Upchurch Chronicles

April 24:

A good report today! Quoting my brother, Daddy has taken “a miraculous turn for the better.” He is tentatively scheduled to be moved into a rehab unit May 5, the day after his 90th birthday.

April 18:

The best things going in Daddy’s favor right now are: (1) his will to get well and go back home with Mama and (2) my brother and sister-in-law. They are loving and attentive, and know how to communicate with doctors and make informed decisions about his treatment. Daddy remains in critical care but, as of today, there is marked improvement and the medical consensus is that he will recover.

April 14:

The man you may know as Hal or Brother Hal, Daddy to me, is critically ill. If he lives until May 4, 2008, he will be 90 years old. The siege upon his body, beginning with a fall on February 12, has been marked by one inexplicable development after another, leaving the medical professionals both baffled by his condition and astounded by his tenacity.

My mom, brother, and sister-in-law, all in Monahans, are holding up as well as anyone could under the daily stress. My husband and I will be making the trip from our home in New Braunfels every chance we get. We are all deeply grateful for the outpouring of loving concern throughout this difficult time in the life of our family.

While in Monahans last week, I scanned all the family photos, which jogged many a memory of my own. I will be recording them here, along with medical updates, as time permits and information is available.

Blessings all around,

-Mary

Hal & Jerry’s relationship has spanned seven decades.

They both grew up in rural communities within a few miles of each other, but did not meet until their late teen years, when the lovely young Geraldine Heath, while visiting friends in Itasca, attended the church frequented by the Upchurch family. As Hal would write 60 years later:

When I saw her in the choir loft,
With her beige hat and brown ribbon,
With her smile and shining blue eyes,
I was zapped as ne’er before.
My heart somersaulted, flip-flopped,
Palpitated and gyrated,
And I heard The Whisper whisper:
“You have found her, search no more.”

Seated behind her there in the choir loft, the shy farm boy somehow managed to position himself so that the ribbon trailing from her hat fell squarely across his knee. And thus was forged an electrified bond that remains unbroken after 70 years.

To the consternation of her mother, Geraldine’s name was soon shortened to Jerry. But Willie Heath, loving her future son-in-law as her own, couldn’t hold a grudge over that.

After high school, Jerry boarded with a family in Dallas, where she worked as a retail clerk. She became involved in church activities with a group of young people, and Hal joined them whenever possible. On one such occasion, a young man in the group lagged behind after the event to offer the couple a ride. When they reached their destination, he turned to Hal and said, “I am going to do everything in my power to take her away from you.” Little did he know how powerless he would be on that quest.”

With help from a group of farmers in his community and his former pastor, Dr. John Cobb, who had become Dean at Wayland Baptist College in Plainview, Hal was able to attend that school. He enrolled mid-semester, drawing immediate attention from classmates. As Dr. Cobb later related to Jerry, a group of the young ladies formed “The Hallers Club,” their mission being to learn everything they could about the new arrival. When they presented Dr. Cobb with a long list of questions about Hal, he turned the page over and wrote three words on the back: “Dallas. Dallas. Dallas.”

In 2007, Hal & Jerry celebrated 66 years of marriage, a blessed union that has been a tough act to follow. Their children can’t recall ever hearing a cross word spoken in the home, and can but speculate on the powerful formula for their success.

The Recipe

God surely somehow found a moment to spare
and decided to make something scrumptiously rare.
With His own hands He measured & balanced & weighed
the best of the good things He’d already made.

* * *

He blended compassion and love and devotion,
the wisdom of rivers that flow to the ocean,
the patience of redwoods that reach for the skies,
the genuine trust in a puppy dog’s eyes,
the vision of prophets to follow their dream,
the courage of salmon in swimming upstream,
the strength of a grizzly bear guarding his den,
the comforting peace of a cool forest glen,
the radiant warmth of the sky’s brightest star,
the obedience of wildflowers to grow where they are,
the resolute whisper of hummingbirds’ wings,
the consonant chords of an angel’s harpstrings,
the freshness of dew and the sweetness of clover,
the rainbow’s assurance when storms have passed over,
the depth of the sea and the salt of the earth,
the perfect composite of ultimate worth.
Then God gave his mixture a final inspection,
and said, “This is good,” but on further reflection,
He said, “One ingredient’s missing here, really.”
so sprinkled in just the right dash of Pure Silly.
Then, judging His handiwork perfect, He chose
prime vessels and filled them from hairlines to toes.
Thus made from the same recipe, Hal and Jerry
were destined to find one another and marry.

* * *

On the fourth of September, Nineteen Forty-One,
the angels rejoiced, knowing God’s will was done.
And then the Lord smiled upon me and my brother
and gave them to us for our father and mother.

-Mary Kay

Another beginning. Daddy has walked many a straight mile, and he will be crossing the vale very soon. The turn for the better reported last week was apparently not intended for the side we see. He has been moved into Hospice care, where he is resting comfortably. Our family is together in Monahans, and we are all at peace, knowing the next magnificent vista is just a step ahead for him now. As he wrote in The Whisper

As they witness my departure,
Those I love and leave behind me
Will be touched by grief and sorrow,
And shall murmur: “There he goes.”
Over on the other shoreline,
Those who watch for my arrival
Will rejoice with joy eternal,
And shall whisper: “Here he comes.”

We are told it will be hours, not days.

Mama is doing remarkably well. These months of uncertainty have taken their toll, but seem to have been needed as preparation for the loss. Read on for seeds of the the neverending story of their love.

Our hearts are flowing with gratitude for the many expressions of love and concern for my parents across the years and during this time of transition. I will post more news as soon and as often as possible.

The beloved Hal Upchurch made his transition from this world on the afternoon of May 1, 2008. A memorial service will be held at Southside Baptist Church, 1402 South Main, Monahans, Texas 79756 on Monday, May 5, at 10:00 AM. It was his wish that, in lieu of flowers, anyone wishing to honor his memory would do so with a contribution to:

The Hal Upchurch Scholarship Endowment
Office of Institutional Advancement
Wayland Baptist University
1900 W. 7th St.
Plainview, TX 79072-6998

In his own words:

In Lieu of an Obituary

I, Robert Harrell (Hal) Upchurch, the 4th born son of Frank and Winnie Upchurch, was born on a farm near Itasca, Texas, on May 4, 1918, where I was raised as the brother of Harry, Howard, Chester, Alice and Buddy.

On September 4, 1941, in the Belknap Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas, I was married to Mary Geraldine (Jerry) Heath.

I was the father of Hal Rhea and Mary Kay Upchurch, the grandfather of five grandchildren, five great-grandchildren, and the step-grandfather of other dear ones.

In my extended ministry, which spanned more than 70 years, I pastored churches in Texas, Wyoming, and Colorado. I preached, sang, taught, held revivals, bible studies and cowboy camp meetings, and engaged in other church-related activities in 29 of our 50 United States; and in Mexico, Hawaii, Okinawa, Japan, Egypt and Israel; and in Rome, Italy, where people from 32 different nations registered as visitors in the Sunday morning service.

I was the fellow pilgrim of an innumerable host of inexpressibly dear friends and faithful comrades who loved, encouraged, strengthened and blessed me across the 90 years of my life; whose names I have ceaselessly whispered in the ears of our heavenly Father; which, “over there,” in our eternal “Zion” I hope to continue doing until time is no more, and all of God’s children are safely gathered across “the river that has no bridge,” and are numbered among the eternal family of faith in the land of “many mansions;” in which there shall be no more pain, hurting, sickness, suffering, sorrow, separation, loneliness nor death.

In this world I learned, and, for more than 70 years, proclaimed the truth that shall be divinely and repeatedly confirmed in the world that is to come: “To live on in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die.”

And so, my beloved family and my beloved friends: Hold me in your hearts until the Lord sends His seraphic servant to sound His summons for you to come home to Him; and, in the morning, I shall be waiting for you “over there.” Selah!

Slide Show
Program

I believe one of the most loving things a person can do for family is make one’s wishes clear about final arrangements. Daddy planned his, for the most part, 15 years ago. What he didn’t take into account was that it would occur only six months after relocating across the state from the home and community he had called home for 30 years. Nonetheless, I have no doubt that everything was exactly as he would have wanted it.

The memorial took place on Monday, following a private family graveside service on Saturday. Among his express stated wishes were:

• No flowers in the sanctuary, except for a single red rose alongside a photo of him as a young man and one as an old man.
• No flowery or ritualistic speech.
• Scripture (his choice) read from the King James.
• Songs (his choices) sung heartily.
• A copy of “The Whisper” for everyone attending.

To the rose/photo arrangement we added his well-worn Bible and a slide show, which can be viewed here. (The original slide show, created by Nancy Upchurch from photos I compiled, included some impressive visual effects that are not transferable to the photo gallery on this site.) A web version of the program that was handed out at the service can be viewed here. If anyone reading this who knew my father but was unable to attend would like to have a hard copy of the booklet, contact me with your address and I will mail it to you.

Included in the “Memories of My Grandfather” by my nephew, Todd (who is a professional actor) were two poems our father wrote for my brother and me: “The Bandit Behind My Chair,” 1948, and “Happy Birthday, Mary Kay,” 1982, which will be posted in succeeding entries on this web log.

The service was well attended, ending with a triumphant repeat group rendition of “I’ll Fly Away” while exiting the beautiful sanctuary. The response from the community toward a man they didn’t know was incredibly generous, a testament to my brother and sister-in-law, who are long-time Monahans residents. Many from the area remembered my father from Kermit days (1960-68) and came to honor him. Some traveled across the state to be there, and others assured us they would have done so if they were physically able. The worship and music were in the hands of outstanding leaders. Our family’s hearts continue to overflow with gratitude for these things, and for the privilege of having Hal Upchurch as a husband/father/grandfather.

-Hal Upchurch, 1948

Stories are told of buccaneers bold
Who preyed on ships a-crest,
And of outlaw men who time and again
Plundered and pillaged the west.
This lawless breed, impelled by greed,
Divided their loot by the share.
Now each passing day I too fall prey
To the bandit behind my chair.

He’s only five but his mind is alive
To this make-believe medium of fun.
He conceals himself like a silent elf
And readies his two cap-guns.
At the close of each day he steals his way
To his favorite outlaw lair.
I know quite right I’ll be robbed tonight
By the bandit behind my chair.

He never feels that he is concealed
As long as his bright eyes glow,
But it’s quite all right if they’re out of sight
Regardless of what else may show.
There are many clues from his hat to his shoes
That betray where the bandit is hovered,
But I’m not supposed to notice those
As long as his eyes are covered.

At first I hear from behind my chair
The giggling bandit gay,
Then the giggle dies and the bandit’s eyes
Are fixed on his innocent prey.
Night after night I feign great fright
When I feel the bandit tense,
And the frightened surprise in his daddy’s eyes
Is the bandit’s recompense.

Swift and bold from his safe stronghold
The bandit appears for the kill,
And issues commands to raise both of my hands
If I want to stay out of boot hill.
Then quick as a flash he takes all of my cash
In the midst of my make-believe wails,
His cap-guns roar and I fall to the floor,
A dead man who’ll tell no more tales.

With grace and speed he remounts his steed
And races back to his lair
Where with gun in boot he divides the loot,
Each man in his gang gets a share.
Then plans are made for the next night’s raid
And his men ride away by the pair;
They feel great pride to ride by the side
Of the bandit behind my chair.

Later each night in the low-turned light
I kiss him and whisper my love,
And there by his bed with a low-bowed head
I pray to the Father above.
That wisdom from heaven to me shall be given
Each night is the theme of my prayer;
That through heavenly love I’ll be worthy of
The bandit behind my chair.

And there on my knee as I make my plea
Eternity whispers this truth;
Time’s rolling tide will take from my side
This first-born son of my youth.
When I’m led by His hand to the heavenly land
I will feel no more sorrow and care.
I shall know great bliss, but I’m sure I’ll miss
The bandit behind my chair.

My brother asked me how I would feel about having “The Bandit Behind My Chair” read at the memorial service, and whether there was anything Daddy had written that held as much meaning for me. Yes, indeed …

When I walked down the dirt road to my mailbox on a June day in 1982, little did I know the treasure that awaited me. Back at my kitchen table, I naturally tore into the manila envelope with the familiar return address first, surprised to see a brown paper bag folded in half. As I unfolded that crude paper, the tears immediately began to fall, even before I read the first line. In the center was a block of text, painstakingly typed letter-perfect by the Hal Upchurch two-fingered hunt-n-peck method. How many times did he have to start over? How long did it take him to plan and draw the lovingly-devised border of hearts, happy faces and assorted squiggles? To cut the scalloped edge? The poem alone is the finest tangible expression of the gift of love that anyone could ever hope to receive; the exquisite artwork renders it absolutely priceless. My scanner will not accommodate the full size of it, but a corner can be viewed here.

As you know, I live out in the boondocks,
And I found it exceedingly hard
To make my way into the city
To buy you a nice birthday card.

But had I been able to do so
I’d have searched through each store & each shop
For a card with a frilly-blue border
And a white curlicue at the top;
One with a baby-pink center,
Bedecked with a soft-downy lace,
Designed in the shape of a flaming red heart
With a warm, loving smile on its face.

I’d have wanted the best of all poets
To have captured in verse what I’d say
In tenderest words and expressions
To you on your happy birthday.

I’d have sent you the colors of sunset,
The warmth of an October noon,
The song of a lark in a meadow,
The aura of wildflowers in June;
Paths that were lined with red roses,
Hills that were covered with flowers,
Valleys with far-flung horizons,
Pine trees fresh-bathed in Spring showers;
Strength that would rout every weakness,
Courage to flaunt every fear,
Patience to wait for the morning,
Trust that would dry every tear;
The glow of an Aspenglen campfire,
The bright, cheery words that it spoke,
The voices we heard in the embers,
The faces we saw in the smoke;
Rest for your mind when it’s weary,
Peace for your heart when it’s torn,
Joy to dispel the night shadows,
Softness and sweetness of morn;
Love that would never be silenced,
Hope that was belted and gloved,
Faith that would walk through the darkness,
Comfort in knowing you’re loved.

I console myself in remembering
That had I tried ever so hard,
Had I searched and searched for a lifetime,
I could not have found such a card.

So, in my crude, simple fashion;
Not frilly, not fancy, I pray
That joy, and peace and contentment
Be with you on your dear birthday.

Once more, I know it’s not fancy;
But warm wishes and blessings I send
To one who’s not only my daughter,
But to one who is also my friend.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart

Daddy

Much has been written and spoken about my father, and in the near future I will share a 1991 poetic tribute to “My Hero.” But as Mother’s Day, 2008, draws to a close, I breathe another prayer of thanksgiving for the world’s best one, bar none. In recent weeks and months, watching her calmly endure the greatest trial of her life with phenomenal courage and grace, I can only say that the sentiment has deepened and widened in the 15 years since I wrote this poem for her.

When I Grow Up

When I was an embryo, wrinkled and wet,
God knew I would need all the help I could get.
In His infinite wisdom, He knew you would be
the world’s only mother who’d put up with me.