I told a health care practitioner last week that I’d be attending two memorial services the next day. He groaned, “Oh, that’s too bad!” He seemed unconvinced when I told him I don’t mind attending celebrations of life for people who have loved Jesus and gone to be with him after their death.

Yesterday we attended another celebration another life. This one was for Bob McDowell, my long-time friend and mentor.

I was still a teenager when Bob McDowell first gave me a job.

He hired me to do clerical work for the Greater Seattle Sunday School Convention. I processed registrations, filled participants’ packets, answered the phone, and other simple clerical tasks. It was just a few hours a week but it fit my schedule.

I loved it! The office was in the basement of the McDowell home. With a two-line telephone in their house I could put a caller on hold or buzz Bob or Muriel on their home line if I had a question. I was amazed.

Not long after that he recruited me to organize the audio/visual library at the Conference Office where he worked for our denomination. Churches could check out AV presentations, but the library needed to be organized. This was long before computers, VSH tapes, and DVDs. What we had was dozens of filmstrips, 16 mm movies, and other audio/visual teaching tools that needed to be sorted and catalogued. I spent several weeks bringing order to a room much in need of TLC.

Bob became the director of Warm Beach Camp in the early 70s. When I needed a summer job during his early days there I called Bob and asked if there might be an opening I could fill. The camp was my favorite place in the world, and it seemed like the perfect fit for me.

“Well,” Bob told me, “I can promise you part-time work for the summer, but after that there’s no guarantee.” That was fine with me. I hired on as an assistant to Muriel, Bob’s wife and administrative assistant. I filed, answered phones, did registration and room assignments, helped in the print shop, managed the mailing list, and became the camp’s first bookstore manager. Needless to say, I never ran out of work, and I stayed three years.

I loved my job at the camp—the setting, the tasks, and the people. The camp was about the business of lifting up Jesus, and that’s what I wanted to do. On Wednesday evenings I assisted Bob and Muriel with the youth group. And one spring break we loaded up the camp’s secondhand bus and took the youth to East Los Angeles and Ensenada, Mexico.

But as much as I enjoyed working with the McDowells at the camp and the church, it was the music that blessed me the most.

If you knew Bob, you knew his love for music. The following is taken from the bulletin of his Celebration of Life:

“Music was Bob’s love language. A concert quality pianist, polished vocalist, and skilled accompanist, he most enjoyed sharing the love of Jesus through music. His beautiful baby grand piano, gifted to him by his parents, Elmer and Eva McDowell, at age 11 has graced the family living room for 81 years…”

He often sat down at the piano in Cedar Lodge chapel when there was a lull in the activities. It was like the dinner bell calling folks to the table. Only it was a call to come join in the music. Young people would find a spot around the piano and we’d sing hymns until our voices were weak and, perhaps, Bob’s fingers were too.

Bob playing his Grand Piano

How well I remember those old days when, at youth retreats or camp staff events, we’d gather around the piano and sing our hearts out as Bob played. With Bob supplying the piano and me supplying the words (I love the hymns, as you may remember, and know most of the verses; I can’t help it, it’s just me) one song could go on for quite a while. And there were plenty of songs.

I remember one particularly raucous evening, after the planned program had finished but no one was ready to call it a night, that we gathered around Bob at the piano and started jamming. It was loud, and everyone was wailin’. Well, nobody was playing the string bass so I lifted it up on its peg, and started wildly plunking strings, my fingers jabbing at what I hoped were somewhat in-tune notes. “Ginger, I didn’t know you played the bass!” Bob said. “I don’t!” I replied. But it was sure fun trying!

Bob, as one of a host of people whose lives were blessed from knowing you, I just want to say:

You saw me and took a chance on me. Some of the responsibilities you gave me were way out of my league. But you trusted me. You gave me direction, then got out of the way. You allowed a young woman to grow in skills and confidence.

You saw my heart for Jesus and you gave me a role in the church that let me share that love with teens.

You and Muriel welcomed me into your home, reinforcing the virtues of a loving family that my parents modeled for me.

And the music, which flowed through your fingers, gave me an outlet for singing the songs that were stored in my heart.

We were friends for fifty years. Thank you for believing in me. And for the many ways you encouraged me.

One day I’ll see you again in the presence of Jesus. Oh, the fun we’ll have with a crowd gathered around the piano, us singing all the verses! And if you hear a string bass hitting all the right notes, I’ll catch your eye and we’ll have a good laugh!

Your friend,

Ginger

*The title of this post are the words of Psalm 116:15.

All photos were from Facebook and were used by permission.