THE PROJECTS

When I was five years old, my father, who was a card carrying union iron-worker in central PA, was called into the ministry during a visit to the altar one Sunday morning. He didn’t waste any time, and enrolled at Toccoa Falls Bible College in Toccoa, GA. He moved there before my mother, little brother and I did. He lived in the dormitory for a semester, while looking for a home for us to be able to move down to join him.

I remember when he came home, and the family members helped us load up the U-Haul truck. Driving to Georgia at six, was the longest road trip I had ever been on. I remember pulling up to a red brick duplex. It was one of many just like it going up the road, down the road and all behind us.

After having lived there for several weeks, I began to hear others refer to our neighborhood as, “the projects.” I didn’t realize that this was a derogatory term as a child. In fact, I remember thinking our home was quite nice. After all, it was brick and I did have my own bedroom.

We met the family next to us, a single mom with three children. They were from the state of GA. One of her children was my age. In fact, her name was Tammy too. I remember her telling me, “now that you all moved here, there are four white families in this neighborhood.”

Being a tom-boy from PA, I came well-stocked with a football, kicking tee, several baseballs, two gloves, and a bat. The “white” girl next door was a bit of girly-girl, so I had to rely on others in the neighborhood to play sports. I still remember the day I took my baseball and bat out, and began to hit some balls (which I had to retrieve myself). Pretty soon, there where several boys from the houses out back that ran down to my yard. Before I knew it, we had a pretty nice game of pick up baseball going. The mother of little girl next door would always make her go inside when my other friends came out to play. This was my first exposure to racism. Even at my young age, I felt the ugliness of it. My parents had taught me that Jesus loved the little children...ALL the children of the world!

My parents were very dedicated Christians, who had no time for racism. The neighbors who came out to play ball with me became friends while we lived in Georgia. My mom would often mix up a batch of Kool Aid and give us Oreo cookies. Sometimes she’d even send out popsicles on those hot Georgia days. I carry with me many good memories of my time living in the “projects.” I thank God for the opportunity.

FATHER-Constant Dependability

My father came from one of the poorest families in Houtzdale, PA. He was the second born of five children, having an older brother, two younger sisters, and a youngest brother. His father was an alcoholic who drank much of what should have been spent on the family and paying bills. His mother had to go to work at Sylvania in Altoona, PA when the children were small, to make up for the money my grandfather was drinking. She felt the responsibility for taking care of the family and paying the bills.

Dad’s older brother moved out at 15 to join the army (a relative signed for him even though he was underage). This left my father assuming the role of taking care of the younger children. He had to become the responsible one. Grandma would leave early, around 4am to drive to work. That left my dad getting his younger siblings up, dressed, fed, and out the door to school while my grandfather would be soundly sleeping off a night of hard drinking.

That sense of responsibility my father had instilled in him when he was young, continued throughout his life. After he graduated high school, he joined the army. When he completed his years of service in the army, he got a steady job as a union ironworker. Then he got married, and fathered children. After that he went to college to go into ministry.

My father remained dependable. When he became a small town pastor, and money was tight, dad would always make sure we went to the dentist and the doctor at least once a year (sometimes more if we needed fillings or shots). He always made sure we had a few new outfits for school and a new pair of shoes. I always had a new dress for Christmas and Easter with shoes to go with it for church. Dad always paid his bills on time. We never had creditors after us, even with his low salary.

The parishioner’s could count on dad. When the Steelers were in the Superbowl, he still had the church doors open on Sunday evening. The church family could call day or night. My father would go to the hospital, go to their home during a family crisis, or drive an older member to a doctor’s appointment. Church was conducted even if the roads were snowy and icy.

My father inspired trust because of his dedication, commitment, dependability, and acute sense of responsibility. I knew I could always count on him. I knew he’d be there for me. It was much easier for me to believe in a loving, caring God in Whom I could trust, because He gave me such a dependable, responsible, caring earthly father.

TOBY-Ministry Requires Sacrifice

Toby was one of my best friends as a little girl. Dad got him when I was about 4 years old. He was a beautifully marked Springer Spaniel. Dad would take him for walks with me around the property to train him. He was a bright dog who picked up on commands pretty quickly.

When dad wasn’t around, Toby stayed chained up to a dog house. I used to ask my mother if I could go outside and play with him. She tells me I did this often. I would practice teaching him to “sit” or “shake” or “lay down.” I felt pretty powerful as a little girl commanding a dog who was just about as big as me. Sometimes, I’d crawl inside his dog house and lay down with him. I just liked being near him. I would hug him and pet him. Sometimes, I’d even sing to him. Once in a while, when we had a roast with a bone in it, I’d get to take the bone out to him when we were finished eating.

Toby was a friendly dog. When the neighborhood children would come to play, they’d always go over to say hi to Toby and pet him. He’d greet everyone with a lick on the hand with a tail wagging. He was an unusually friendly dog. Sometimes we’d play close to the dog house just to include Toby.

I still remember the day my parents told me that we were going to have to sale Toby. I cried and cried. They explained that since dad was called to be a preacher, we’d have to move so he could go to school. That day that the new owner came to pick Toby up is still etched in my memory. Dad and mom tried to get the new owner to tell me about the big farm he had for Toby to live on. He said Toby would get a lot of time going hunting and doing what he loved to do. I listened politely for a while until the tears welled up to the point they flowed down my cheeks. When I began to sob, I went back into the house because I didn’t want to cry like that in front of a stranger. I also didn’t want to have to watch him loading up Toby and driving away with him.

This was the first memory I have of feeling the cost of being in ministry. Ministry requires sacrifice. God never promised it would be easy. He did promise that He’d give us the strength and courage to make the sacrifice. This was a valuable lesson to learn, as a lifetime of ministry was awaiting me.

FISHING

Fishing has been a part of my life ever since I can remember. My first memory about fishing was going with my Grandpap at a local state park before I was five. Other early memories were going fishing with my dad between the ages of six and ten. We would go to a lake up above the water falls at Toccoa, Georgia, where my dad went to college. We didn’t have a lot of money, but you didn’t need a lot of money to be a “shore” fisherman. Dad would load my brother and I up in his old black Ford Falcon station wagon on a Saturday, and off we’d go, poles, tackle box and all. Mom worked sometimes on Saturdays, so dad had “kid-duty.” Fishing was a great way to pass the time. I loved it. Dad always said I had the patience for it. My brother Paul, well he was touched with a bit of attention deficit disorder. He was forever reeling in and recasting, increasing his chances and rate of success of getting his line snagged in a tree or in the bottom of the lake on something. Eventually, Paul would get so bored that his pole ended up on the ground most of the time, while he wandered off to play in the woods or dirt. Many was the time dad discovered Paul had left his post when Paul’s bobber disappeared, and no one was on the other end of the pole to reel in the catch. Boy, would that make dad mad!

Anyway, dad had his hands full trying to keep track of his own line, and Paul’s, that I didn’t want to make him have to help me as well. This made me want to learn how to do it right. I really tried to listen as dad gave instruction. I kept the line tight, and my eye on the bobber. I only reeled in when the bobber disappeared because of a nibble, when the wind blew the bobber toward shore, or when dad would say, “OK Bud. Pull it in. We might need to put some fresh bait on it.”

The best part of fishing for me, was being in nature. I enjoyed how all my senses became engaged in the experience; the reflection of the landscape in the lake, the sun warming my skin, the sound of the forest animals scurrying about, the pine smell wafting on the breeze, and the taste of the candy bar dad brought along for the occasion.

Fishing continues to be a form of sanctuary for me. It’s a place I can get quiet. It’s a place of solitude. It’s a place of sweet serenity. It’s a place where I sense and feel the wonder of God, sometimes even more than in church. Some of my most worshipful experiences have been nestled in the bosom of His creation, holding a fishing pole (especially, when there is a BIG one pulling on my line!).

FAMILY REUNIONS-Remembering the Past

My family has always been important to me. I was very fortunate to grow up with much love from both sides of my family. My mother’s side was very verbal and affectionate in showing their love. My father’s side showed love in acts of kindness and quality time. Both sides loved to have family reunions.

One of the most special times for me was getting my aunts, uncles, and grandparents, and great aunts and great uncles to tell stories of “the old days.” I loved to ask question after question. They seemed to love to tell story after story. Therefore, I would often find myself with the adults instead of the rest of the children because I wanted to learn and to know. I liked delving into the past. I loved learning about my great grandparents and great-great grandparents. I loved those little bits someone would remember about the old country, and the nationalities we came from, and the stories of coming to America. Hearing the stories helped me to know them somehow, even though they had been gone for decades. Hearing the stories, helped me understand family patterns, and many of the relatives of the current generation. Also, I somehow wound up knowing and understanding myself even better during a time when, “who am I?” was a question with which I was constantly wrestling as I was growing up.

I was one of the oldest grandchildren, so I was able to tap the memories of those who had passed on before some of the younger grandchildren came along. Sometimes I ended up being the one who was asked the questions. It was a honor to relay the stories I had heard repeated again and again from a loved one who was now in Glory.

Just recently, I spent an hour on the phone with my youngest brother. He is 14 years my younger. I think he was at a point in time where he was seeking understanding and answers for his life. He asked me to repeat several of the stories I remembered. He even said, “Thanks Tam, that really helps me.” I am not exactly sure how, he didn’t fully divulge that. But I do know that sometimes the past, helps us understand the now and can help give direction to our future.

I think this has also been very helpful as I have raised my own children. I see family traits being passed along to them. We can celebrate the good qualities. We can also understand some of the not so good tendencies, and ask God to intervene and protect in those areas.

I don’t have grandchildren yet, but I sure have a plethora of great family stories to share with them someday. Maybe it can help them navigate life too.

FRIED POTATOES

My grandmother was affectionately known to all her grandchildren as “Mam.” She was 100% English. Her father was from the aristocracy, and her mother was from the lower class. A true romantic, her father left England for the United States because his family disowned him after he married her mother.

My mother’s side was extremely affectionate. Much of this affection came from my Mam. She was always quick to give you a smooch on the lips, or pull you up on her lap to be rocked. We all grew up with tons of kisses and hugs. Love was to be felt. This legacy continues through me to my own children. My daughters will still plop down on my lap for a snuggle and they are in their twenties. My son is quick to plant a kiss on my lips, even in front of his college friends.

Her generosity did not stop with affection. She was generous in many ways. One way she showed her ability to give and give was when she’d make fried potatoes. Often, when she’d start preparing lunch, friends would pop in for a visit. Mam would just pull out another of her huge cast iron frying pans, and wash, pare and slice it full of potatoes. Once I remember there being many of the grandchildren, and several friends who happened by, and she had four black iron skillets full of potatoes frying. Mam bought Heinz ketchup by the gallon for all the potatoes we’d eat. I remember her potatoes stretching like the loaves and fishes in the gospel. Mam was always willing to cook for and feed others out of compassion, much like Christ’s for the masses. Her fried potatoes became renowned.

There always was enough to go around, even though they didn’t have much. Many of Mam’s pastors and their families found refuge in her home around her kitchen table. It’s no wonder that two of her daughters ended up becoming pastor’s wives. It’s no wonder several of her grandchildren became preacher’s kids.

Through Mam’s example, we were taught the blessing of hospitality. She exemplified it well for us. One didn’t need the finest or the best to be hospitable. You only needed to be willing to offer whatever you had. Mam only needed a kitchen table, a scoop of lard, an onion or two, a few cast iron skillets, a bit of ketchup, and a bin full of potatoes. I can hear her voice now telling me, "Keep the bin full, and never turn anyone away!"

PAP-Protective Strength

My maternal grandfather was affectionately called “Pap” by all of us grandchildren. I called him Pap when I first could form the word until the day he died. My Pap was my protector. He was larger than life. He was a very manly man. He was a tough as they come.

Some of my earliest memories of him are of him working or involved in some type of activity. He was often found on a ladder, lying under a car, up in a tree stand, cutting grass, shining shoes, cleaning guns, tilling the garden, etc... He kept a muscular figure even as he aged because of all this activity.

Pap was an oxymoron. He was as tough as nails to the outside world, yet loving and affectionate to those blessed enough to be called family. As a very young child I loved being in his lap with his rugged arms and hands embracing me in a heartfelt hug. He had a very deep bass voice that could resonate in a chest cavity when he wanted to get your attention, but how tender that voice was when he was attempting to sooth your pain while cleaning and bandaging a cut. Pap could stomp through any kind of wooded land and cover more ground than anyone in his work boots, yet he could glide on the living room floor in his Sunday shoes, with my grandmother in his arms like Fred Astaire.

My love for him began as an infant. Those rugged arms held me, that deep voice spoke to me, and his lips kissed me my first day in this world. I had the privilege of spending my first five years next door to him. I always felt safe and secure with him around. In fact, when I was 4 and 5, my mother would allow me to walk over to his house with a flashlight before bed just to give him a kiss and hug goodnight. Somehow, I just felt safer when I laid down and closed my eyes at night after having been with him.

One of my last precious memories of him, was when I took my three young children to see him when he was laying in bed, dying from pancreatic cancer. I lived several hours away and had just had my youngest child. I wanted her and Pap to meet before he died. She was only several weeks old. He was pretty wracked with pain, but still wanted to hold her. I laid her down on his chest, he wrapped his weakened arms around her, softly kissed her on the head, and deeply breathed in her baby freshness. He spoke to her in that deep, soothing voice of his.

He died a few days after that. I remember being thankful that all my children had a chance to be wrapped in his arms and experience his loving, protective strength.

KARA-Sweet Contentment

My daughter Kara has always been an easy-going, laid back, very contented person. On this day, (September 22) 23 years ago, she came into the world. She is my first born. Kara has been sweet, and easy-going since the very beginning. I was only in labor for 2 hours with her, and the “hard pushing” only lasted 10-15 minutes. I loved holding her. I loved nursing her.

She was a “sweet snuggler” from the get-go. She loved to be held, caressed and kissed. As she got older, she loved to return touch. She would often initiate holding hands, or giving a hug or kiss. This continued throughout high school and into adulthood. She will still come and sit on my lap with her arms wrapped around my neck and talk and giggle and laugh...in a rapture of perfect contentment. When Kara touches you, a calm serenity seems surround.

Jesus possesses many of the qualities that He graciously bestowed upon Kara to bring to this world with her arrival. Hence, Kara was attracted to Him at a young age. She told me she loved Jesus and wanted Him to live in her heart. It was my wonderful privilege to pray with her as she accepted Christ as her Lord and Savior at the age of five. Kara and Jesus have been dear friends ever since then.

Life was not always easy for Kara. Her dad and I divorced when she was eight years old. What had been her stable perfect little family, came to a crashing halt. She had to step up in a big way when I had to go into full time work. Yet, throughout it all, she remained sweet and eventually found her contentment in Christ. With Jesus, Kara became such a picture of contentment.

Others seek Kara out and want to be with her because she ushers that peace and contentment around them and into their circumstances. She is the calm word in the midst of chaos and confusion. She is often the Peace that passes understanding. Kara would be the first to tell you that her relationship with Christ the Source from which she draws this strength.
Kara is an adult now. She is happily married. She continues to be a devout follower of Christ. Kara would be the first to happily tell you that her relationship with Christ the Source of her sweetness and contentment.

I fell in love with Kara the moment I laid eyes on her. I have been in love with her Kara for 23 years. She has surely become one of my nearest and dearest friends. Kara continues to be an example and model to me of genuine sweetness and true contentment. In some ways, the daughter has become the teacher...smile.

Thoughts:
True joy comes when we can live in a state of contentment no matter the situation.

I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry whether living in plenty or in want. Philippians 4:12b

COURAGE

There is a local pastor who has begun a tradition amongst the members of his congregation for the New Year. He challenges them to pray for the Lord to reveal a word in which they can interpret the coming year. The word each individual receives becomes a "looking glass" so to speak. It has been interesting to hear of other persons words, and how those words help guide them throughout their year. Several of my friends have mentioned their words to me this past week. One, who I bumped into at the store relayed to me that her word was "obedience." Another close friend shared several days ago that her word was "trust."

I prayed several days seeking the word God had for me this year. It came to me yesterday while I was driving. My word is, "courage." Courage means: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty. I'll admit that after I read the definition, I wanted to trade my word in for a new one. I am not sure why this is my word, but I am claiming it. After reading the definition, I wonder, will I be venturing out into something as yet unknown to me? Will I have to persevere through an unpleasant situation/relationship? Will dangers, fears or difficulties arise? How will the word "courage" play out in my life this year? I shall wait and see.