Resources on Wingard Family
This morning Lynne and I buried our beloved dog, Jem. For 17 years and 8 months, he brought happiness to our home. His sister, Scout, passed last year. Jem and Scout came to us in 2005 – long-haired miniature dachshunds from a Kentucky breeder. At the time, I was not a pet person, so Lynne let me name them after the sibling duo of our favorite American novel. Willie Morris and my former boss, Jack Cotton, wrote books about their dogs, My Dog Skip and A Dog’s Guide to Life: Lessons from “Moose” respectively. Lacking their literary gifts and keen insights into the canine/human affinity, I’ll make only a few comments. Good parents don’t play favorites. That said, I…
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“Mr. Wingard sure cut our hair short,” recalled Guy. He was speaking about my dad, George Wingard, who served as the assistant superintendent (and barber) of the Presbyterian Orphanage of Missouri in Farmington from 1959-1962. Guy grew up at the orphanage. In the 1990s it was converted to the senior apartments that are now his home. I met him last week before the start of the PCA’s General Assembly in St. Louis. But this wasn’t the first time our paths crossed. Guy and I would have been in church together often during my three years in Farmington. Children weren’t permitted to miss worship at Farmington Presbyterian Church unless they were sick. It was my family’s church home. My Uncle…
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I was baptized 61 years ago today. Here, my Uncle John is holding me in his lap. He drove from Memphis to Farmington, Missouri to baptize me on January 10, 1960. At the time, my father was assistant superintendent of the Presbyterian Home for Children of Missouri. Three weeks earlier, just before my second birthday, I was formally adopted into the family of George and Roberta Wingard, believers in Christ and members of the Covenant of Grace. Good Presbyterians, they believed the promises of the covenant are for believers and their children. Together, parents and child, share the sign and seal of the covenant – baptism. As many have said, when the sheep belong to the Savior, the lambs do,…
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I never knew my biological mother. Thirty years old and unmarried, she chose to deliver me, her fifth child, in another part of the state, away from family pressure to keep me. She had a ninth grade education. I am grateful to her for giving me life, for making a choice to put me up for adoption. Hers was a decision made for me, one that set the trajectory of my life. 61 years ago today – my Dad’s 36th birthday and two days before my second birthday – I was adopted into the family of George and Roberta Wingard. The decision to make me part of their family was wholly theirs. During my childhood and teenage years, they read…
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My approach to pastoral ministry is little more than doing what I saw my dad do. I cherish this 1951 article.* The second half describes the work of my dad, George Wingard, in his first pastorate. He was, it reads, “very much like an old-time circuit rider, except that he does his riding in a Chevrolet Carryall.” My father served in a home mission field in the rural mountains and valleys of Searcy County, Arkansas, a field that included Presbyterian Chapel, Welcome Church, Garrett Memorial Presbyterian Church, and Lyon Chapel. I remember my parents reminiscing about places like Marshall and Snowball. The article depicts my dad as I remember him: hardworking, cooperative with other Christian denominations, and willing to…
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Pastors have only one first church, and the Lord couldn’t have sent me to a better one. Thirty-five years ago today I was ordained and installed as pastor of Faith Presbyterian Church in Morganton, North Carolina. At my installation service, her members promised to encourage me in my pastoral labors. That they did, and much, much more.
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