I’ll remember many things about my father’s father. I think what I’ll remember most is him reading in the corner of the living room at my grandparents’ house down in Laurel, Miss. Whenever we would come in for a visit, if he wasn’t out working in the garden—something he just hasn’t had much stamina for in the last few years, and frankly for the better part of the decade—he would be in his chair, reading. It was pretty much a guarantee that it would be The Bible.
As I stop to think on it, I never did look to see if he had any favorite parts that he liked to review. Was he a Proverbs man, seeking advice from those before? Did he often read through the Gospels, seeking to unlock the mysteries of Life found in Jesus’s parables? Did he read through the strife and debauchery of found in the Kings and the Chronicles? Was it the Pentateuch that drove him back again and again? Was he seeking something new in Paul’s epistles?
As much time as he spent upon reading what he certainly believed to be God’s inspired Word for His people, I’m sure that he read all of it, but perhaps he settled on one part or another.
But unfortunately, that chair is going to be empty of its prime sitter; Clyde Spencer Morris passed away this morning, having suffered another stroke, this one quite more serious than the rest, on Tuesday morning. It’s perhaps fitting for him to have died during the Lenten season, when Christians are exhorted to deny the excess that this world so richly affords and focus more fully upon their faith; he was a frugal, faithful man, strong of conviction.