Spach

A Tribute to My Dad

by Mary Ellen Biddix Hollifield

Mitchell News-Journal, 29 January 1992, page 10A

My dad has been dead a year now. Some days it seems only yesterday, and other days it seems like forever since we have seen that smile he carried around. It was a smile you could never describe. It was a mixture of mischief, innocence, and lots of love. He had one for everybody.

I'm sure my family and I will never stop missing our dad and papaw. There are so many things I could say about him. The greatest of these was his faith in God and the life he lived. My dad practiced his beliefs seven days a week. I never once saw him do anything I thought was wrong.

I will never forget when we kids were little and would be sick in the night. Dad would get up without a complaint and get the fire going in our old wood stove. He would warm sweet oil and put it in our aching ears. Then he would say a little prayer and ask Jesus to make us well and stop the pain, and He always did.

After we all grew up and had our own children, the same practice followed through. When our children got really sick, we called dad to come and pray. His prayers were never loud or demanding. He talked to God in a way that you knew they were well acquainted.

Dad had a place in the woods near our house where he went to commune with God when things got too much for him or some neighbor or friend was in trouble. When he stopped going down there, we all knew something was happening to him that made us very sad. Dad was sick for several years with Parkinson's Disease, but he never lost his faith or his sense of humor.

My dad and mother took everybody in. We kept missionaries, teachers, orphans and many country preachers in our house. Sometimes they stayed for weeks. My mother was a good cook and everybody knew it.

We kids would get pretty annoyed at having so many preachers and their wives taking our beds and eating all the select pieces of chicken at mealtime. We never knew chicken had white meat, too, until we were grown. Now, I realize our lives were enriched by all those people.

It seemed we barely could make ends meet. However, my parents would let any child stay at our house who didn't have anywhere else to go. We once kept two children from an orphanage that closed down in Altapass, until they finally found a good home for them.

I remember special times at our house like when we made fudge or popped corn on cold winter nights. My dad would make all kinds of animal shadows on the wall with his hands. Sometimes, he would tell us really funny stories about things that had happened to him and his brothers and sisters. We would all laugh until our sides were sore. But never did we go to bed without a short Bible reading and prayers. If my dad could only have left one of us with his vast knowledge of the Bible, and his memory of hundreds of verses.

My dad was a doer. He didn't wait to see who was going to turn out to do the work that needed to be done at the church or the church campground. He went even if it meant losing two or three days pay or letting our own things go at home. Dad knew what building for eternity meant.

He was never impressed or intimidated by anyone's political views, social or economic standing. Titles meant nothing to him. He believed in one true church where salvation makes everyone a member.

I was privileged to be standing by my dad's side when he was making the crossing. It was something I will never forget. I know he saw something as he lay there looking up that made him no longer want to stay here. As one of my dearest cousins said, "He was a great warrior, who will fill the gap?"