Peter and I got married while I was still in College. He had graduated from Seminary and I had a few years left, so he found a job at a little Presbyterian Church down a winding road twenty minutes from Asbury. Those people became some of our dearest friends and to this day, when we are feeling discouraged or disoriented in our lives, we seek out those friends who have loved us and encouraged us and cheered for us relentlessly.This morning I was thinking of a dear lady, Sally, who went to be with Jesus earlier this year. Let me tell you about Sally. She was spunky. She was a little thing . . . so little that her husband, Whitney, built her a little stool so she could sit in the pew at church and rest her feet on something. She was a teacher to her core-- it didn't matter that she hadn't officially taught for years-- she was always teaching. If you've heard Peter preach, you'll notice he doesn't end his sentences in a preposition. That's because Sally took him aside one Sunday after he preached and taught him the proper grammar his Preaching Professors had overlooked.Most of all, Sally loved Jesus.
One summer, Crawford (a little boy then, now a college freshman!) came up to Peter and asked him a question. "Mr. Peter," he said, "What does Heaven smell like?"