Monthly Archives: January 2018

Guidance: No Sense. -By Karla

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Ok, I have a little sense, but not so much when it comes to directions.

Which Way Is Up?

Over the years, I have provided my family with lots of stories that give validity for their harassment. I have tried to come up with some way to explain my actions but had little success. When I turned 16, I told Mom I was ready to go take my driving test. Concerned because she did not think I had studied enough, she asked if I was sure.  Now, I would almost swear that I never said the following, but apparently, there are too many witnesses.  

“I have just one question,” I must have blurted without thinking. “How do you know which side of the road to drive on?”

Just Point the Way

Another directional story that seems to haunt me from my youth is one my Aunt Anna likes to share. In the middle of some blabberings, I simply pointed to Nana’s house. The two houses are only a few hundred yards from each other. Lord only knows what I was trying to tell because my pointing ended the story. I remember them standing me in front of the living room window, where I could see her house. However, for the life of me, I could not figure out which way her house was so that I could point in the right direction!

Better Late than Never

Over the years, I would like to say that I have been cured from my directional disabilities, but that would be a bold-face lie. Before navigation systems were on our phones, my girls were in their prime basketball and volleyball days.  God love them. I know they started a ton of away games wondering if I would get lost and miss half of it. Once I got to a game with less than two minutes left to play!

The Stories Just Keep Turning Up From Nowhere

And don’t even get me started talking about the times Donna and I have been lost; there are several hundred blogs for those stories.

Once I even got lost on the beach!  Now to be perfectly honest, I didn’t even tell anyone about that one except Donna because we were on the phone when the realization hit me!  t was December, and I decided to take a stroll on the beach and watch the sunset. Taking off my shoes, I put the condo key inside them, and tucked them under my a chair. I walked for about a mile; then headed back. The problem was that we was so involved in our conversation, that I did not noticed I had passed the beach chair by a mile or so! My phone died; the sun set completely, I was barefoot and had a serious need to find a potty.

The beach was deserted by this point, and I was uncomfortable walking alone in the dusk.  Heading for the road, I thought I would be a little safer. Up ahead, I thankfully saw a very nice hotel, and knew I could make a pit-stop. Though shoeless, I darted for the ladies’ room. After hours of walking aimlessly, I came to familiar surroundings, located my sandals, and made my way home.

Finding Our Way

Life sure is filled with numerous, complicated situations that require us to know how to find our way. Recently, while in the nursery, a young girl came in, sat, and begin to talk. Forming a little bond over the past year, we chatted, and I prayed with her. She is from an unchurched family; she needed to learn how prayer helps us find our way. Our world is filled with chaos, some that we do not even create, prayer guides our unknown paths.

How blessed we are, but often lazy. We have access to a Bible; all we need to do is open it and read. The closer I get to God, the more I want others to know how He desires to navigate us in the right direction.

 Isaiah 55:8-9 says,  “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” He has the best road for us to travel, so that we will never get lost. We need to invite God with us, lighting the path to our destination.-Karla

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Racism: One Heaven. -By Donna

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Growing up I adored the outside and spent most of my summer days in the sun. I loved to swim, ride bikes, and play with the dog. Working in the garden was a daily chore. I tanned so dark. My mother and older brother had very white skin; he even had red hair. My younger brother and I had black hair and dark skin. Many times in public, my mother was asked if we were adopted. I didn’t like my skin because I didn’t want people to think I was adopted,  because I wasn’t. I just looked different.

Bullied

In middle school (which we called Junior High), I was bullied. When I was in sixth grade, a group of eighth grade girls targeted me.They would call me names and shove me. In PE one day, the sixth-grade girls were doing an activity with the parachute as the eighth-grade girls sat watching. If you have ever played with the parachute, you know the game. The teacher called out “under the mountain”. We raised the parachute as high as we could, then twisted our bodies under it, pulled it down to the ground and sat on the sides. It forms a huge mountain. As we all sat underneath laughing, I began feeling the kicks. I slid away from the edge, but they kept coming. When we all came out from the parachute, I looked up at them in the bleachers, and they were laughing. I just couldn’t understand why. 

Days later, as I passed them in the hallway, one of them yelled, “Who is black? Your mama or your daddy?” Then I knew why they were picking on me. They assumed I was of mixed race, and they didn’t like that. Both my parents are white, but I have Native American on my mother’s side. So, technically if you look at my lineage you would see I am of mixed race.

Our Georgia kindergarten standards cover Martin Luther King Jr.  The school I teach at is predominately white. Each year as I read the watered-down story about his childhood, I watch the faces of my students. I see their confusion. “Why? Why won’t his dad (the Caucasian boy’s) let him play with Martin anymore?” I see compassion. “They hurt his feelings. He is sad.” I see anger. “They’re mean. I don’t like them.”

In the Eyes of a Child

What I see is how my kindergartners accept each other; not caring if their classmates have a speech impediment, dress in dirty clothes, are over weight, or wear an eye patch. They see these differences clearly and may ask, “Why do you talk like that, or why are you wearing that?” They ask, but they don’t care. I have found that at this age, most children are unaware of past racism or current racism, and are not aware of either side of the story.

But somewhere along the way, many people become prejudice. Children are born with pure thoughts, until they are tainted with the world’s hatred.

(Proverbs 22:6)  Start children off the way they should go, and even when they are old the will not turn from it.

We are all descendants of Adam and Eve. No matter the color of our skin, we are all equal in God’s eyes. There will be one heaven for us all, and we will all be perfect.

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Role Model: More Than A Teacher -By Karla

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About a week ago my two older sisters and I had the privilege of visiting a special lady.  She is loved by many as a teacher and a Christian lady from home in Fannin County, Georgia.

As a Little Girl

In elementary school, I was amazed by the fact that Mrs. Buttram taught Mom and Aunt Annan during her first year of teaching. Mrs. Buttram was also our neighbor. Mom would send me down to her house to fetch a cup of sugar or flour when baking. I would run through my yard and stop at the huge retaining wall that formed a barrier between two yards. With all my might and courage, I would talk myself into jumping off the wall, taking the shortcut to her house.  Greeting me at the door, I always noticed her sweet voice and smile.

Several years later we had moved from right above her house, down the hill on the other side of her. Riding my bike to the end of the road, I would often meet her, after she had worked the long hours as a teacher. She always waved and rolled down her window for a friendly little conversation.

Now a Teacher for Me

As a junior in high school, I was both excited and a little nervous when I saw Mrs. Buttram’s name on my schedule. What if I did not live up to her expectations? Of course that wasn’t the first time I had been nervous about having a teacher. With two older sisters, it was always a little difficult to walk in their footsteps. As the passed, I quickly settled. She always showed love and compassion for her students. The only time I ever saw her upset was when a boy cheated in her room. She handled the situation with such grace and made all 30 of us think twice of ever cheating on anything.

During the days that led to Christmas, she played an Elvis record. My four friends and I had our own little quintet when we joined with the whoo-who-ya-whoo-ya’s in his version of  Blue Christmas! Mrs. Buttram would just smile as us, but we knew she expected us to work in between our serenades.

Developing a Love

It was in her class that I acquired my love for written words. We wrote poems, essays, and personal narratives. She giggled at my adaption of the ever-popular Peter Cottontail when I turned the words to “Little Tommy Turkey Tail trotting down the turkey trail”.

Perhaps more importantly, she took the extra time share the remarks, “Simply beautiful” on a story I wrote. Those comments were written about 34 years ago, but I still remember. The story was something about a girl who was peacefully pondering life. (We were required to illustrate our works, but I don’t draw. So, I cut a picture from a magazine where a girl sat on a mountain ledge. She advertised how easy it was to hike while wearing a pad!)

Teacher, Neighbor, and Church Member

One Sunday about seven years ago, I was at my home church in McCaysville, Georgia. Mrs. Buttram was still singing in her same sweet soprano voice. A lady, standing next to her, lifted her hand in praise to God. I thought how the lady’s hand was probably in Mrs. Buttram’s view of the congregation. I learned something new that day. Mrs. Buttram was not distracted by the other lady’s hand; in fact, Mrs. Buttram lifted her hand in adoration as well. I had many times thought of lifting my hands, but I was too worried about what others would think of me. That Sunday, I realized that it only matters what God thinks.

Last week, we drove Marietta to visit Mrs. Buttram, who now lives with one of her daughters.  Among the stories we shared about memories in neighborhood, we took the time to reminisce about her teaching days.

Then I gave her two magazines, “Good News” Rome editions, containing articles that Donna and I have written. I explained to her how much her encouragement meant to me over the years.

What a blessing it was to hear her say, “I’m so pleased, Karla. May I keep these to read?”

So many years have passed since I bravely jumped off the retaining wall going to her house. That wall that I used to look up to now seems so small. However, Mrs. Buttram will always stand tall in my eyes!

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Attitude: Baby It’s Cold Outside! -By Donna

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Karla and I are so much alike, except when it comes to temperature. As you can see from the picture, this is what the settings sometimes look like when we are traveling together. What you can’t see is that I am wearing leggings, jeans, shirt, sweater, socks, boots, jacket, and drinking hot tea.  Karla is wearing a sleeveless shirt, open-toed shoes, and a cooling rag. Her hair is pulled up, and she’s drinking cold water. It hasn’t always been like this with us, but these hot flashes make traveling with her a little more challenging. I despise the cold!

Some of my Christmas gifts this year from my children included a gigantuous furry blanket and fuzzy slippers that you heat in the microwave before wearing. I’ve always been cold-natured, so, when I saw this week’s forecast, I was dreading it.

14 Degrees

Tuesday morning was the first day back to school.  As usual, I went out and cranked my car, then came back in to do a few things while it warmed up. When I crawled in the car, the outside temperature said 14 degrees. I immediately had to catch my breath from the frigid air that was blowing full force out of my heat vents. Yep, no heat.  The fifteen-minute drive seemed like forever. As I fussed and complained aloud, my warm breath came steaming like smoke from my mouth. By the time I arrived at work, my toes were frozen and my fingers literally ached from the cold. This is insane! I am freezing.

As complaint after complaint fell from my frozen lips, Emily’s friend went through my mind. He works outside. I texted to make sure he had warm gloves and multiple pairs of socks to wear. How awful to work out in this weather. Then I pictured the homeless man and his dog that I pass several times a week. I envisioned an elderly person sitting at home with no heat. Forgive me, Lord. I am so blessed to have a car, unlike the homeless man and his buggy. My dog is curled up on the sofa, while his walks the cold streets with him. I have a warm workplace, while others are outside on a rooftop. And when I return from work, I come inside to my warm home, slide on my heated slippers, and snuggle under my gigantious blanket, while others suffer in homes without heat.

Attitude Adjustment

Sometimes we get so accustomed to things; we take them for granted. Not really having the time or money to fix my heat at the moment, I have driven this way for three days. That first day was all complaining, which I know Satan loved. (He knows just how to get me; he knows I hate cold) But after my attitude adjustment, I just laugh at him, sing my way to school as always (just dressed in a few more layers), and pray for those less fortunate in this weather.-Donna

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