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

On Parenting Prodigals

On Parenting Prodigals

Parenting prodigals can be as devastating as losing a loved one, but you can still cultivate peace and joy in this difficult season. Here are some practices that have helped me over the years. 

1. Entrust your child to the LORD; He loves them even more than you! He is the only perfect parent and is always with them wherever they are. He will protect them or chastise them in accordance with His perfect will, and you can't ask for better than that.

2. Forgive them unconditionally, just as the LORD has forgiven you. 

3. Forgive yourself. No, you were not a perfect parent. If you are walking with the LORD, the Holy Spirit will convict you of wrongdoing. Ask the LORD for forgiveness, turn from known sin, and move on.

4. Let go of all your expectations of how your prodigal should behave. We cannot change the actions of others. Do not give your child the ability to wound you further. It is what it is. 

5. Pray for them daily. Remember: this is not the least you can do. It is the BEST you can do!

6. Give thanks to the LORD for the time they WERE in your life. An attitude of gratitude will protect you from anger, bitterness, and sin.

7. Serve the LORD with gladness and encourage others with your words and actions. If you miss your children at the holiday table, then invite a lonely senior or an international student to celebrate with you. If you are missing your grandchildren, consider working in the church nursery. 

8. Leave the light on and your heart wide open. The LORD is not finished with them yet. 

9. Accept your feelings. Grief is not a one and done experience. Weep when you need to. Smile in remembrance when you can. Your feelings are your feelings. Find a trusted Christian friend who is a good listener and will gently help you get back on track if you begin stumbling down a wrong path. 

10. Have a ready answer for the hope that is in you. Others are watching, and the LORD will not allow your pain to be wasted. Be honest and transparent with other parents that are suffering when your discernment gives you the green light. 

11. Be careful when you are in the presence of young people who are complaining about their parents. Listen with empathy but do not support their rebellion. Redirect them to gratefulness. If they are Believers, share with them how important it is to honor their parents and pray for them.  

12. Lastly, remember that even though this may feel like a battle between you and your family member, they are not the enemy. Ephesians 6:12 states: "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood but against (the devil and his minions.)"

Here is a splendid article by Focus on the Family that addresses many aspects of parenting prodigals. I appreciate how the author anticipates the reader's concerns and objections from a Biblical standpoint.  

https://www.focusonthefamily.com/parenting/good-parents-prodigal-kids/?fbclid=IwAR0UoEOnD-jqCYqneYrU9-jzCOpVCOGRBzH_IqVsDD0dg50dA27NczO4b-o

Remember, while prodigal parenting can be a heartbreaking season, there can still be peace joy in the journey when we trust the LORD. 

Kay O'Hara 

July 20, 2019

On the Third Day

He was irascible and opinionated. A real handful. And because he was a patient, great patience was required. 

I probed gently, pools of blood welling up as my instrument advanced through his mouth. "Dr. Smith*, you have a lot of calculus under the gum line. The good news is, your x-rays indicate we may be able to turn your periodontal disease around. I will need to see you for four deep-cleaning appointments, though."

He grumbled, and I sighed. Four one-hour appointments with this crotchety fellow were going to be a challenge. "Help, LORD!" I silently pleaded.

I was a new Believer, having come to the LORD a few weeks earlier in October of 1984, and my newfound joy and enthusiasm could not be contained. I radiated Jesus, and with the Holy-days fast approaching, my smile often lit up the room. I know this because Dr. Smith told me.

Midway through his first treatment, he suddenly asked, "You're not expecting, are you?" 

I sat back and stared at him. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"You're glowing," he said accusingly. A few minutes later, he pushed my hands aside. "Why are you so darn happy all the time, anyway?"

I smiled and took that opportunity to share the miraculous story of my recent salvation. Dr. Smith shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but his eyes remained fixed on mine as I talked. 

"I'm glad that worked out for you," he remarked afterward.

Soon into his second appointment, Dr. Smith impatiently gestured for me to stop. "What did you do to get saved?" he queried.

I set my instruments down and reflected. 

"I told the LORD I was sorry for the wrong things I had done, I knew I couldn't get into heaven by doing good things, I believed his Son Jesus died on the cross for my sins, and I wanted to give my life to Him." 

He was silent for a moment. "That's it?" 

I nodded. 

Tears glinted in his eyes, but he said nothing. 

"Rinse, please," I said with a smile. 

We were making progress, quadrant by quadrant, but he was still not healing well. "Dr. Smith, I am doing everything I can to help you, but you are not flossing and brushing every day like I showed you."

He retorted, "Look, kid. Cleaning my teeth is YOUR job, not mine." Then, as if to soften his words, he patted my knee. 

Thanksgiving arrived before our third appointment. By the time I saw Dr. Smith again, Christmas was just around the corner, and I was overjoyed at the prospect of decorating a freshly-cut, ten-foot-tall Frasier fir tree. My husband and I had begun collecting ornaments two years earlier, and I was enthusiastic about my new hobby. 

Dr. Smith asked me to describe the ornaments to him, so I did. Our collection was eclectic: glass, brass, silver, gold, wood, and the occasional Hallmark. No two ornaments were alike, and some were artisan originals.

We chatted easily until our session was over. I scheduled his fourth and final appointment and handed him a card. For the first time, Dr. Smith gave me a hug and thanked me. "Merry Christmas!" he called back with a wave as he walked down the hall. "See you soon!"

The next afternoon my employer stepped into the operatory. "Kay," he said sadly, "I am sorry to tell you this, but Dr. Smith passed away in his sleep last night."

My heart was broken. I was fond of my new friend. Dr. Smith seemed resistant to the Light, and yet... "LORD," I prayed, "I hope our talks helped and he is safe with You now." 

I thought of Dr. Smith often during Advent. Then one morning, our receptionist walked into my operatory carrying a package. "Dr. Smith's wife was just here. She left this for you but didn't stay. She was crying,"  she said, puzzled.

I rose. What on earth?

Carefully nestled inside a presentation box were three amber ornaments. But they were not just any ornaments. They were Strini blown glass replicas from the Smithsonian Hall of Trees in Washington, DC. Tears welled up in my eyes as I read the accompanying card:

"For Kay from Dr. Smith. Merry Christmas!"

Decades have passed since I opened that package. At one point, I had amassed crates of Christmas ornaments and would decorate multiple trees over the course of many days. Now I am downsizing and gradually giving away pieces from my collection. I linger over each one, remembering its story. 

No ornaments are more precious to me than these three, however. Two will find their way to new homes this year, but I will keep one of them on my small wall tree until it's finally my turn to go home. 

Yes, Dr. Smith. I remember.

See you soon. 

Kay Seibert O'Hara

December 1, 2020

*not his real name