Planet Earth: On Loan to Humans

They are sea lions, NOT seals.

I took two cameras and those children who were well enough to enjoy a sedate walk down to the pier in order to get a closer look. The sign said "DANGER: BEWARE OF SEA LIONS ON DOCKS." This, of course, was accompanied by sufficient graphic art to insure that anyone not possessed of the English language would be without excuse should they approach and consequently be maimed by a sea lion.

Ah.

At this point, I scanned the parking lot and waited for a native to show up and give me the inside story. A few minutes later, I hit the jackpot.

Apparently the sea lions migrate down here all the way from Alaska by the thousands (there are only a hundred or so at the moment--still a bit early in the season) to bask in the relative mildness of an Oregon bay winter. As to the specter of danger, they have been known to take entire chunks out of tourists stupid enough to "go down for a closer shot." The natives treat them with the type of respect one would usually accord a Polar bear. They give the sea lions a very wide berth, timing the morning departure of the fleet until most of the herd have headed across to a nearby breakwater for a change of scenery.

Now, I find myself wondering how the fishermen get off their boats at the end of the day and back into their waiting cars. With cattle prods? I think I may have actually made that inquiry at some point, but was drowned out by the incessant "ark, Ark, ARK!" in front of us. 

Amazing.

Wildlife. Everywhere we have traveled, wildlife! Elk goring golfers at Estes Park in August. Bears chowing down on back country hikers at Yellowstone in September while buffalo toss teenagers up into the trees. Now there are sea lions calling the shots down at the docks here in Astoria. Whew! The Northwest can be a dangerous place.

Of course, Atlanta has its own native hazard.

We call them fire ants.

Kay O'Hara
Astoria, Oregon
October 1, 2002

"Wait" is not a Four-Letter Word

"Love is patient..." 1 Corinthians 13: 1

To be patient is to wait. But for me, "wait" has been a dirty, miserable, four-letter word for most of my life. 

You see, I was a card-carrying member of the instant gratification club. Like Violet in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, I wanted an Oompa Loompa, and I wanted it NOW. 

Only recently--this year, in fact--have I been willing to disengage my impatient spirit and quietly wait upon the LORD's perfect timing. 

It took a brother in Christ and compassionate leader to teach me this lesson. Jim has gone on before me in this battle. He wrestled with God in solitude for years, doing the work of faith and obedience until this truth was revealed in his own life. 

When it came time to impart this wisdom to me, Jim stood resolutely and quietly through my chest-pounding, childish storms of angst and misery as I wailed for things that were clearly not yet in God's timing. Jim held his ground until I exhausted myself, then knelt beside me and gently began sharing the truth about the beauty of waiting on God.

I didn't want to listen to his words.

"Live in the moment. Relish what you have right now... don't waste a minute longing for what you do not yet have. Thank God for everything--all of it--today, whether it is provision, position, possessions, or relationships. Focus on His goodness. Embrace the abundance. Appreciate it. This is God's perfect will for you, right now. It is His best. If you don't have something, He knows that this person, place, thing, or experience you are longing for will not edify you yet--perhaps never will. Trust Him. Thank Him. Be at peace. Be still and reflect.

Kay, we are experiencing a banquet of God's wonderful Providence before us. Don't run past the other delightful dishes on the table in your haste to get to the dessert. The dessert is only a very small part of the meal. These other marvelous delights that have been uncovered and offered to us are nourishing, filling, and wonderfully tasty in their own right. Enjoy these for a season."

He was right. 

I am thankful for the forty miles between us at this season in our lives and the limited amount of time we have to be together. I am grateful for this seemingly endless "Saturday" in our relationship, where we must focus first on the continuing needs of the young people we are still raising. I am committed to wait with more patience, grace, trust. I will have faith in what I cannot yet see, and I will not hurry past the abundance that has already been placed for me. 

Coming Out of the Closet

Hi. My name is Kay O’Hara, and I am coming out of the closet. I am tired of hiding who I really am. 

Top of the list? I am a Christian. I believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and I had a personal encounter with the LORD thirty-something years ago that has forever changed my life. As a result of this, my worldview is one that often gets sifted through the Bible, which I believe to be Inspired and Inerrant. I prefer an eternal perspective, for I believe all of us are going to live somewhere—either in fellowship with the one true God or apart from Him—forever.

I believe in the sanctity of life from conception to the grave. Though I have fallen short of the mark, I also believe in one marriage between man and woman until death parts us. I am respectful and appreciative of how God designed men in general and filled with admiration for one in particular, and that is my husband, Jim Heinz.

I believe God has created from one blood all nations of men. Although our skin color and cultures may be different, He created you with a glorious purpose, and your value is no less than my own.

I am a flawed creature, who just wants to be more like Jesus every day: loving, forgiving, and humble. If you don’t know me well enough yet to know how sinful I am, just wait a minute. I am a broken person who has been at the helm in everything from failed relationships to financial foolishness. To be honest, although I believe in a perfect, sinless Savior I am not sure you could ever meet a poorer representative of what it means to be a Christian.

I do know how to say, “I am sorry.” “I made a mistake.” “Please forgive me.” I am often painfully aware of where I missed the mark, and no one is harder on me than myself. Having said that, hope springs eternal in me. To quote a lead character from Anne of Green Gables, “Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it,” and although I am aware that I will not pass through it without messing up, I sure want to try.

Lastly, I have been heartbroken about what this recent election revealed about the character and intolerance of many I know and a few I love. The results did not divide us. We were already divided but not being honest about it. Many like me were just too polite and respectful—sometimes even fearful—to say, “I believe in something different than you.” Back in November, I pulled the lever for Pence, because of my faith and values. Donald Trump—a relative unknown to me—just happened to be on his ticket. Now that both are in leadership, they are receiving my prayers, support, and opinion.

I interact with many people who don’t share my beliefs or orientation and am often challenged to rethink the validity of both. This is a good thing. Having said that, I don’t care to be disrespected or ridiculed for my faith or values. I have a low tolerance for bullying, meanness, and harsh language. I also believe in free but respectful speech. While your voice, contributions, and purpose matter, mine do, too.  

So this is who I am. Keep me or delete me, but in the interest of full disclosure, if you didn’t know these things about me, you do now. My name is Kay O’Hara, and I am done with hiding in the closet. 

March 8, 2017

Tales of Sweet William: Love Looks Like a Tow Chain

Dear Sarah,

I've been waiting for one of Atlanta's rare winter storm warnings to share this story. It is especially for you.

It was eleven-fifteen at night, and meteorologist Bob Caldwell from WLOS in Asheville was confidently calling for snow--lots of snow--for the Western North Carolina mountains. Your dad watched the weather report intently from our little house in Clyde and then rose from his recliner to turn off the TV. He walked out of the living room and began rummaging around the bedroom. I could hear him opening dresser drawers and closet doors. After a few minutes, he returned, snagged his heavy coat off the hallway peg, and then strode out into the garage.

"What's up?" I asked as I poked my head out the door and watched with interest. Bill lifted a heavy set of seldom-used tire chains off the wall and laid them out on the floor of the garage. A moment later, he draped a massive tow chain across his shoulders like a steel Anaconda and turned to face me.

Bill smiled. "You'll see. Now, go back inside. It's freezing out here. I'll be in shortly." He reached past me, pressed the button that set the overhead garage door opener in motion and went out into the cold, rainy night.

The year was 1983. Your dad and I had been married for just a few months, so we were still discovering new things about each other. While Bill was outside, I glanced at his job calendar. He was a self-employed master electrician at the time and kept all of his appointments written down there. Did he have an urgent electrical contract to complete in the morning that could not be rescheduled?

Not that I could tell.

"I don't think you'll be going to school tomorrow," Bill remarked casually after he returned and hung his dripping coat up to dry. "The wind is picking up and the temperature is dropping fast." While no school would be sweet, I had lived in the mountains long enough to know that my college classes might simply be delayed, so I still laid out my dental hygiene uniform and set my alarm.

We finished our evening chores and went to bed soon after midnight. As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the rain change into sleet. I sat up in bed to listen as it began frantically tapping on the bedroom windows. The sheers stirred slightly as gusts of wind whistled past outside. Your dad reached over to the electric blanket control and turned it up to seven. Then he rolled over and snagged me close. "Go to sleep. It'll be fine," he murmured into my hair.

The next morning I awoke later than usual to the smell of brewing coffee. My alarm had been turned off, and it was already getting light outside. Seth, who was four, was still sleeping soundly under a mound of blankets, so I closed his bedroom door and went out to the living room. Bill was standing at the kitchen counter decked out in his heavy Carhartt jumpsuit making peanut butter sandwiches. Thick gloves and a ski cap lay on the dining table next to his tall contractor's Thermos and lunchbox.

I lifted the curtain on the back porch door and peered out into a blue-white winter wonderland. Icicles hung down from tree limbs and power lines, and most of the normally visible landmarks in our yard were now nondescript mounds of snow.

"There's a layer of ice and four inches of snow already on the ground. It's not going to stop until tonight. Then it is going to freeze like a rock," Bill said. "The school closings have been scrolling on the TV since five this morning, so you two won't be going anywhere today."

"Are you?" I asked, moving over to the wood stove that was already blazing. I warmed my hands appreciatively and took note of the large stack of firewood that was waiting in the bin. He had definitely been up for a while.

"'Oh, yeah." Bill replied with a boyish grin on his face."The roads are a mess."

While such a statement might have struck fear into the hearts of other brides, I had complete confidence in Bill's judgment. The man had more common sense than anyone I knew. Though he had grown up in Florida, your dad understood what it took to safely navigate winter road conditions in the mountains. His four-wheel-drive work truck was perfect for the job. He had recently equipped it with an old-fashioned steel fireman's ladder in order to do some lighting work, and the weight of that massive contraption gave the truck additional traction on the icy highway.

After breakfast, I stood on the front step and watched as Bill slipped Big Red into gear and eased it down the steep hill of our subdivision. He began slowly cruising up and down the roads near the house looking for people who might need help.

Your dad spent the entire day pulling vehicles out of ditches, rescuing folks from stranded cars, and lending a helping hand to anyone in need. By the time he finally came in for the night, his Thermos was empty, the sandwiches were gone, and his clothes and boots were so encrusted with snow and ice that he had to shuck out of them in the garage before he came into the house.

Bill O'Hara was one exhausted but happy man. During a time before cell phone technology existed, he had managed to single-handedly assist dozens of people and get them to safety. My favorite part was the fact that although people tried their best to ignore his wishes, no tipping was allowed.

Your dad was an everyday hero, Sarah. He absolutely loved helping people. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he's the one who passed some of these same character qualities on down to our Blue Line girl. He'd be so proud of you, Honey.

You be careful out there now.

Much love,

Moohm

Tales of Sweet William--Love Looks Like a Rose

My Children,

Baby Emma was born to Judge Wayne and Mrs. Laurel Cobb when your daddy was a teenager. Totally captivated by this wee beauty, Bill made a visit to Emma’s home when she was but two days old. He brought with him an elegant gift: a single rose in a glass bud vase.

“Bill placed that rose in the corner of her crib with such tenderness,” Laurel Cobb recalled years later. “It was one of the most manly acts I’ve ever seen.”

In the months that followed, Bill made many visits to the Cobb household. “He was so taken by Emma, Bill would just stand there a watch her sleep. He even offered to babysit her for free!” Laurel marveled.

Bill loved roses… and children. When I met him in the mountains of NC in 1980, Bill was a Jackson Perkins volunteer test grower who painstakingly tended trial specimens and submitted the results. We enjoyed many a fragrant bouquet from his garden. Years later, when we suffered a number of miscarriages among the beautiful, healthy babies the LORD gave us, Bill and I embraced the healing process by creating a rose garden. We planted a specially chosen rosebush for each of our living children and then one for every baby we had lost.

I had the privilege of seeing Laurel Cobb again in the summer of 2013 at the funeral of Bill’s ninety-eight year-old mother. After the service, Laurel shared the story of Emma’s rose with our youngest son, Ethan.  “You remind me so much of your father,” she said with joyful animation.  “I’m going straight home to find that vase so I can send it to you. I’ve saved it all these years!”

“Whatever became of Baby Emma?” I asked with a smile.

“She became a Christian homeschooling mother of six, just like you,” Laurel said, with a hug. 

Tales of Sweet William--Love Looks Like a Clothesline

Bill was a homebody. He often said the only hobby he had outside of woodworking was his family. He didn't care to go golfing or bowling with the guys. The gym didn't interest him either. By the time he got home, he had already put in quite a workout by walking miles on job sites or climbing up stairs and ladders. No, settling into the midst of his family after work or on his rare days off appealed to him more.

One weekend, I was washing breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink and looking out the window.  “I sure miss having a clothesline. Wouldn't it be lovely to smell sun dried sheets again?” I mused aloud to baby Sarah, who was in her high chair, mashing up Cheerios in a puddle of apple juice.  I daydreamed about this for a few moments, imagining glorious sunny days with lines of wash flapping in the breeze. Bill, who was busy lacing up his work boots at the dining table, agreed. Then he gave the baby and me a kiss and headed out the door to his workshop to finish gluing up a project.  And that was that.

Or so I thought.

Twenty minutes later, I watched in amazement as a parade appeared in the yard before me. Bill was at the head, carrying two long poles and a sack of concrete. Luke was next, manfully wrangling a shovel across his young shoulders. Hannah proudly brought up the rear, lugging along a roll of nylon clothesline, her golden curls bouncing with each little step of her cowgirl boots.

Astonished, I quickly cleaned up Sarah and went outside. Bill had already sighted up the location for the clothesline—a nice, long one!—and was digging the first hole. “It’s going to take a couple of days for the concrete to set up before we can string the line, but I think this’ll do the trick for you,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. Luke and Hannah grinned up at me, pleased to have been included in the conspiracy.

Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes. What a kind thing to do on a day that was already packed with chores and errands! I watched as Luke and Hannah raced over to their playground and began clambering on it, singing snatches of happy little songs. Surely there no greater security than for children to be assured of their parents’ love for one another, I thought to myself.

I hung hundreds of baskets of wet wash on that line in the remaining years we had together. After Abby and Ethan were born, Bill strung a second line in the yard to handle the increased demand these new little additions generated.  A friend once asked me if I minded doing so much laundry week after week.  I smiled at her and said that I really didn't. How could I? Every time I went out into the yard to hang up or take down another load, the testimony of my husband’s love would greet me, instilling in my heart a fresh appreciation for the wonderful man I had married.

Kay O’Hara
April 13, 2013

Tales of Sweet William: Love Looks Like a Pocket Knife

My Dear Children,

Bill was working for a large electrical corporation in Atlanta when he first met Jim Gallagher, the owner of Gallagher Electric and Engineering. Both companies were working in adjacent areas at the same location, and on that day there was a crisis at the Gallagher site. During the course of his workday, Bill became aware of the problem. Once he was off the clock, your dad approached Mr. Gallagher and offered to fix it at no charge. Bill was confident that he possessed the necessary skills to make the repair and felt it was the right thing to do. He loved helping people.

It only took your dad a few minutes to get everything up and running again. Afterward, Jim Gallagher gave him a business card, a one hundred dollar bill and one of his signature Gallagher Electric pocket knives as a thank you. Then he spoke these words, "Son, if you ever need a job you just give me a call."

Months later, your dad refused to take a dishonest shortcut for the other company, even though he believed his integrity might cost him his job. A few weeks later he was laid off. Over the weekend, Bill calmly took that business card out of his jewelry box on the dresser and made the call. On Monday, he went to work for Jim Gallagher and never looked back. 

Bill stayed with "Mr. Jim" until the day he died. Your dad's loyalty was unwavering, and Mr. Jim's care of our family exceeded our expectations. He gave Bill time off with pay when members of our family faced health challenges, kept him on the payroll during the economic downturn of 2001, and often gave him unexpected bonuses for a job well done.

Fifteen years have passed since Daddy's death. Most of his personal belongings have now been handed down to you children. At some point along the way, however, Bill's original Gallagher knife was misplaced. 

Last year, when my husband-to-be (also a Jim) and I were packing up in preparation for the sale of my house in Acworth, I came across your dad's work knife in a storage box. The leather case had rotted, and the knife was tarnished and covered with green mold. I lingered over it for a few moments and then set it back in the box. Without saying a word, Jim picked it up and tucked it away.

Fast forward to this morning, Christmas Day 2016. Our family has gathered together and is exchanging gifts with traditional merriment and goodwill. All of this is about to change, however. Moments before he hands a small box to Ethan, my husband leans over to me and quietly explains what I am about to see, so I won't be caught completely off guard. Tears spring to my eyes and begin rolling down my cheeks.

Ethan unwraps his present from Jim and opens the box. Inside is a beautiful leather knife case. Since knives are a common gift in our family, no one is anticipating anything out of the ordinary. Ethan then lifts the flap to reach inside... and draws out his dad's work knife. Though it is worn with age and years of use, it is shiny and clean and looks like Bill just set it down for a moment.

"Dad's knife..." Ethan whispers, eyes filling with tears.

Suddenly there is not a dry eye in the room. "How is this possible?" Ethan asks in awe. Jim tells the story of restoring the knife and waiting until just the right moment to give it to him. All of us girls are openly crying at this point, and a Kleenex box begins making the rounds.

Ethan stands up to give Jim a bear hug. Thank you so much," he says in a voice choked with emotion. "I've always wanted something special that belonged to my dad."

Today something extraordinary happened in our family. It was as though the mantle of compassionate leadership visibly fell into place upon the shoulders of Jim Heinz. This man has been behind the scenes for months tirelessly encouraging, helping, counseling, and praying over you children, but this act of kindness was huge. Whether our appreciation has been private or public, each of us has been gradually acknowledging that our family is a better, healthier, happier unit because Jim is part of our lives. Today's act, however, crystallized those feelings.

In Christian circles, the concept of love languages is a familiar one. It is the manner in which each of us most easily expresses and receives love. Mine is words of affirmation. Your dad's predominant love language was acts of service. I've only recently understood that Jim's primary love language is also acts of service. It took me a while to figure this out because he expresses all the other languages so well.

An ordinary man might feel threatened by the memories of a good husband and father, but Jim Heinz does not. He celebrates stories of Bill O'Hara with all of us and looks for specific ways to affirm each of you children as you navigate through adulthood. He is accomplishing this in a manner much like your own father might have done: by observation, preparation, and service. This is because of Jim's faith in Christ and his desire to be a servant leader to our family.

I've been blessed to know two great men in my life. One is now gone, but the other is walking alongside me by faith and gently bridging the present with Eternity. For this, I will always be grateful.

Merry Christmas with love,

Mom