Category Archives: Family

Reunion: On the Side of Loving Road -By Donna and Karla

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On a knoll off the side of Loving Road in North Georgia, stands a most cherished building, which bonds a family of six generations. To many, the fourth Sunday in June would bear the title of homecoming day. In the same way as other older churches in the area, we address this special Sunday as the Decoration Day.

History

Founded in 1929, the Smith family donated the land for the cemetery. However, even before its official establishment, there were burials. Two early small Smith tombstones mark the lives of babies. One infant died in April 1865, the same month the Civil War ended. The other baby was left to the Smith’s by a Gypsy family traveling through the area, but it died shortly after. In addition a stone is inscribed “Smith” for a Confederate soldier.

Mt. Carmel Church

In 1943, Gus, Dennis, and Grady Hunt (Donna and my great-great uncle, our great grandfather, and my grandfather/Donna’s great uncle) built a quaint, white church. In those days, service was once a month when Mr. Henry, the traveling preacher, came into the area.

Our Aunt Anna remembers how she and all young cousins played quietly and took naps on a quilt stretched out in the aisle. The service lasted from daylight to dark. Oil lamps lit the building because there was no electricity (nor is there still). She shares, “The shadows they made on the walls would scare me a little.”

The all-day service meant everyone brought food to share for meals. Potty-breaks were taken in the nearby outhouse that is still used today. We are graced by the church’s original structure and benches. In recent years, relative added updated windows and a new roof. During these repairs, four generations, ranging in ages from two to seventy-six, refreshed the outside of the church with a new coat of white paint. Although the physical foundation of the church required rebracing this past year, the spiritual foundation of our family has not waivered for almost eighty years.

The Fourth Sunday in June

If you drive down Loving Road fifty-one Sundays of the year, you might miss this little treasure. For it is only the Fourth Sunday in June that the church hosts a congregation. On this special day, family members make such an effort to attend. As flowers are placed on graves of loved ones, hence the name decoration, we stand underneath the large oak tree singing hymns before entering the church house.

“Family sings Where the Soul of Man Never Dies” and other older hymns while accompanied by several guitars and a banjo.  As always someone collected an offering to aid in preserving the church and cemetery. A family member preached reminding us of the importance of preserving a good name while finishing the Christian race. Memories of our Moms, dads, grandparents, and other family members flooded our minds. For they left behind a Christian influence that continues to span generations. The service ended as a cousin sang “Amazing Grace”. Little by little the family joined in. After catching up and taking a few pictures, cars left their grassy parking spots.

Nana’s

Then cars coasted down the hill to the house known as Nana’s built by Granddaddy in ’72. Though their generation is no longer here, their love still lingers among us. The folding tables that now replace the sawhorses and plywood tables, grace the porch. They hold some of the most delicious food: ham, casseroles, chicken-n-dumplings, beans, okra, corn, squash, and tomatoes from the gardens, and desserts a plenty! All diets are off on this day!

As almost sixty of us line up to walk along the tables filling our plates, we pause to pray. Heads bow as the bounty of food is blessed and the hands that prepared it, and appreciation for the family that has gone before. Tom, a married-in cousin, finished this prayer with “And thank you for letting me marry into this loving family, and Lord, for allowing us all to be welcomed into your eternal family. Amen.”

The Little Mountain Church

We ate and visited for hours. We shared stories and laughed until early evening. Realizing the time, we started driving the hour over the mountain. We found ourselves singing a song that represents such an importance in our lives.

The Little Mountain Church

Looking back now, that little mountain church house,

Has become, my life’s corner stone,

It was there in that little mountain church house,

I first heard the word, I’ve based my life upon.

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Going Home -By Donna

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Karla and I drove to my daddy’s on Father’s Day for an overnight visit. He still lives in the house I grew up in, but the definition of going home has changed over the years. During the college years, it meant someone to wash my clothes, make a homemade meal to eat, and a place to get a good night’s sleep.

When I moved into the married years with children, I was no longer the most anticipated person walking in the door. Grandkids stole the first hugs and much of the attention while we toted in all essentials needed when traveling with little ones. The older married years were lots of fun when I was home. With all five grandchildren together swimming, Mama and I would cook in the kitchen. My brothers picked on me like they used to. Eleven years ago, going home became difficult for my brothers and me. We spent time with Mama, knowing the cancer would someday result in her absence from our childhood home.

Changes

Going home now means the absence of some family, including mama and the introduction of new members. Even the pool I loved as a kid, has been filled with dirt and vegetables.

Going home may be different now, but somethings just never change. Walking in the door and greeted with hugs, Karla and I barely had time to use the bathroom before we were invited to the table. It was filled with delicious home-cooked food including veggies from the garden. For at least 40 of my 50 years, Karla and I have graced the table together many times. However, no older brother was burping and getting fussed at and my mama was not running back and forth waiting on our every need.

But as always, Daddy blessed the food. My daddy has always said, “Dear Heavenly Father” when he would begin and ended with, “and bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, in Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”  We all held hands as I listened to his familiar southern dialect. Karla came to tears as she held his elderly hand and noticed he was constantly rubbing her hand as he prayed. Perhaps she felt the age in his hand, but she also felt the love in his heart.

More Change

The next morning I stretched and rolled over in my childhood bedroom, though nothing looked the same. No poster of Eric Estrada, stuffed animals, cat collectibles, or stereo system was seen. But the familiar smell of breakfast cooking caused me to awaken early. It’s not often someone cooks breakfast for me! Just as I was about to try and catch a few more winks, my door flew open. “Are you awake Donnie Boo? Breakfast is ‘bout near ready if y’uns want some.”

 It was a little different when I was a child and he woke me. In those days, I would hear, “Wake up Jacob, give a little light; see your daddy in a pole cat fight!” I heard it every Sunday morning as he stirred me awake to get ready for church. Still my daddy’s voice waking me brought such a smile. 

Deciding we would all go to town, Karla and I got ready. As we did so many times growing up, we stood in front of the wall mirror in the blue bathroom. We painted our faces, curled our hair, and laughed just as in years past. But I saw no tube of Clearasil, Panasonic tape player or hot rollers. What I did see were two faces with a few wrinkles sneaking in, a gray hair here and there, and smiles that have withstood many tornadoes of life together.

Saying Goodbye

When we were ready to head back home, the departing routine began as it always did in the past. Daddy checked the oil, put a little more air in the tires, and a touch of water in the radiator. All lights were inspected: front, brake, back-up and signal. He packed the car making sure nothing was sticking up high enough that my view would be blocked. Then he cleaned the front windshield so that I could see clearly.

 

What had changed? The man, who was smiling and waving at us as we pulled away. He looked like the man I grew up describing as old…my granddaddy. While we were growing up, Daddy was growing old.

No matter how different things are now, the love I have felt over the years and the years to come will never change. Even when my childhood home and family are no longer there to visit, they will exist in my heart.

 

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Overcoming: For Whom the Bell Tolls -By Karla

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John Donne’s Troubles      

John Donne lived in England in the late 1500s and early 1600s. Distress filled his life.

  • His father died when he was only four.
  • He married and his wife had twelve children, but five
    died as infants.
  • His father-in-law refused to help his family in the financial crisis.
  • During his first year of ministry in a Protestant church, his authenticity was questioned
  • His wife died when she was only 33.

     At her funeral he had Lamentations 3:1 read: “I am a man who has seen affliction by the rod of the Lord’s wrath. (NIV)”
   

And Yet 

     Yet, despite all these afflictions, he became the pastor of the largest cathedral in London.

 

But Then

      A plague in Europe killed one-third of the total population while he was the pastor at this church. Donne too was ill
for a time, but not until he recuperated did he realize how truly sick he had been. It was then he remembered hearing the cathedral bells chiming. In his delusion, he thought they were sounding his death. It was after his illness that he wrote the famous quote:

No man is an island,
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
As well as if a promontory were,

As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

     Our world is filled with pressures: daily annoyances, schedules, and deadlines. Our world is filled with pains: relational strains, financial hardships, sickness, and death. Often I wonder how does one cope and move forward?

Back Stories

     I love backstories of people’s lives. They inspire me. 

    And I love God. He is our comforter and guide. He is our hope. Our worldly woes may try to stop us, but the Light of the World encourages us to hold fast to him, persevering steadily day by day.

     As we nestle ourselves in his comfort, He transforms our hurts into strengths. These strengths can be used to glorify him because we can use our back stories to encourage others.

 

 

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Military life: A Kentucky Easter -By Karla

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Easter Plans 

For Christians around the world, Easter Sunday is a time for joy indeed. Our Lord and Savior is risen! I hold His death and resurrection in my heart, for I know this is where my salvation comes. I am a God, family, and country kind of gal. My desire is always to be in church and have Easter lunch with the entire family, with the ever popular egg hunt in Blue Ridge.

Alternative Plans 

However in 2003, my girls and I were separated from my extended family by miles. Our Tennessee National guardsman was at Fort Campbell, Kentucky awaiting deployment to Iraq.  Sadly, we would not be a part of our customary Easter Sunday in Blue Ridge, GA. At the time, Lindsey was eleven, and Rachel was seven.

In the Weeks leading up to Easter

In the weeks leading to that cool March Easter, life was pretty hectic. Sometime during the week, the girls’ dad would call to share the great news that his unit’s departure date had been delayed again. So, on Thursday afternoons, I would pack us again. Then after school was over on Fridays, the girls and I drove north for about 225 miles. After a long week of the girls’ missing their dad and the demands of school, we hit the road again. We did not want to bypass a chance to spend time with him before he left for a year. I think we traveled for five good-bye weekends.

Friends like Family

Military families are unique and special friendships often develop, lasting over decades. One of the families that traveled the roads along side during these days were Steve, Leigh, and their sever-month-old Lily Grace. My girls had their own personal living baby doll, which scared me at times! But Leigh loved it. They followed her wherever she went.  Having a baby, each week she packed everything but the kitchen sink. I tried to stuff a few surprises in our suitcases.  My girls needed tradition.  For Heaven sakes, it was Lily Grace’s first Easter. We were doing something with eggs!

“Uh, Karla…”

After lunch on Saturday, Leigh and Steve offered to take the girls to Toys-R-Us. Meanwhile, the girls’ dad and I went back to the hotel, so I could begin the preparation of three-dozen eggs.

As they entered the room a mishap was revealed. Leigh sheepishly confessed how they almost lost Rachel! “Karla, she was playing some new video game, and one of us asked her to stay there while we were in line. Steve left to get the car, and I finished paying and headed to meet him. I buckled in Lily Grace, and I heard Lindsey clicking the seat belt.  Steve and I turned to look at each other at the same time and yelled, ‘Where is Rachel?’ Steve flew back inside, and there she stood where we told her.” She gave a nervous giggle and added, “Karla, I don’t think she even had a clue that we had left the store!”

Heading Home Again

Driving home late that sad Sunday afternoon, many thoughts wander through my mind. I began laughing over the forgotten clothes left in the hotel room and Rachel almost being forgotten! Then my mind drifted to my attempts at comforting a new mom. She was shocked that bathing suits don’t fit like they did before giving birth! I saddened over how I had to distract my two proud daughters from seeing the angry protesters outside the army post gates.

I found myself grinning again at the thought of my girls helping Leigh and playing with Lily Grace. Giggling, my mind drifted to the stickers the girls stuck not only on the two dozen, pre-boiled eggs but on the hotel furniture as well. Then, I laughed out loud at myself for struggling to blow out those egg yolks into the toilet, which left me staggering light-headedly down for hours! I shook my head at the thought of stains left on the carpet from paint.  All because I thought egg dye would be too messy!

Finally, I took a deep breath and wondered if we would be packing up for the upcoming weekend.

–Karla

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Accepting Help: Plant Yourself -By Donna

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My house and land is bordered on three sides by 200 acres owned by an out-of-town family. For twenty-seven years we have been surrounded by a forest. This year, what we have always dreaded, happened. The owners had their land clear-cut. Now on the outskirts of our 40 acres is a thin line of trees, and many trees that stand alone.

When a storm comes through our area, my daddy always calls to check and make sure no damage occurs.  Besides the Blizzard of 93, we have had no damage. But since the cutting, the last two big storms have knocked down large old trees, both times across our long dirt drive. One morning I had to drive down a small hill around a fallen tree on the driveway to get to work. A few stormy nights ago, Tucker called saying, “Bring me a chainsaw, I can’t get up the driveway.”

I pondered why the high winds were blowing over trees when it’s never happened before. Right or wrong, I have come to this conclusion. When there were 200 acres of trees standing side by side, together they were like a wall or barrier.  But now standing alone, they lack protection from one another.

I think life is that way. When you try to go through life, preferring to handle it alone, you may bend and break. During the last few days before my mama passed, my parents’ life-long forest was so obvious. In the hospice room, there were days when additional chairs would be brought in for the circle of friends and family. A nurse once commented, “We have never had a patient with this many visitors.”  My Daddy was well taken care of after her passing. His forest made sure of that.

“You can’t see the forest for the trees.”

My mama was my protection tree. When my tree began to wither, fear set in. I called my Aunt Kathy, and she arrived at the hospice, staying until the end. She has been there for me ever since. I have always kept things to myself and dealt with things alone. I just don’t want to burden others, or appear to be weak. You know the expression, “You can’t see the forest for the trees?” that was me. I had always been surrounded by my forest, but didn’t realize it until my time of need.

I came back to work, and my lesson plans for the month were complete.  Friends brought meals and gave gifts (which at the time I thought it was strange to receive a gift when a parent dies, but oh how I cherish them now).

I have had many challenges over the past year, and it has enabled me to see how big my forest is. I have a forest of co-workers, church family, related family, and friends. There were times I hesitated to accept help, but as I attempted to decline help from my Uncle Lynn, he told me, “the polite thing to do is accept and say thank you.”

Don’t be the tree standing alone. Plant yourself in a forest. Don’t let pride prevent you from the blessings of others. Someday you may need their strength. In return, you are a part of their forest. Reach out to those who may be looking for a place to plant their roots.

—Donna

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Grandparents: A $300 Treasure – By Karla

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 At only five feet and mostly peppered-haired Nana blessed everyone she met. She loved all people, making people feel special. Most didn’t know her real name, Ethel. Instead, she was known as Nana. Man, she could Nana cook!

Ophie Pound Cake 

For instance, take her Ophie pound cake. I know a lot about my family history, but I don’t recall someone named Ophie. While I do not know from whom the name came, I can say that Nana made this delight for so many people. If we had any occasion, her Ophie pound cake was present, whether she was or not.

Green Beans

Her talents weren’t limited to pound cakes; she also produced her legendary green beans. After Nana’s passing years ago, the grandkids discussed how they didn’t think they could ever eat green beans again. “No one will ever make them like Nana.” Luckily for us all, Aunt Anna had learned from the best, so Nana’s green beans still grace the tables.

Even Mac and Cheese

The first year I moved into what I thought was my forever home, the whole family drove over the mountain for a New Year’s celebration. Someone really played up that the great-grandchildren would enjoy some macaroni and asked Nana if she would make some. At eighty-eight, she had slowed a bit. She wanted to be included, and she seemed content with the request. Even mac and cheese from a box seemed special when made in her kitchen.

As everyone arrived, more and more food arrived. Nana’s mac and cheese got pushed to the back of refrigerator, and no one remembered it was there. Dinner came and went.

While tiding up the kitchen, my sister Gail discovered the forgotten noodles! Almost in slow motion, she twirled around pointing into the refrigerator. Her face froze in disbelief and horror that we might hurt Nana’s feelings! At her age, her feelings got hurt as often as a little kid’s would have. 

Almost simultaneously, Gail grabbed the container, and I reached for a big spoon. We rushed into the garage, raking the food from Nana’s dish into the thirty-three-gallon trash can, so she would not be discover our oversight.

Caught!

As we were nearing the end of the contents, we heard the doorknob turn, and we froze. I’m sure our expressions were that of our younger years when we would all be hooping and hollering in the basement. Nana would bound down the steps shaking the ruler reminding us, “Y’ungs, best quieten down before you wake up Grandmommie.”

Thankfully, our Aunt Anna stood on the concrete steps. What a relief! She walked onto the landing with her hands on her hips. Puzzled, she inquired, “Why are y’all doin’ throwin’ out perfectly good food?”

“Shh! We forgot the macaroni, and didn’t want Nana to think we forgot about her or that nobody wanted any,” we confessed.

“Alright, you two idiots (she affectionately called us), you could have just put it in a Tupperware container, instead of wasting it!”

Well, that would have been a better idea. We shared an unexpressed thought. 

Nana’s $300 Treasure

Recently, I was making a cake for a visit with Gail. I smiled as I read the cookbook. Many years ago as a wedding present, Nana gave me a blank cookbook. She filled it with her recipes, Mom’s, and Aunt Anna’s too. Over the years, the binding has worn so much that my daughters had rebound it as a present. I thought of Nana’s $300 dollar chocolate cake and all its yummy goodness. Not only the did I find the special recipe, but in her handwriting. What a treasure!

Ethel Marie Hunt (1913-2003)

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Acceptance: Cornbread Catastrophe -By Karla

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Not Your Everyday Decoration

The second Sunday of August is deemed as a decoration day, a special occasion for our family. I sometimes explain these gatherings with a more familiar term known as family reunions, but at a church. Like many small towns in the South, our churches are often adjacent to a cemetery. Once a year, the tradition is to assemble at the church for a service. We bring flowers to decorate the graves of loved ones, honoring them and their influences in our lives. Three summer Sundays I find myself weaving the roads toward where my heart always resides, Fannin County.

A Little Too Busy

Being busy with the beginning-of-the-year school preparations, I had not been to the grocery store in a while, but  concluded that I had the ingredients to make the family popular cornbread salad. On Saturday evening, I shook the cornmeal into the bowl and added the oil. Reaching in the refrigerator, I frowned, noticing all I had was almond milk. Oh well, this will have to do. The liquid flowed into the cornmeal mixture. Realizing I  had reached the point in life when I can not beat myself up for having to use the wrong kind of milk to make cornbread. I smiled proudly, and anticipated sneaking a few bites when I took it out of the oven.

Cooling it as long as my taste buds would allow, I popped in a small bite into my mouth.

Hmmm…Something is not right! What is that?

I reached for the carton hoping it was not out-of-date when I noticed the words, “coconut almond milk”! Now, I love coconut, but not in a cornbread. How could I have not seen the picture of the freshly cut coconut on the milk? To my serious dismay, I fed some of it to the dogs, who did not seem to mind the added fruity flavor.

Consoling Myself

I went to bed feeling quite defeated. I consoled myself glad that I am the new me because the old me would have beaten myself up for messing up the only recipe I had the ingredients to make.

For so many years, I tried to be perfect. Please do not get me wrong; I knew I wasn’t. But, I somehow felt I needed to be flawless to be accepted and loved. I am not really sure where those feelings came from since I had an unconditionally loving mom, but the anxiety that accompanied my imperfections was real and not healthy for me.

Saved when I was eleven, I learned many things about Christ over the years, but during the last seven years, I have really began to mature spiritually. Carving out a daily time to read my Bible and having prayer time has made a huge difference in my life. I don’t understand how God transformed me, but He has. Now, ninety percent of the time I am totally fine with the goofy mess I am. And when I do forget the other ten percent, I try to remind myself that God created me, and He does not make mistakes.

I decided to pick up some fried chicken on the way over the mountain. However, when I got to the grocery store, they did not have any ready. So, I picked up some potato salad, which no one ate!

The Bright Side

Note to self: While it may be perfectly acceptable to bring store-bought fried chicken to our decoration dinners, don’t bother getting any store bought potato salad. It won’t get eaten. Just come on emptied-handed; you’ll be just as loved!

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