In December 1994, our family pulled up in front of 940 Blue Mountain Lane in Antioch, Tennessee. My mother had never seen the house in person. She trusted my dad to pick out a house for us. We pulled up to the house with a moving truck, a red Chrysler van, and an old Nissan pickup. We’d spent the last few years in Waldorf, Maryland, where my dad had pastored a recent church plant. We were moving to the Nashville area for my dad to pastor Sylvan Park Free Will Baptist Church. We’d end up living in that house for ten years. Once every other year or so, I drive past that house, and it’s almost like being transported back to my childhood.
I had no idea we would spend the next thirty-plus years in the Nashville area. I suppose six-year-olds don’t think about that sort of thing anyway. Most of my life—the most formative years—were spent commuting from Antioch to Nashville, and then from Franklin to Nashville when we moved to a new house. I spent nearly all my Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday nights at 4701 Wyoming Ave where Sylvan Park is located. I know almost every nook and cranny of that building. Walking in there even today feels almost like home, even though I haven’t regularly attended there for more than a decade now.
This past October, Sylvan Park celebrated its eightieth anniversary as a church. The church also celebrated my dad’s thirtieth anniversary as its pastor during the same service. I was given an opportunity to spend a few minutes during the service reflecting on my dad’s life and ministry at Sylvan Park as well as my mom’s unwavering commitment to him and the church. I was an emotional wreck by the end of it. But I suppose that’s what happens when you reflect on the people, places, and years that made you who you are today.
I want to share a few thoughts from that day to further honor my dad and mom, Frank and LaDonna Owens. I’ll frame my thoughts in the form of memories—vivid memories—things I most remember.
I Remember . . .
For nearly thirty years, my family has given me a hard time for something I said in first or second grade. On one of those days when you talk about what your parents do for a living, I told my class that my dad was a pastor. When the teacher asked me what pastors do and what my dad did on a weekly basis, I told her that pastors drink coffee and type the bulletin. In my six- or seven-year-old mind, that was the essence of pastoral ministry—drinking coffee and typing the bulletin. Now that I’m a pastor, I want to extend an apology to my dad. I know better now on this side of things.
As I reflect on my dad’s ministry, I remember his constant love for Sylvan Park and West Nashville. He did everything possible to reach the neighborhood around the church and much of West Nashville with the gospel. I remember evangelistic initiatives such as “Project Precious Seed” when we distributed thousands of gospel tracts and invitations to visit the church. I remember Faith Evangelism where we went door-to-door attempting to have gospel conversations with our community. I remember the tireless effort that he (and so many others) put into bus ministry. I remember him having (and still having) the heart of an evangelist.
I remember him taking my brother and me with him when he visited members of the church or people he was trying to convince to attend church. Some of those visits were in hospital rooms, others in congregants’ homes. He’d talk, encourage, and pray with them. One older lady occasionally sent us off with a Cool Whip container full of deer jerky—I loved visiting her house.
But I also remember some difficult visits. On one occasion, we visited the home of a woman whose grandson had been brutally murdered on the sidewalk in front of her house the night before. When we walked up to the house, I remember seeing blood on the walkway right in front of the house. But what I really remember was my dad comforting that distraught grandmother and family with the love of Jesus in an unbelievably difficult time. He was there. And he brought us with him. That was a life-shaping experience.
I remember my dad letting my brother and me get on the roof of the church (we couldn’t have been more than ten and fourteen) to watch and “help” several men from the church replace the shingles. My dad was never an overprotective father. I could give fifty more examples of similar events. But he let us get right in the action with the men of the church as they worked. These experiences enmeshed us in this local body of believers.
I remember spending a lot of Sundays ministering to the residents at Green Hills Healthcare who were in the nursing home or there for rehab. My dad would preach an abbreviated version of his Sunday sermon, and we would sing hymns and pray. That was after the Sunday morning worship service and before the Sunday evening service. I still don’t know how he had the energy to do all of that. But he wanted people—many of them near the end of life—to hear the gospel and be encouraged.
I remember his ongoing commitment to learning and to reading so that he could be best equipped to minister in every capacity. He’s never stopped learning. Probably thirty years into ministry he became aware of many Christian authors and Christian classics he hadn’t read. So, he started reading them and learning more about Christian history and the Christian tradition. Several years ago, he lost much of his eyesight. Yet even with the significant loss of vision, he’s continued to find ways to study and learn because he genuinely loves the Lord, wants to know more about Him, and wants to serve faithfully to the end. I can’t tell you how much I admire that.
I remember thousands (literally thousands) of mornings when I walked down the stairs of our home, having just woken up, to see him reading the Bible at the dining table with a cup of coffee nearby. It was his daily habit. For most of my childhood, I probably didn’t even realize just how formative that visual was—my father at the dining table every day with an open Bible. He wasn’t just a preacher of the Word. He loved the Word and he read it, not only to preach but also to commune with God and nourish his soul. When the Lord transformed my own life at seventeen, I often found myself imitating his example—sitting at the dining table alongside him with an open Bible and a cup of coffee.
More than Memories
I’ve had friends and acquaintances who grew up in pastor’s homes, and their experience led them away from the faith. I’m always heartbroken by these stories and still pray for a couple of friends who took that path. But my experience was different. I don’t say that to boast in any way. I say that to give honor where honor is due. No parent is perfect. But I saw my dad and mom, week after week, care for the people of Sylvan Park. When I was somewhat far from faith, what I saw in my dad and mom—their love for Jesus and people—commended the faith to me. I wanted what they had. I know this isn’t everyone’s experience, but I’m thankful to the Lord it was mine.
When I began to consider what the Lord was calling me to do with my life, I quickly concluded (to the surprise of my parents and friends) that the Lord was leading me to pastoral ministry. He had helped prepare me in so many ways by watching the steady hand of my father. As a pastor, I sometimes don’t know how to handle a given situation, and I count it a joy and blessing to pick up the phone, call my dad, and get his input.
Local church ministry takes pastors and their families to many different places. But as I reflect on my dad pastoring the same church for over thirty years, I realize there’s a certain beauty in spending most of your life in one place—loving and caring for a church family and community decade after decade. There’s something noble and good about staying when times get tough and things don’t go the way you wish they had. I know there were many occasions when staying wasn’t easy. But he did.
So, I want to honor my dad and mom for thirty years of faithful service at Sylvan Park Free Will Baptist Church. It’s changed my life for the better. Much of what I’ve reflected on here is about my dad as a faithful pastor. But it’s worth noting that he’s an equally good husband and father. For that, I’m eternally grateful.
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