J. Lewis Floyd, born June 4, 1934 in Harriman, TN, bravely and boldly bounded from the loving arms of his earthly family into welcoming arms of his heavenly family on November 29, 2010.

Lew was a graduate of East High School in 1953 and Carson Newman College in 1958 where he was co-captain of the football team.  He married the love of his life Mary Frances (“Fran”) Gardner in 1958, and they began their international romance by serving the U.S. Army in Germany. In 1961, Lew joined the F.B.I., where he loyally served in Springfield, Illinois; Buffalo, New York; and New York City before finally returning to the Knoxville office in 1974. After retiring from the F.B.I in 1986, Lew worked with TVA, Suntrust Bank, before starting his private investigative firm.

“The Lewster” had three children by birth and three by marriage: Michelle and Andy, Doug and Kelly, and Jeremy and Dorry; six grandchildren Samuel, Benjamin, and Abigail (children to Andy and Michelle Bickers) and Audrey, Rowan, and Sadie (children to Jeremy and Dorry Floyd). However, he assumed the role of father and mentor for many others as a teacher, pastor, and friend. He is survived by his wife Frannie and his sister Frances of Knoxville. He is preceded in death by his parents Herbert and Daisy Mae and sister Mildred and brother Ralph.

Lew faithfully served the Lord as a Deacon, Sunday School Teacher, and youth pastor for most of his life for many churches and most recently as the teacher of his dearest friends of the Faithful Followers class at First Baptist Concord.

The family invites friends and family to join in the celebration of Lew’s life Thursday December 2nd, 2010 from 4:00 – 6:00 PM at the chapel at First Baptist Concord with a Celebration service to follow. The internment will be held at 11:00 AM December 3rd, 2010 at Highland Memorial West.   He was a lover of life, a warrior, a man of honor, and an ambassador of the faith. Until our heavenly reunion, he will be deeply missed.

Read a post I wrote about dad last year.

Lew’s Caring Bridge Page

Lew’s Facebook Page

Wow. I said it, I’m sorry.

Despite a little hit to my ego and the fraction of a second it takes to type or utter these two words, it doesn’t really cost anything to say, “I’m sorry.” Not saying them, however, can cost thousands even millions of dollars, split up marriages, drive wedges in families, and result in years of litigation.

It seems to me that as a culture we’ve adopted a hard stance against the two words, and when someone humbly utters them it’s newsworthy. Last week Jim Joyce made headlines when he apologized to Armando Galarraga for blowing a call, which instantly destroyed Galarraga’s perfect game. He said the magic words, I’m sorry-I screwed up.

Somewhere between little league and the big league we get out of practice of apology. We build better justifications, bigger blame, and less frequently simply say sorry.

Last night my “original family unit” had dinner together in preparation for my dad, the Lewster’s, surgery. It just so happened that no spouses or children came, so we had a nice time, reminiscent of similar dinners from my childhood–big jokes despite the circumstances, thin edge of sarcasm, and my dad striking up conversations with random people.

At one point in the evening, as my sister was furiously framing the perfect photograph, he began chatting with a couple at the table immediately next to us. The youngish fella at the table was handsome, well-built, and sporting a stylish blonde doo. My dad’s uncanny ability to extract much information out of a short conversation revealed that this guy had played football at one time for the Tennessee Vols.

A while later, my dad returned to their table to satisfy his itching curiosity of whether this table neighbor played professional football for the Tennessee Titans. In a self deprecating shrug, the guy more or less said “no” with a face that said a thousand words, “too old, too slow, not strong enough, and more of like.” Like spinach to Popeye, Lewster found his strength, “have you tried out? You should try out, you would be great…you only live once.” He knew nothing of his abilities; he had not seen any footage, but in a very genuine way, he encouraged this stranger like a friend, like a son. This is the dad that raised me.

He was the East Tennessee boy who wooed all of the girls in school; played all of the sports; he was the superstar. He went on to college and ascended the ranks of the football team to become the captain. A tall feat for a 5’10″ left guard. In the army, he ascended the ranks his platoon to become the Superior Cadet as he travelled the world. In the FBI, he always sought to serve with his highest and best. Everything that he pursued he has always given his all. He brings his game.

By contrast, my brother and I didn’t play many sports, weren’t football players, didn’t go into the armed services, didn’t follow behind in the footsteps of the FBI, yet the Lewster was always proud and encouraged us (even in the impossible). He always subrogated his desires to our ambitions only gently redirecting where appropriate.

He is a farmer of hope. In fallow ground he plants the seeds of possibility–even in places where others assume drought. When I was about seven years old, the Lewster led a SWAT team to arrest a most wanted criminal. After the blue lights stopped and the guns were holstered, he spent significant time digging into the fugitive’s life and mining for hope over interrogating him.

All too often we look for hope to magically appear. We misplace goals for hope, like tactics for strategy. Hope is the fundamental belief that circumstances, no matter how dire, can change. It is the ability to look at some dirt and a little spec and see the significant harvest. Hope is not fleeting; it is a root that grows through one’s life, which built on strong foundation can weather a storm.

As I chose the picture for this post, I really searched for something that represented the living roots that both my mom and dad bring to our family. This picture, taken recently, has all the wonderful blooms of the family.

It is unlikely that the fella at the restaurant called up his agent and scheduled a tryout for the Titans, but who knows the boost that he may have received from the fun Lewster encounter. The power of hope cultivated with the encouragement that someone believes in your abilities, can help you move mountains. My dad’s encouragement is magnetic. It is something that I aspire to emulate. It has led me in some of my darkest moments and most difficult decisions.

For the past four weeks I have spent Weekends working long hours in the yard. After, as the wife says, neglecting the yard for several years, I am interested and excited in transforming dirt into something beautiful. While laboring away under the hot sun with the assistance of a few fine friends (kids aged 7 and 2), I have reflected on the fun torture that was working with my dad in the yard when I was young.

In particular, I remember one event where my dad had created a raised bed in front of their house. My job was to create a “custom” edging around the mulch bed out of small timbers that he had cut. My job included:

1. Digging a small ditch around the bed.
2. Soaking the logs in a preservative.
3. “Planting” the logs in the ditch.
4. Use Bailing wire to tie the logs together.

For this bed that was about 150 square feet I had probably 150 logs to place, but it felt like 1500 trees that I had to debark and chop. I had a process. I understood the objective. I improved the process with scientific efficiency. Yet, I had no “vision” for the end result. I saw one log after another with no concept for the completed project; I invested my sweat to adhere to my paternal directive–and not for the vision of the beautiful work product.

All to often we issue commands to fulfill our own vision without taking the time to “plant” vision in the actors. In turn, they work hard to toil away and placing logs instead of creating beauty. When everyone shares in the vision, they make it beautiful in their own way, and they own their part of the success. Otherwise, it is just quid pro quo–in my story it was “build the edging” for “not getting an ass whoopin’.”

As President of this our Family Reunion this year, I have launched a reunion website.

I have a few mashups (pictures, videos, blog, maps).  As I say on the site:

All things web web now 2.0, which basically means that the web is at the next level of interconnectivity. Maps can be embedded in web pages; pictures can be shared; but most importantly people’s stories can be shared with one another like never before.

As part of this plan, I made some postcards, check them out here.

After nine months of accusations to my sweet nephew, a little house cleaning revealed the truth–my sloth and not his theft held my DS. Sorry Sam.

Ashton, old girl, we will miss you.  In Johnny’s best Scooby dumb voice, I can hear you say, “Jearmy, I am so glad to be out of the house where I can run through the parks and eat out of all of the trash cans.”

When the wife says, “let’s not get each other anything this year,” she does not mean it.  Doh!

Happy Valentines Day.

We may have another Glenn Reynolds in the making over at Floydville’s new bastard child, but more than likely this is just the typical Grogger protocal. He set it up today and has been posting in 15 minute intervals. You might still take a stroll over to floydville², or is it just floydville–he’s going to have to do something about that.

Here they were before trampling through the neighborhood extorting the neighbors. How cute…