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