Hallowed ground.

Our "family portrait" with residents grouped by floor (Spring 1988)

Once upon a time, Tower Manor occupied the corner of University Avenue and 20th Street in Austin, mere blocks from campus and directly across from the University Avenue Church of Christ campus center. Accommodations were far from deluxe in the aging three-story private dorm, but you couldn’t beat the hijinks that occurred within those walls. And the location was incredible!

Fifteen years or so after I graduated from UT, the value of that location outpaced the income the old building could provide. The University bought that block and tore down our beloved Tower Manor. In its place arose the AT&T Conference Center and Hotel, a much-needed on-campus meeting and lodging space. Opened in 2008, it was so many things Tower Manor never could’ve been, and truthfully, our old dorm likely had outlived its usefulness. But it was still so sad to see our former home torn down.

During the Longhorn Network's heyday, I frequently saw commercials for the new hotel, each touting the "Meet at Texas" line. Video of trendy bars, fancy dinners, even wedding receptions showed what that venue provided. 

At the end of the commercial, there was the address: 1900 University Avenue. Every time, just seeing that hurt my heart. It was another reminder that 1908 University Avenue was gone forever.

So since 2008, I have wanted to stay at the new place, just to be on that corner again. During football season, accommodations there are out of my price range, but when I traveled to Austin for March Madness a few weeks ago, the price was in the "Goldilocks zone"—not cheap but not THAT much more than my usual hotel in north Austin. Because I was traveling solo this time and would have some extra time on my hands, I figured I could use the AT&T Center as my homebase as I wandered around campus and the Drag a bit. And as a bonus, staying there meant I could just walk to Moody for the game that night. So I booked it!

Of course, I LOVED my stay there. Everything is UT-themed, from the art in the halls to the prints in the rooms. 

One print in my room is a painting of the Tower from an old post card—one I just happened to buy off eBay not that long ago.

The two guest elevators are named and decorated for the nearer landmark: the Capitol to the south...

...and the Tower to the north. 

It did my burnt-orange heart good to take in all the Longhorn lore represented. The main restaurant, for example, is The Carillon, named after the bells in the Tower. The downstairs bar? Gabriel's, as in the one who blows his horn at the end of our alma mater.

As much as I enjoyed the nice interiors, I kept gravitating toward the lobby windows to check out the view to the east. 

Right across that University Avenue median is where our Biblical Studies Center once stood. 

I'm sure I crossed that median hundreds of times during my two years in Tower Manor. The BSC was home to Bible studies, meals, parties, and random hangouts when we would play pool or ping pong, watch Australian rules football, or just sit and chat (and pretend to study) around the wagon-wheel coffee table.

One of the desk clerks noticed me staring out the window and taking a photo or two, so he asked if I needed anything. I'm sure he regretted asking because I had to tell him that I used to live on this corner. Yes, I became "that old lady" compelled to share my own "back in MY day..." story. He indulged my ramblings and had the courtesy/customer service to at least pretend to be interested in what USED to be on this block.

Hotel entrance

Grand staircase

University seal

So yes, it was a treat to spend a night in that burnt-orange haven on University Avenue, taking in all the fancy hotel features. But the biggest luxury was having an excuse to reminisce about the late nights, the uncontrollable giggles, and the dear friends who years earlier had already made that city block unforgettable.

For Jim.

For years, Jim Hackney's Sunday morning Facebook posts encouraged us to grab a cup of coffee and have a chat. It's not Sunday, but the coffee and memories are flowing, and these thoughts need somewhere to go. Nobody can compose a Facebook chat like Jim Hackney, but bear with me because I'm going to share anyway.

Brett and I were on our way home from Austin when we got the news that Jim had passed away. As we drove through the darkness, side by side, we talked about how much Jim—our minister, pastor, and friend—has meant to us. We will celebrate our 30th anniversary this summer, and we fully acknowledge that Jim Hackney is a big reason why. When our marriage was in trouble many years ago, we reached out to Jim in our desperation. A couple of times he met us in his office late into the evening, hearing us, being there for us, advising us in those days of crisis. Of all the inspiring words he shared, the most powerful were about his bride, Sue, and the depth of their love for each other. He helped us see the beauty of a lifelong commitment, and he led us to the help we needed to fight for our marriage. Take our experience and extrapolate it to 50-plus years of Jim’s ministry, and that yields countless families that benefited from his counsel.

This morning, sitting in my living room, I recalled another morning 11 years ago when Jim sat on our couch to plan his eulogy for my mom’s funeral. He had known my mom in her later years, but he patiently listened as in my numb state I recounted stories about her younger days. He beautifully shared Mom’s testimony at her service a few days later. Jim had been with us through her many hospitalizations, and he was with us in those precious days when our grief was new and our world suddenly so very empty. And he did the same for many others! As a minister and a hospital chaplain, he prayed over thousands of people in hospital rooms and funeral homes, “rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning with those who mourn.”  

And now, as I sit at my computer, I’m recalling all the weekends I spent alone with Jim—or his words, anyway! From 2006 until 2013, most of my weekends began with an email from Jim. He would send me his sermon notes and slide outline, and I’d crank out a Powerpoint to accompany his Sunday message. I loved helping him with those slides, and he showered me with gratitude. But the best part was getting to be the first to “hear” his lessons. Jim was a gifted communicator, able to make his sermons “meaty” and yet easy to comprehend. He challenged us with truths that could make us uncomfortable, but those messages were always wrapped in love—his God-given, from-the-heart, sincere compassion for us.

For years, Jim's automated phone calls reminded us, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!"

In our recollections last night, Brett and I kept coming back to Jim’s sincerity. Considering how many people he dealt with, it would’ve been easy, even understandable, for him to slip into platitudes or a “Reverend Lovejoy” type of script. But Jim truly saw us, took the time to really know us. He would thoughtfully consider our questions and respectfully respond with honesty. Jim was forthcoming about his own uncertainty, and with full transparency, he shared his faith journey’s twists and turns. After nearly 45 years at Heritage, he could have rested in the prestige he had earned, content with his tenure. Instead, he led by example, continuing to challenge himself. In his last sermon at Heritage, he admonished us, “We have to be so careful that we don’t feel like once we become a Christian, we have arrived. I mean, it’s too easy to become satisfied or complacent.” Jim never stopped studying, never stopped contemplating, never stopped serving others in his quest to be more like Christ. 

And he never stopped reminding us that this world is not our home. As recently as his Dec. 3 Facebook post, he wrote, "Enjoy life! It passes much too quickly! Do not be fearful! What waits beyond the veil of death is so much better!"

But it's not just his recent teachings that have emphasized life beyond this earthly one. In my sorrow this morning, I opened up the old "Sermon Slides" folder on my Mac, looking for the oldest sermon saved there. I found a couple from 2009 (older ones apparently lost when my previous laptop crashed). I randomly opened one file, and its topic floored me: "Trading This Life for What's Behind Door #1." 

The whole sermon is powerful, but here are a few slides that jumped out at me today:

And this slide that applies to Jim, as well!

In so many ways, we are all richer because Jim Hackney was our minister, our pastor, our friend. May the God of all comfort be with Sue and all the family, and may we all keep Jim's leadership, teaching, and example in our hearts.

P.S.

Here are a couple of special memories from Jim's last sermon as senior minister (Dec. 29, 2013).

• Excerpt from Jim's first sermon at Midtown 

• Slides from that sermon 

4,317 at Heritage as of December 2013—and more in the 10 years since!

Jim mentioned all the changes he'd seen, including Bible translations, dress code, and technology.

IYKYK :)  

Aunt Berniece.

My mentors: Aunt Berniece, Aunt Lois, Mom, and Granny.
Strong, capable, devoted, loving.

Last week we celebrated the life of Aunt Berniece, my dad’s sister. And what a life it was! Throughout the funeral we heard about her service to others, her strength and strong will, her love for her family. Of course, none of that was a surprise. We were blessed to witness those qualities firsthand.  

Uncle Gerald, Aunt Berniece, cousin Annette, my dad, cousin Susan

Aunt Berniece (center) with my grandparents, Aunt Lois, and Daddy.

With Annette and Susan at my grandparents' 50th anniversary party

Widowed at 47, she faced multiple challenges, but her faith never wavered. In those years after my Uncle Gerald died, she took some vacations with my parents and me. I remember lots of singing and laughing on those road trips. 

We got into some trouble in Colonial Williamsburg.

And then there was the time we did a little shopping in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Daddy made some comment about limiting their shopping to what Mom and Berniece could fit in our car. Challenge accepted! They spent the drive home with their purchases on their laps, but they managed! 

When my dad died, Aunt Berniece was a steadfast source of strength and support for my mom, who was just 49 when Daddy passed away. When Brett and I got married the next year, she was quick to jump in and help with the planning and prep work. I don’t know how many birdseed roses she made, but I know it was a lot!

The roses were a family wedding tradition.

Aunt Berniece and our friend Lydia did a great job with rose assembly!

With Granny, Aunt Lois, and Uncle Don at my wedding

Helping my cousin Linda with my cake

Ryan and Katie loved going to Aunt Berniece’s house in Houston, just like I did when I was a little girl. We enjoyed so many meals, so much laughter, so much love there! Then that house—where she had lived for decades—flooded twice in two years. During one of those floods, as her refrigerator floated in the rising waters, she spent the night on her kitchen island until help could arrive. 

During Hurricane Ike, Aunt Berniece came to visit
my mom (and us!) for a few days.

 

At the funeral service, we heard all about the canasta and Mexican Train games Berniece organized, her much-loved senior camp retreats at Bandera, her volunteer work with her church's prison ministry, the way she would drive friends to church, how she was there every time the doors were open.

Playing Mexican Train at Susan's house

Those stories came as no surprise. We already knew how seriously Aunt Berniece took her games, and we had seen how she served others and shared Jesus. But a few years ago, I learned something new about Aunt Berniece. Her sister, my Aunt Lois, gave me the most precious steno pad. In it, my grandmother had written "A Sketch of Jim (Partial)," an account of my father's childhood with hemophilia. 

Granny wrote about how much Berniece and Lois doted on their little brother, trying to protect him from bleeds and bruises. Granny recounts the time that the sisters sulked because Granny had spanked Daddy! 

Check out Granny's response: "I realized he must be punished
or he would become a child that no one would love." Whoa.

A few pages later, Granny explains that because of Daddy's frequent hospitalizations and crazy medical bills, the family struggled financially. That's where Berniece came in.

In those pages I learned that Aunt Berniece, fresh out of high school, had taken a job as a bookkeeper. She "went beyond her responsibility" to help her parents pay the bills. Even though this was news to me, it shouldn't have been a surprise that she would do this, considering how much she loved her family.

With her daughter/my cousin Susan during one of our more recent visits to Houston 

In the last few years, anytime I talked to Aunt Berniece, she would provide an assessment of her current challenges, from health issues to moving into a senior living apartment. Regardless of the struggle, she could never complain without adding the same statement: "I'm blessed." Even as she outlived her siblings, in-laws, and friends, she never stopped counting her blessings.

As Aunt Berniece would say, "Well..." Well, my dear aunt, YOU were a blessing to all who knew you. We love you and we miss you, and we will never forget your strength, your spirit, and your inspiring life.

Frisco.

I couldn't even pet her. This crazy-strong dog—part Blue Heeler, part Mack truck—was too wild for me. Frisco consistently saw my hands as chew toys or chicken nuggets, so anytime I tried to make nice, she jumped up and bit me. I couldn't handle her idea of "playing."

Most of the dogs in my childhood were much smaller and certainly more docile, so at first, I wasn't convinced this stray was such a great fit for our family. But oh, how Brett loved her! He was patient with her, willing to walk and play and wrestle the wildness out of her. He saw her rambunctiousness for what it was: "She just loves too much!" As Brett’s attachment to Frisco grew, my resistance faded. I love him, and he loves her; therefore, I'm a fan.

Frisco made herself at home at our Watauga house. She was especially fond of our pool—not because she wanted to swim, but because she loved hanging out while we did (and licking the pool water from Brett's hair!). Her favorite perch was our patio table because it put her at just the right height for ear scratches.

She also enjoyed the two-story deck that gave her access to our roof. Many a visitor was surprised to find our "guard dog" keeping watch from the shingles.

After we moved, it didn't take long for her to learn the new neighborhood trails, expecting us to take the long way home each time.

In the months after my mom died, we decided our backyard could handle another pooch, so here came my little punkin. When Daisy first joined us, she was just a "hint of a whiff of a puff," tiny compared to Frisco. But our big girl took to sisterhood like a champ, always patient, always sweet, always gentle with the new baby.

It may have also been Frisco's age, but having a puppy around tamed our wild child. What's funny is that once I had a smaller dog that I could walk, Frisco herself was calm enough for me to manage. Brett's the chief dog-walker, but we spent many an evening with his and her pups towing us down sidewalks.

As Daisy grew, so did her diva-hood. (We don't call her the princess for nothin'!) She's the one who scratches the backdoor just seconds after going outside. She's the one who would growl if Frisco even looked at the favored squeaky fox. Daisy's the top dog who expects—nay, demands—first dibs at the treats.

But Frisco? She never growled at the little white doggy-come-lately. Even though Frisco was much stronger, she never bullied or overpowered Daisy. She was certainly jealous when Daisy had Brett's attention, but she was always gentle with the little sister.

Thursday night, it was Daisy's turn to be gentle. Within a 24-hour span, Frisco's demeanor had changed, and we knew our time with her was running out. Daisy seemed to know it, too, snuggling next to her buddy on the back porch, giving her space when she wanted it, and staying extra calm around us, the heartbroken humans.

As we said our goodbyes, loving on Frisco as best we could, we cried and reminisced and laughed and cried some more. Our big girl was tired, and it was her time to go. We each had our moments to scratch her gray forehead, to rub that big ol' belly, to remind her what a good girl she was. It was so, so hard to go to bed that night, to leave her, to scratch those ears for the last time. When we first got her, I couldn’t even pet her, but now that she’d been part of our family for so long, I didn’t know how to stop.

Frisco Dub, 2007(ish)-2020