and suffering, leaving only the pure gold of love.
Lastly, for those of us closest to her, her last days of suffering and death proved to us that faith can hold on to the end. She faced her death with trust in her Maker and love for her family. She never "clutched.” Although death was, on a basic level, incomprehensible to her as a human being, she knew God in whom she believed and "was persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day."
May that day come quickly, when I can see my Maker and my mother once more!
Allison, May 7, 2010
That essay talks about how she died, but didn't she live well, too . . . there's a reason I call her the most important woman in the world. She was a woman of action, a problem solver, a sturdy, strong woman of God who moved on a straight-forward path and always did her duty. What a woman to have as a mother!
Hey, AUNT Sandra--my secretary/friend Susie has a mother-in-law who is dying from ovarian cancer. She and I have been talking about it, of course. I mentioned to her that the last days of death and suffering have their purpose too, and we talked about it for awhile. The she called me to write down my thoughts on the subject.
It became a much more personal (and longer) thing than she probably intended. In any case, I thought I'd send it to you, as one of the small circle of people who love my mother every day and forever.
July 4, 2009
My mother died of ovarian cancer some years ago. She underwent chemotherapy and multiple surgeries, but eventually the doctors announced that there was nothing else they could co. She was sent home to die.
My mother was a Christian woman and was not afraid to die. She saw no point, however, in the waiting process, which bound to be unpleasant. Her attitude was that if she could just know "I'll die tomorrow," she would be OK with it.
That, of course, was not to be. The doctors took her off all nutrition because tumors were blocking her bowels. In effect, she starved to death. It took about six weeks.
Starving to death was not, strangely enough, painful in and of itself. During that time, however her tumors continued to grow, as did her pain. Her hospice care provider, Joe, provided us with morphine for pain. The medication was in the form of an IV drip for pain management and a liquid to put under her tongue for acute pain. Joe also let us know that the morphine could kill her, if we upped the dosage – and that some families, impatient with the process, quietly and without fuss turn up the dosage and speed up the process.
He also told us something else which we did not quite internalize at the time. He said that the last days of life, the suffering, the waiting, served a purpose.
We waited. We served my mother through her final days until the last. SHE waited. She took each day as it came and loved us to the end. And the end came, of course, and one day she took her final breath.
When we looked back, we realized that the final days did, indeed, have a purpose. My father, my brothers and I came together to care for my mother. Each of us had our jobs and our shifts, day and night. We cleaned her wounds and cleaned out her IV ports. We administered her pain medications and brought her ice chips to chew. We bathed her and brushed her hair. No stranger's hand touched her from the time she came home to her death. One or more of us stayed with her at all times, day and night.
At first she was conscious all normal hours. We could talk to her about everything. She helped us prepare for her own death. Her faith began and remained strong. My mother was not much of a preacher. She just had quiet, matter-of-fact confidence in the mercy of her Lord. "I know the Lord will find a way for me" was perhaps her favorite song, and she sang it and believed in it. "If I walk in Heaven's light, shun the wrong and do the right, I know the Lord will find a way for me."
She planned her own funeral with us, too. We would lay on her bed with pen and paper in hand and plan who would lead songs, and what songs they would sing, and who would read the prayers. Then we all sat around her bed and sang the songs she chose together. No, my mother was not afraid to die, thank God.
Eventually her hours of consciousness grew less and her pain grew more. We went from unconsciousness to moments when we would look up and see her eyes open and on us, and she would say "I love you," before unconsciousness took her again.
Eventually, there was a day with more consciousness than usual, when she told me that she thought she would die that day. She had me kneel beside the bed and she prayed for us. She prayed that God watch her family and see them again in Heaven, and she prayed that God come quickly for her.
She did not die, however, not that day. Instead she had a series of seizures, eyes rolling back in her bed, body rigid and, horrifyingly enough, tongue caught between her teeth and blood seeping out. We didn't let that happen again. Instead, my sister-in-law and I spent one night crouched by her side, watching her face for signs of the next seizure. Then we would know to pounce on her and get a wooden spoon between her teeth before her jaws clamped down once again and the shaking started.
That was a long night. She never really gained consciousness again. Instead she seemed to go into a sort of a coma. Her body felt rigid and unyielding to the touch. We still bathed her everyday and cleansed her wounds, but only her breath told us she was still alive.
Finally her breath, too, failed to be quite such a sure indicator of life. She would stop breathing altogether for a minute or more at a time. Many hours we spent, one by one, with our hands on her chest, waiting for the elusive breath to come. Days passed.
One night, after I had gone home for the evening and my brother and his wife had come for the night, the phone rang. My brother informed me that my mother had not breathed for more than five minutes. The end had come.
That night my family gathered together, we veterans of the last long weeks. We toasted each other and we toasted her life and her death. As time went on, we had the long leisure to consider whether Joe was right; whether those last days had, indeed, served a purpose.
Praise God, they had! Pain and suffering had done its job. They had weaned my mother away from life and made death a mercy, not a horror. When death came, my mother was ready to die.
And perhaps even more importantly, my mother's last days had drawn us together more than any other event in our lives, and we were already a close family. We did not spend our days in misery or fear, but in companionship and mutual service. How many hours did my brother and I spend lying down side by side doing the cross-word puzzle together in the sunshine of my mother's room, with her unconscious form on the bed beside us! All things made way for our shared love of our mother, the most important woman in the world to us. We learned to live in the moment. We really did not suffer from the thought of her eminent death, because right then she was alive and there was work to be done. We stopped everything to join in her final days of death.
Also her final hours were opportunities for all her friends, specifically her many church friends, to gather around her. Everyone wanted to help, everyone wanted to serve. The real problem was that we had so little for them to do. We jealously guarded our time with our mother and wanted no "relief" from her 24-hour care. So they sent cards. Mail call was a big event every day. Daddy would sit on the bed when my mother was awake and open an impressive stack of mail every day. We used to joke that if each person would have enclosed a dollar with each card, we could retire.
They brought food, as well. Oh, did they bring food! Little old ladies came with casseroles and pies. Businessmen in Mercedes pulled up at the door with marinated meats and dainty side-dishes. If we had had any decency we would have opened a soup kitchen. We never turned down the food, though, because it was people's way to show their love for my mother who had always shown love in action to those around her.
Those final days when we knew she was dying gave time for many people to say goodbye, each with their own privacy. Her many brother and sisters came into town, singly and in groups, to cuddle close to their beloved sister one more time. Many of her nieces and nephews came, too, to hug their Aunt Glenda and tell her what she had meant to them. People from all over her life checked in, from childhood friends to old boyfriends to her current circle of people. Each needed and wanted time with her, and each had time.
Death and suffering focused us all. Life became very simple and pure. As her hours of consciousness lessened, all lesser things fell away. "I love you" became the only words she would say in her few minutes of consciousness, and when her voice could no longer say it her eyes could. Irritations, details, annoyances, trivialities were burned way by those days of death and suffering, leaving only the pure gold of love.
Lastly, for those of us closest to her, her last days of suffering and death proved to us that faith can hold on to the end. She faced her death with trust in her Maker and love for her family. She never "clutched.” Although death was, on a basic level, incomprehensible to her as a human being, she knew God in whom she believed and "was persuaded that He is able to keep that which I've committed unto Him against that day."
May that day come quickly, when I can see my Maker and my mother once more!
Allison, May 7, 2010
That essay talks about how she died, but didn't she live well, too . . . there's a reason I call her the most important woman in the world. She was a woman of action, a problem solver, a sturdy, strong woman of God who moved on a straight-forward path and always did her duty. What a woman to have as a mother!
A sister and a friend
Glenda: What can I say? She and I were so close that when we talked several mornings a week that we didn't even have to stop and say what we were thinking about--just started talking in the middle of our thoughts. It was like we were on the same wave link. Bill just would say, "Can't you even say hello?" I told him it was not necessary. She knew where I was coming from.
From the time she was little, she was a one and only. Mother would say, "You girls (Edna and I) need to help her with her homework." She did not need any help! She was smarter and quicker than either one of us, but she had that deal figured out. She would curl up and take a nap while we helped her.
When it was time for Glenda to go to college, she said she would not go unless she could room with me. That was no problem. I was a "checker" at McKenzie Dorm at Abilene Christian and felt great because it paid for my room and board, but even felt better that I had a private bath and a larger room. We roomed together, but she and I had different friends. She liked the football guys. She and her friend, Merle Woody, had a good time. I majored in business education, so Glenda majored in business education. She and Bill were quite a pair! They preferred going out to eat to studying. Of course, I had to go also. But they had the advantage of having my notes on the classes. They did as well as I did, but both of them were smart.
Bill and I went to Odessa to visit Glenda and Al when Diana was just nearly a year old--just in time for Glenda to go into labor with Ben. He was born on September 7, 1961. We didn't stay long, as I remember. When Jim was born, my children and I went to help out. My memory of that time is that she was feeding Jim by the bottle. While I was doing some laundry, I left the nipples on the stove to sterilize--BUT the water boiled away and the nipples burned. Did you know that burning rubber stinks--bad!
We traveled together some, and one trip to Cimmeron, New Mexico, is vivid in my memory. Glenda was a good cook, and we had good food on that trip including French doughnuts! While we read our books, Al took about 5 of the children mountain climbing. He tied them together by ropes so they would not fall. We had good times.
And for the information of all of you who may be reading this, Glenda was the big help and driving force in keeping our family reunions together. She and I both wanted our families to remain close, and to do that, we had to get together once in awhile.
Of course, my memories of Glenda's last months are still tender with me after 15 years. She and Al went to Kentucky to see Al's sisters at school break. Glenda had an obstruction and had to have emergency surgery. That was on December 8, 1994--Jim's birthday. When she came out of surgery, she asked Al what kind of cancer she had. He tried to evade the question by saying the doctor wanted to talk to her. She told him that she had not been married to that doctor 30 years and she wanted to know what kind of cancer she had! When she called to tell me, she said different people had different chances for survival. I told her she had her work cut out for her--get busy and beat that cancer.
Sometime after her first treatment (I think it was), she and Al were here and were going to see Mother a last time. She got up and said she had a terrible headache. She thought maybe washing her hair would help. When she came back in the den holding a double handful of hair, she said "I thought I was ready for this." But she and I both were crying. I cry now even just remembering it. I thought I couldn't stand it, but even then she was thinking of me and my feelings. As hard as it is to believe, even when she was talking about her death, she asked me if I would be okay. There wouldn't be a body because she had donated her body to science. Can you believe that she was thinking of me? I couldn't.
I well remember the day she called (Allison dialed) both me and Betsy, I think. She said she thought that was the day! She couldn't control her hands. It wasn't the day, but oh, what a hard day it was.
I was there when she gave her jewelery and furs to Allison, Lou Ann, and Susan. It was a very tender time. But all those kids were wonderful during the time of her treatments. I have often said that Glenda not only taught us how to live, but also how to die. The kids gave her every attention possible to make those last days better. When I would express my grief, Allison would say we will live while she lives and grieve when she dies. Those kids were great as was Al.
From the time she was little, she was a one and only. Mother would say, "You girls (Edna and I) need to help her with her homework." She did not need any help! She was smarter and quicker than either one of us, but she had that deal figured out. She would curl up and take a nap while we helped her.
When it was time for Glenda to go to college, she said she would not go unless she could room with me. That was no problem. I was a "checker" at McKenzie Dorm at Abilene Christian and felt great because it paid for my room and board, but even felt better that I had a private bath and a larger room. We roomed together, but she and I had different friends. She liked the football guys. She and her friend, Merle Woody, had a good time. I majored in business education, so Glenda majored in business education. She and Bill were quite a pair! They preferred going out to eat to studying. Of course, I had to go also. But they had the advantage of having my notes on the classes. They did as well as I did, but both of them were smart.
Bill and I went to Odessa to visit Glenda and Al when Diana was just nearly a year old--just in time for Glenda to go into labor with Ben. He was born on September 7, 1961. We didn't stay long, as I remember. When Jim was born, my children and I went to help out. My memory of that time is that she was feeding Jim by the bottle. While I was doing some laundry, I left the nipples on the stove to sterilize--BUT the water boiled away and the nipples burned. Did you know that burning rubber stinks--bad!
We traveled together some, and one trip to Cimmeron, New Mexico, is vivid in my memory. Glenda was a good cook, and we had good food on that trip including French doughnuts! While we read our books, Al took about 5 of the children mountain climbing. He tied them together by ropes so they would not fall. We had good times.
And for the information of all of you who may be reading this, Glenda was the big help and driving force in keeping our family reunions together. She and I both wanted our families to remain close, and to do that, we had to get together once in awhile.
Of course, my memories of Glenda's last months are still tender with me after 15 years. She and Al went to Kentucky to see Al's sisters at school break. Glenda had an obstruction and had to have emergency surgery. That was on December 8, 1994--Jim's birthday. When she came out of surgery, she asked Al what kind of cancer she had. He tried to evade the question by saying the doctor wanted to talk to her. She told him that she had not been married to that doctor 30 years and she wanted to know what kind of cancer she had! When she called to tell me, she said different people had different chances for survival. I told her she had her work cut out for her--get busy and beat that cancer.
Sometime after her first treatment (I think it was), she and Al were here and were going to see Mother a last time. She got up and said she had a terrible headache. She thought maybe washing her hair would help. When she came back in the den holding a double handful of hair, she said "I thought I was ready for this." But she and I both were crying. I cry now even just remembering it. I thought I couldn't stand it, but even then she was thinking of me and my feelings. As hard as it is to believe, even when she was talking about her death, she asked me if I would be okay. There wouldn't be a body because she had donated her body to science. Can you believe that she was thinking of me? I couldn't.
I well remember the day she called (Allison dialed) both me and Betsy, I think. She said she thought that was the day! She couldn't control her hands. It wasn't the day, but oh, what a hard day it was.
I was there when she gave her jewelery and furs to Allison, Lou Ann, and Susan. It was a very tender time. But all those kids were wonderful during the time of her treatments. I have often said that Glenda not only taught us how to live, but also how to die. The kids gave her every attention possible to make those last days better. When I would express my grief, Allison would say we will live while she lives and grieve when she dies. Those kids were great as was Al.
Prayer and hope
Allison May 21, 1997
Steve Sandifer was a dear Christian friend of my mother. Once when she was upset about something she told me that she was going to talk to Steve, because she knew he would get down on his knees and pray with her.
I'm having the blues about my mother these days. It comes in spurts and in waves, and I'm beginning to recognize it. Probably if I read one of the books on mourning I would recognize many things. but a sort of pride keeps me away from such books. I suppose everyone likes to think their own grief is something special and unique.
But I miss her terribly, and I hate it for my kids and for Seth. Taylor keeps a picture collage of his grandmother by his bed, and talks to her regularly. It's an appropriate tribute, she loved him dearly.
You remember the day she called from the house for you (Sandra) and Aunt Betsy to come to her? She got scared that day, for really the first time, and she needed her big brother and sister. My Aunt Betsy amazes me. I remember her that day, in all her womanliness and strength. She could let my mother lean on her, could pet her and stroke her in the face of the terrible fear. I want to grow up like that.
Steve Sandifer was a dear Christian friend of my mother. Once when she was upset about something she told me that she was going to talk to Steve, because she knew he would get down on his knees and pray with her.
I'm having the blues about my mother these days. It comes in spurts and in waves, and I'm beginning to recognize it. Probably if I read one of the books on mourning I would recognize many things. but a sort of pride keeps me away from such books. I suppose everyone likes to think their own grief is something special and unique.
But I miss her terribly, and I hate it for my kids and for Seth. Taylor keeps a picture collage of his grandmother by his bed, and talks to her regularly. It's an appropriate tribute, she loved him dearly.
You remember the day she called from the house for you (Sandra) and Aunt Betsy to come to her? She got scared that day, for really the first time, and she needed her big brother and sister. My Aunt Betsy amazes me. I remember her that day, in all her womanliness and strength. She could let my mother lean on her, could pet her and stroke her in the face of the terrible fear. I want to grow up like that.
Taylor Blizzard story
Candlelight Church of Christ supports a missionary in the Philippines. The missionary came to speak at our church one night. His complexion was dusky and his face had a slight Asian cast to it. Taylor noticed the foreign tang and the following conversation ensued:
Taylor: "Mother is he from China?"
Allison "No,Taylor he's a missionary from the Philippines."
Taylor "Gee he must be awfully sorry that Goliath lost!"
Taylor: "Mother is he from China?"
Allison "No,Taylor he's a missionary from the Philippines."
Taylor "Gee he must be awfully sorry that Goliath lost!"
Important Documents and Letters
| glenda_letter_1986.pdf |
