Tag: John Stith

The Best Answer

One of my nieces, Pam Stith, told me this story.  Here goes:

I was in second grade when my Daddy [John F. Stith Jr.] decided to go back to college, to the University of Alabama, to finish his degree. We moved to Tuscaloosa into a small apartment in student housing. My little brother, Paul, was about two and was put to bed earlier than his big brother and sister. Some nights he had trouble going to sleep. He would call out from the back bedroom, “Daddy, I can’t go to sleep.”

Daddy would say, “Just close your eyes.”

In a minute Paul would say, “I can’t, I can’t close my eyes.”

John F. Stith Jr.
John F. Stith Jr.

Daddy would get up from his big red leather chair and walk back to the bedroom. He would lean over the side of the bed and tuck the blankets. Paul would close his eyes and Daddy would reach down and very gently touch Paul’s eyelids. Then Daddy would whisper.

“Your mama loves you. Your daddy loves you. Your brother loves you.  Your sister loves you. Your Grandmama loves you.”

And the listing would continue. If Daddy skipped anybody, Paul would ask, “What about Aunt Jane?”

“Your Aunt Jane loves you,” Daddy would say.  “Your Uncle John loves you.  Your cousin Alice loves you.”

When Daddy finished all the family, he would move on to the neighbors.  And every night he would finish with, “But Jesus loves you most of all.”

The university had converted an old hospital into student housing and the layout of the rooms was odd. The shower was made of tin and faced a back wall of the bathroom. One day when Daddy was taking a shower, he heard the bathroom door open and close. He knew someone had come in, but no one said anything, so he called out, “Who’s there?” No response. Louder, he said, “Who’s there?” No response. A third time he called out – this time sternly, “Who’s there?”

Paul Harrison Stith
Paul Harrison Stith

Paul was standing in the bathroom and had not uttered a sound. He thought he was in trouble, but he didn’t know why. He knew he needed an answer for his Daddy and a good one. Then he thought of it!

“It’s the boy that Jesus loves!”

Postscript: Paul Harrison Stith, the boy that Jesus loves, is now the pastor of Grace Heritage Church, a Baptist church in Auburn, Alabama.

Coming Monday: Time To Fess Up

 

 

 

 

Liar!

This is Brother John’s story –he was there– about a man who called Dad a liar.

“Liar” is what I call a gasoline word to my Dad –explosive– a slur he would not tolerate. And, of course, whether he was lying or not made absolutely no difference: no one called him a liar and remained unharmed.

John said he and Dad were on their way from our farm near Gadsden, Alabama, where we lived then, to Charlotte to make Dixie Dew Syrup — the syrup that “Gives A Biscuit A College Education.”  Dad had a syrup plant in Charlotte.

John F. Stith Sr., age 20-something
John F. Stith Sr., age 20-something

They stopped at a restaurant along the way, a restaurant with booths on the side and picnic tables in the open area. John and Dad sat at a picnic table; four men sat in a booth nearby.

Dad was hard of hearing and, consequentially, he talked too loud. John didn’t remember what they were talking about. Politics, maybe. Religion. But whatever it was the men in the booth could hear. And one of them said, loud enough for Dad to hear, “Whoever said that is a liar.”

It didn’t matter they were all sitting in a restaurant having a meal, heck, it might not have mattered if they had all been sitting in church. And, of course, it didn’t matter that he might have to fight all four of them.

John said Dad didn’t walk around the picnic table, he walked across it. He put one foot on the bench where he had been sitting a moment before, the other foot on top of the table, the next foot on the bench on the other side of the table, and then back down to the floor.

The man who had called him a liar stood up and Dad hit him once and knocked him down. The man made no effort to get back up.

John said Dad looked at the other three, waiting on them to stand up and fight. But they didn’t move either.

Dad then walked back across the picnic table — bench, table top, bench, floor –sat down, picked up his sandwich, and began eating.

The fight was over.

NOTE: My father was 5-feet, 7 and 1/2 inches tall.    I’ve posted a total of 23 stories about him, including “His First Name Was ‘Sir'” on Dec. 16, 2016, and “King Of The Castle” on Feb. 13, 2017.

Coming Friday: Zinger