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!).