In the Shadow of the Mustard Tree

I found this journal entry I wrote in the early 2000's as I sat on the hill outside the church I had grown up in, my father pastored and where I raised my children.  

Milestones in life, whether they be a new year, a special event, or the arrival of a new season, inspire reflection.  It’s as though one is standing on the brink of the present and overlooking a panoramic vista of life; a vista in which memories of the past merge with the hope for the future to create an intricately interwoven scene. 

In the landscape of my mind’s eye, I see a church standing on the hillside – my church.  The light shining from its windows warms me.  I strain to hear the echoes of the music and choir singing within.  Faces begin parading across the scenery.  Those I’ve known from childhood mix with the new faces, until a sweet, gentle face from the past superimposes itself.  The wrinkled visage of her countenance is aglow with the smile I remember so well- the face of Minerva “Irene” Lybarger.

May 4, 1904, nearly one hundred years ago, Irene began her journey through life.  Her voyage was to be one of hardship.  Early in childhood she faced the death of her mother followed by years of being put out to work.  During those times, it was common for parents who couldn’t afford to care for their children to send them to work on nearby farms where they slept in the barn lofts, often crying themselves to sleep – alone with no family nearby to comfort them in times of sorrow or sickness.  Such was the case for Irene.

Marriage brought no magical end to hardship.  A short-lived time of prosperity ended with The Great Depression.  In one day’s time, the young couple saw their promising store’s doors close for the last time.  Next came a short prison term that her husband, Freeman Wilbur Lybarger, served for bootlegging during the prohibition - in a desperate attempt to provide for his family.  World War II again took her husband away for a time, forcing her to care for her children on her own and moving her from Missouri to Pennsylvania. Then, alcoholism and a domineering personality stole the joy from her marriage when her husband finally returned from war.

The smile that lingers before me does not match the life’s story of Irene.  Her joyful character did not stem from this world.  The year was 1930 when things began to change for this young lady.  She went to a Pentecostal tent revival in Missouri (Brother Ben Pemberton was ministering) where she received the gift of the Holy Ghost and was baptized in the name of Jesus.  How well I remember the story she told so many times.  I recall the glow that seemed to surround her every time she recounted her conversion, and the shout that would spontaneously erupt every time she talked about Jesus.  Time did not steal her enthusiastic love for her newfound Friend.  Nor did life’s hardships steal the joy she had discovered.  Even though life became no gentler, Irene found the Comforter that Jesus had promised to send his disciples in the book of Acts.

For more than 30 years Irene told the story of Jesus to her children and grandchildren.  For more than thirty years she planted seeds of faith in their hearts.  During the year of 1965, Irene began to see the seeds she had planted spring forth.  Two daughters found their way to a little Pentecostal church and were filled with the Holy Ghost they had heard about so many times.  Thus began a season of reaping for Irene that included grandchildren being saved and preaching the Gospel, and great-grandchildren being saved [at the posting of this piece there are 5 generations of Pentecostals and preachers]. She reaped a final reward months before her death when she witnessed the salvation of her 76-year-old husband.

Matthew 13:31 says “The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mustard seed, which a man took and sowed in his field: Which is indeed the least of all seeds: but when it is grown it is the greatest among herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the air come and lodge in the branches thereof.”

Irene’s joyful face slowly begins to fade, and I see again the warmly lit church, which was founded by her grandson.  I envision the thriving congregation and feel its vibrant atmosphere surrounding me.  The doors burst open and I see and hear a group of children laughing and playing.  Among those bathed in the glow from the door left ajar behind them are my own two children.  My heart swells and a tear escapes my eye as I look toward the sky hoping for one last glimpse of my great-grandmother’s face.  I see only the stars, but can’t stifle the urge to whisper, “Grandma, I’m sitting in the shadow of a mustard tree. Thank you!”