Rainforest Rescue

 

We were in trouble.

As a former Girl Scout, preparedness should have been my middle name. In my haste to check off the achievement of reaching the most northwestern point of the contiguous United States, however, I had allowed eagerness to override caution.

My first sight of the Pacific Ocean in October 2002 did not disappoint. Nor did the hike to Cape Flattery from our camper van, which had been home and school to my five younger children and me as we traveled across North America for three months. We marveled at the massive Sitka spruces, red cedars, and primordial-looking ferns that dwarfed thirteen-year-old Hannah. We had nothing like this back in Atlanta or even in my childhood home in the Great Smoky Mountains. The Hoh Rainforest was magnificent, and in a region that received more than three hundred days of rain a year, we had been blessed with a rare, sunny one.

It was a magical experience. Since we arrived in the late afternoon, the trailhead parking lot was empty except for a lone Bobcat and a large pile of gravel. We had the trail to ourselves. And—joy of joys—when we finally reached the point, there was a picturesque lighthouse and magnificent sunset just waiting to be captured. Luke, who was an aspiring Ansel Adams at fifteen, had eagerly lugged along our camera equipment and was already setting up.

“Look at those caves!” shouted ten-year-old Sarah as she gestured up the coastline. “Do you think sea lions live in them?” 

“The shore is so rocky!” exclaimed Abby, who was eight. “It’s not sandy like Florida.” 

Six-year-old Ethan hung over the sturdy rail fence overlooking the Pacific and smiled. It had been a long drive, and he was just glad to be outside again. 

We marveled at our good fortune as the sun slowly slipped beneath the water in a glorious blaze of color. As the children excitedly chattered around me, I looked out over the panorama one more time. An ominous blanket of fog was silently unfurling across the Pacific like something out of The Ten Commandments.

“Uh, Mom…” Luke trailed off uncertainly beside me. “The sun has SET. Shouldn’t we be getting back?”

Darkness was gathering with astonishing speed, and the air was noticeably cooler. I quickly took stock of the situation. We were a long way from the camper--not to mention the jackets, flashlights, and day pack of supplies I had left behind.

“Mother and Children Die of Hypothermia on the Cape Flattery Trail,” the headlines would read barely a year after my husband had been killed by a drunk driver.

“Hey, Guys?” I called in my most upbeat voice. “We need to get back to the camper before it’s too dark. OK?”

I took the camera gear from Luke, and he lifted Ethan onto his back. Hannah automatically took Abby's hand. Sarah was determined to manage on her own.

“Now watch your step. We don’t need any twisted ankles, alright? Let’s go!” I said cheerfully, attempting to conceal my concern.

We trotted along steadily, then slowed, and finally stood still as darkness engulfed us. We could go no further. The thick canopy of trees we had admired earlier now obscured the remaining light. My mind raced. Would a blanket of pine needles be warm enough if the children curled up together? Or would they be too damp? Were there predators in these woods? I couldn’t recall. We had planned to buy books about the region at the ranger’s station tomorrow.

“Mommy?” Abby said in a small voice. “I’m cold.”

I took a deep breath. In a time before cell phones, there was one call we could make.

“OK, Everyone. It looks like we are in a bind here, so it’s time to talk to Daddy God. We need His help to find the camper; I can’t see the trail anymore.”

The children automatically reached out for each other's hands.

“LORD, we need a miracle,” I prayed. “We’ve enjoyed Your creation today, but time has gotten away from us. Could you please help us make it back to the camper?”

“In Jesus' name, Amen,” the children chorused.

I opened my eyes. And then it happened. I saw a gleam of light out of the corner of my eye. Startled, I turned my head sharply to look at it head-on. Nothing. Was I imagining light flashes as I once had in the bowels of Mammoth Cave when the lights were extinguished? I held my breath and turned my head sideways again. No, it was still there.

“Luke,” I said calmly, for he had the best vision, “Close your eyes again and then look around. Do you see anything?”

“Yes,” he replied. "There's something over to our right."

I slowly walked toward the light with the children in my wake. After a few minutes, I felt the crunch of gravel beneath my feet. “Mom, I don’t think we’re far from the camper now,” Hannah said excitedly. “There was gravel at the beginning of the trail."

"Good girl!" I replied, giving her a hug.

We slowly walked along the barely visible path, listening for the reassuring crunch that meant we hadn't wandered off it.

Suddenly, Luke shouted. “I think I see the parking lot!” The children cheered and ran forward. There, under the open sky, was our camper. We were safe.

Once inside the camper, I fired up the generator, pulled out blankets for everyone, and made hot chocolate. The children were already shivering from exposure.

After they had warmed up and were talking about their big adventure, I slipped the camper into gear and began threading my way out of the Makah Indian Reservation and back onto the main road. Just before I turned, I saw the welcoming glow of a diner. Parked nearby was a dump truck and some heavy equipment.

On impulse, I pulled into the parking lot, left the camper running, and went inside.

“Hey!” I said, greeting the waitress who was serving coffee at the counter. “Has someone been working on the Cape Flattery Trail recently?”

“Yes,” she said with a friendly smile. “They’re laying gravel on part of it.”

“When did they start doing that?” I asked, my heart beating faster.

“Today. They haven’t gotten very far, though. It takes time, because they can only use small equipment on the trail,” she replied knowledgeably.

I left a tip in the jar and walked out the door into the velvety night, the bell clanging behind me.

“Thank You, LORD,” I said silently.

Once again, God had shown himself faithful to our family. His timing, as always, had been perfect. 

Kay Seibert O’Hara

June 11, 2024

Luke, Sarah, Ethan, Abby, and Hannah O'Hara in Olympic National Park. 

The Beanie Baby Tree

In 1997, our family enjoyed the unique opportunity of sponsoring an entry in the Georgia Festival of Trees here in Atlanta. What began as a humble community service project unexpectedly snowballed into an incredible experience for our homeschool.

On a neighbor's tip, husband Bill and I began researching the Beanie Baby phenomenon earlier that summer as an investment opportunity. During a number of date nights, we were able to acquire twenty-five retired "Coral" Beanies from a Hartsfield Airport gift shop. Our initial investment became a nest egg worth five times that much, and we were on our way.

The children and I enjoyed collecting favorites, and soon they were playing with their new Beanies all over the house. More Beanies were routinely released, and the excitement remained fresh. Collecting Beanies was FUN!

Then, it became something more. There was an opportunity here to do some good.

Over the next four months, the children and I systematically traded our grubstake on the Internet with collectors from all over the world until we had acquired 101--or three tiers--of the most-coveted Beanies in America. 

Meanwhile, Bill and I set about designing a wooden Christmas tree with Plexiglas shelves that would display the mint-condition Beanies to their best advantage. Collectors enthusiastically facilitated rare trades with us to increase tree's rarity. Even though social media was in its infancy, the spotlight began to shine on our project. Jill Becker from WSB-TV paid a visit to our little home in Power Springs to admire our Beanie collection and capture a song* the children performed.

Our family rode the wave of attention to the World Congress Center, where we began constructing and decorating the tree. But there was a problem. The tree was too popular and in danger of vandalism. In response, the festival directors commissioned a Plexiglas enclosure and assigned security guards to protect it hours before the festival opened. Then, in a brilliant PR move, they decided to raffle off the tree to festival-goers for a dollar a ticket. As a result, The Beanie Baby Tree earned the most money of any tree in history--over $10,000!

This incredible opportunity yielded priceless lessons in mathematics, economics, grammar, sociology, geography, and organization as our family corresponded with avid collectors across the world. Our last Beanie, newly-released "Diana," arrived from England the night before the festival opened and took the place of honor as the tree's "star."

By God's grace, we had "timed" the market perfectly. The end result? After our final online sale in April, the proceeds from our humble nest egg had provided enough Beanies for the Egleston tree and paid for Hannah's braces, new carpet, a handful of favorite Beanies for each of the children, and taxes on the entire adventure.

What an experience!

Kay O'Hara

December 25, 2022

*"It's alright to be little bitty, little bitty Beanie in a great big city, little bitty tag, little bitty paws, little bitty Beanie for a great big cause..." --adapted from Tom T. Hall's song, "Little Bitty."

Tales of Sweet William--Love Looks like a Paycheck

It was Wednesday night, November 27,1985. I had finally sold our house in Clyde the week before and was able to join Bill in Atlanta. We were not only celebrating our third anniversary but also the end of a very long year spent apart.

Bill surprised me with reservations at Baby Doe's--a charming, mining-themed restaurant that overlooked the Chattahoochee River. We had a fabulous window table with a bird's-eye view of 285 that night, and as Bill enjoyed escargot on toast points, his most favorite meal in all the world, I marveled at the blazing lights below. Atlanta, with all its sights and sounds, was quite an experience for a country girl like me! 

White lights glittered in one direction while red lights gleamed in the other as an endless stream of traffic crawled past. I had never seen so many cars in all my life!

"The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the worst traffic day of the year in Atlanta," Bill explained. "Southerners are headed north, Northerners are headed south, and the natives just drive around and around. See?" he pointed with a laugh as we leaned over the balcony for a closer look. Cars honked at one another in the distance like so many mechanical Canadian geese. Everyone was in such a hurry! 

That night, I admired my tall, handsome husband, who was as comfortable ordering snails in a fancy restaurant as he was slinging Georgia clay in a ditch alongside his crew. Bill hadn't hesitated to leave the comforts of home to seek work in the big city during the economic downturn of the mid- 80's. He and two other electricians found jobs and shared housing in Atlanta and commuted home to the mountains on weekends whenever possible. 

Though I often wept tears of joy on Friday nights when he returned as well as tears of frustration on Sunday afternoons as he drove away, Bill never complained.

I never worried about the future when I was married to Bill. He had no qualms about working overtime or taking on side jobs to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. Though I thanked him often for being such a good provider, protector, and patriarch, he would just tuck me underneath his great wingspan with a smile and say, "Honey, that's my job."

He did that job well for twenty-one years.

While there were no fireworks to celebrate our anniversary that evening, Atlanta did itself proud by ushering in a new beginning for us with millions of red and white lights. It was a magical night.

Kay O'Hara

11/6/2023

Progress vs Perfection

A snippet of gossip. A headline in the news. Suddenly, what a Believer did in secret is evident to all.  

Have you ever thought to yourself, "I can't believe s/he did that!" Perhaps you even felt justified in walking away from the church in disgust.

These are understandable human reactions, and yet...

Christianity is not about perfection. It is about progression--the slow but steady progress of Believers toward the cross. Unfortunately, every last one of us will stumble and fall along the way. When we confess our sins and turn away from them, however, the LORD forgives, cleanses, and restores us. 

Unfortunately, people tend to remember our transgressions much longer, pridefully believing a similar lapse of judgment could never happen to them.

Dan Dorner, a man of God who I greatly respect, once told my Sunday school class, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. But without Him, I am capable of ANYTHING."

Wow. I've never forgotten that warning!

So, encourage one another daily, pray without ceasing, forgive others early and often, and be careful to walk humbly every day. We are ALL just one bad decision away from regret. 

Kay Seibert O'Hara

October 14, 2020

LEVI

Failure to thrive.

That term is not often used with young adults, but I had unintentionally lost thirty pounds over a few months, and it was time to find some answers. 

I was hospitalized for a series of tests. My husband, Bill, was left to juggle work and family life in my absence. Ethan, the youngest of our six children, was barely weaned.

A week later, an abnormal HIDA scan indicated the need for surgery. On the day of the procedure, I encouraged Bill to remain at work. He had already missed so much time, and gallbladder removal was fairly routine.

As often happens with non-emergent cases, mine was delayed. The hours dragged on as I prayed alone in my room and waited to be taken downstairs. 

I was relieved when a transporter finally arrived in the late afternoon. What a pleasant face, I thought. He cheerfully introduced himself as Levi, transferred me to a gurney, and made me comfortable. Then he rolled me through the crowded hall to the elevator. The doors slid shut, and it was just the two of us.

"How are you doing?" he asked kindly.

Tears unexpectedly sprang to my eyes. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, concern on his face.

"I wish I could pray with someone before my surgery, but I don't know who to ask," I replied.

"I will pray with you," he said. Then he pressed the STOP button on the elevator and gently took my hand in his. 

As Levi began to pray, peace flooded over me. His words were unhurried, confident, calm, and certain. When our season of prayer ended, he set the elevator in motion again. Then Levi wheeled me to the surgical holding area.

"You are going to be just fine," he said with a warm smile as he gently clasped my shoulder.

"Thank you for praying," I whispered.

Then he was gone.

The next morning, my gastroenterologist confessed that the surgeon had apparently removed a healthy gallbladder. "It's possible the machine that measured your ejection fraction was mis-calibrated," he offered apologetically.

How unusual, I thought.

I remained in the hospital a few more days. One morning, a customer service representative entered my room to discuss my stay. Was there anything she could do for me? 

I asked if there was a way to recognize the kind man who had transported me. 

"Do you remember his name?" she asked.

"It was Levi," I replied, sitting up slowly. "He wasn't wearing a badge so I don't know his last name, but he was about my age. He had brown eyes, dark skin, and a huge smile..."  I trailed off as she made notes. He radiated joy, I wanted to say.  

"I will see what I can do," she promised.

The next day, the representative returned with a perplexed expression on her face. "Mrs. O'Hara," she said apologetically, "There is no one by that name who works in that department or anywhere else in the hospital. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

How unusual, I thought again. 

After I was discharged, I recounted the story to my husband.

"Didn't the elevator alarm make it difficult to hear?" Bill asked. He worked for an electrical company and was familiar with such things.

I thought back to that day. "There was no alarm," I answered with certainty.

"Kay, when you press the STOP button, it always sets off an alarm." Bill patiently explained.

"Not this time," I insisted.

"How unusual," Bill said, looking intently at me.

I have experienced a number of unexplainable encounters since Levi--always in times of danger or distress. To this day, I marvel that the LORD mercifully allows angels to appear to His children in time of need. 

Kay O'Hara

September 25, 2023

Nurses Amaze Me!

Nurses AMAZE me.

My family and I have been cared for by dozens, and I have enjoyed the privilege of working alongside hundreds. To be honest, I don’t know how they do it. Their private lives are no less complex and exhausting than ours. Yet they must navigate the unrelenting obstacles of physical and personal challenges while launching themselves upon the surging sea of their demanding profession. Only by compartmentalizing can they embrace their calling. Regardless of the situation at home, they promptly take shift report and step up to the bedside, filled with compassion and alertness, scanning for any sign of improvement or decline in their patients. 

Nurses tirelessly tend body, spirit, and soul with mercy and grace, armed not only with the latest research gleaned during their off-duty hours but also with experience compiled from years of toil and practice. Their daily routine is filled with the unpleasant, uncomfortable, and unmentionable. In a single shift, they will face adrenaline-filled crises with courage, calm, and competence. Then they must turn on a dime to cheerfully instruct and exhort convalescents on to good health. Afterwards, with still empty bellies and full bladders, they take a deep breath and walk into a room suffused with the fear and suffering of a new admission.

Woven throughout these hours of stress, hunger, and fatigue is the additional requirement to endlessly document their actions. Nurses are also expected to comply with a mountain of regulations while the specter of Press Ganey scores looms over them. As ridiculous as it sounds, a life may have been miraculously saved, but if the coffee was lukewarm, the entire experience may be thanklessly projected as a failure. 

When the end of shift finally arrives and belongings are gathered, they silently walk through the employee tunnel to their cars. Only then can the sorrows they have accumulated over the week be addressed as keys fall to the ground in the parking deck and blinding tears make it impossible to locate them. 

My friends, there are times when words are not enough, and this is one of them. If you are serving on the front lines as a nurse, my respect is boundless. 

Thank you for all you do. 

Kay O'Hara

4/30/2022

The Joys of Christmas Music

Have you ever noticed that songs have the power to transport us to an exact moment in time? 

I slid this CD into the player today. Suddenly, I was a youngster again, captivated by our family's old black and white television set as Leonard Berstein directed the New York Philharmonic in a majestic Christmas special. Such moments were a highlight of the holidays for me. 

You see, I am the daughter of two music aficionados. My mother was a pianist and organist, and my dad loved to sing and listen to music. As a teenager in Hershey, Pennsylvania, he would milk cows on Sunday afternoons, enraptured by the Metropolitan Opera on the radio. Consequently, though our old farmhouse had only one bathroom for the four of us, there was a full console organ in the living room, a piano in my brother's bedroom, and a magnificent hi-fi console under the picture window.  We kids were literally surrounded by music!

Though both my parents were well-educated, our family fell upon hard times in rural Appalachia during the '60s. In some ways, this was a blessing, for like Paul, I learned how to abound in little as well as much. When my folks were too poor to afford anything beyond nuts and tangerines for gifts, there was always Christmas music. Mother would play, or--joy of joys!--I would have the opportunity to learn and perform new music at school or with an area church. 

Mother's favorite Christmas song was "The Little Drummer Boy." Perhaps that's because she believed it's still possible to make a joyful noise regardless of one's circumstances.

While I never learned to play an instrument, and my vocal quality could best be described as acceptable, my parents did pass on their deep appreciation of music to me. What a blessing that a host of teachers, professors, and choir directors were able to add to this foundation over the decades.

I am ever in their debt!

Kay Seibert O'Hara

December 8, 2020