In His Strength

COURTIN' IN THE GOOD, OLE DAYS: Frank and Ressie Vick Kendrick

2011-07-30T16:16:00.004-05:00

I’ve had a request for more Early Settlers posts, so here’s one of my favorites about “Courtin’ in the Good Ole Days” from my Early Settlers of the K-Springs/Chelsea Area book. Frank and Ressie Vick Kendrick (both now deceased) told it to me around 1974 for a newspaper article I was writing. I’m not sure how old she was at the time, but Frank was close to 90 years old. (He was born July 1887.)

Ressie’s family was from Joiner Town between Columbiana and old East Saginaw, which is now part of Chelsea. But her father George Vick moved the family around a lot, she said, following his work with a timber-cutting operation. That’s how they came to live at East Saginaw where she met Frank Kendrick.

They didn’t actually play together as children, Ressie said, because they were both very bashful. But Frank found ways to get her attention.

She recounted with a smile, while Frank just listened and grinned, “One day I was out in the yard washing clothes for Mama’s twin babies, when directly something shined in my face, and it was him out on the porch with a mirror.”

“Do you remember the first letter I ever wrote you?” he asked her.

She did, of course, but he told the story anyway for my benefit -- and because he was enjoying their remembrances as much as Ressie and I were.

“It was when I was a teenager and worked for Saginaw Lumber Company. I would walk right past her house going to the railroad track where I rode on a hand car to the lumber company. Well, on this particular morning, I walked up close to the open front door and tossed a letter to her inside the house.”
Ressie confided that his first talk of marriage was also in a letter. But they later made wedding plans in person, sitting in the parlor at the Vick home. She told him that night, “You’ll have to ask Daddy.”

“Well, you’ll have to go in there with me to ask him,” he told her.

So Ressie agreed and together they headed for the room where Mr. Vick sat. But just as they reached his open doorway, Ressie slipped on by it, leaving Frank to face her father alone.

Sixty-plus years later, sitting under a shade tree with Frank and me, she still found amusement in the trick she’d played that day. “I went out and hid behind the house until the men folk finished their talking.” she laughed.

Frank Kendrick and Ressie Vick were married on July 26, 1908.

OLD K-SPRINGS SCHOOL PICTURES

2011-07-01T18:17:00.000-05:00

SCHOOL HOUSE ABOVE THE SPRINGS

2011-06-30T14:42:00.003-05:00

more K-Springs/Chelsea history........

In September of 1881, Elmira Kendrick's son Luther bought from her the property she had purchased at the 1873 tax sale, and on which Luther had built the family's log cabin. Elmira and youngest child Mary continued to live in the cabin with Luther and with his family after he married.
According to the recollections of Luther Kendrick’s son Clifton (now deceased) it was around 1896 that Luther donated land for a school building at K-Springs. The building was erected on the hill above the springs, where the old K-Springs Church building now stands along side County Road 39. Some thirty years ago, when I was putting together the K-Springs/Chelsea book, several older citizens of the community shared with me some stories about the school.
Clifton Kendrick started first grade there in 1899. “We had two classes of geography; one was an advanced geography class,” he said.
Mable Shirley Peters still had an old blue-back speller and a report card from the school. During the 1922-23 school term, she was in the eighth grade, her teacher was Cecile Prather and she studied arithmetic, grammar, state history, algebra and science.

Cecil Kendrick, son of Luther, said teacher, Judge Harper, told the students, “Always tell the truth if it takes the skin off your nose.”

Ressie Vick Kendrick (wife of O. Frank Kendrick) recalled walking to school at K-Springs from old East Saginaw. In the winter time they would get ice on their shoes walking on the muddy road. “When we get to Spencer’s house (the little house in the deep bend of Road 39 just before the intersection with Road 36) his wife would have the fireplace full and want us to stop and warm.”

A.P. Niven recalled that he “went under the hill and got a bucket of water and brought it up to the school. We made paper cups to drink from,” he said. He recalled, too, “We had syrup buckets to take our lunch to school in. We had whatever we could carry from home in a bucket.”

Clifton said that, since Luther’s children lived near the school, they would run home at noon “to get that buttermilk and potatoes.” He had an easy half-mile run home, down the long hill behind the building and up another short hill to their cabin, he said, but the uphill return to school after lunch was a little harder. Still, he would run back so he could meet friends before class “took up” for a quick game of ball. (The ball field was across the road from the school, where the K-Springs cemetery is now located.)

Story and photo taken from EARLY SETTLERS OF THE K-SPRINGS/CHELSEA AREA
by Shelba Shelton Nivens (email for permission to quote or copy shelbasn@juno.com)

DISCOVERY AT K-SPRINGS

2011-06-25T17:41:00.004-05:00

As undergrowth was cleared from the K-Springs property Elmira Kendrick had purchased at the 1873 tax sale, five springs were discovered.

Jemima Kendrick, my husband Ken’s grandmother told me, when I was researching for the K-Springs/Chelsea book, “Grandpa (Elmira Kendrick’s son Jud) told me this now. There was one spring of pure water. Further down the branch, nearer the cabin, was a spring of sulfur water, and one was a mixture of minerals. Grandpa told me that the water containing a mixture of minerals is called kalebrate.”

She could not recall the type of water in the other two springs. Other early visitors to the springs recalled that one of them had copper water.

Clifton Kendrick (grandson of Elmira, son of Luther) recalled that the family used water from the sulfur spring, except for washing clothes. It would stain clothing, he said, so “Aunt Mary” (Elmira’s youngest child) would take them to a spring “way over at Uncle Elbert’s.” (Elbert Kendrick lived along where there is now an empty lot east of the Edgar Smith family lives.

Clifton speculated, “The spring of free-stone water must not have been discovered until after the year 1900, because it was a big spring of pretty, clear water.”
After its discovery, people came from all around to wash clothes, bathe the kids and take home bucketsful the pretty, clear water for other household uses. For many years it provided water, not only for private homes, but for a church, parsonage and school.

It was from these springs on the Kendrick property that the community, school and church derived their name.

Story and photo taken from EARLY SETTLERS OF THE K-SPRINGS/CHELSEA AREA

by Shelba Shelton Nivens

(email for permission to quote or copy shelbasn@juno.com)

PLEASE PRAY FOR MY BROTHER TOM

2011-06-23T21:53:00.003-05:00

I, my sister Nina, and brother Joe went to the doctor with our youngest sibling, Tommy, yesterday. His doctor is an Oncologist with Birmingham Hematology and Oncology Associates. L.L.C. at the Shelby Cancer Care Center next door to the hospital in Alabaster. We all liked her very much. She is kind, seems very caring, but straight-forward and tells it like it is.

He has primary liver cancer, hepatocellular carcinoma (HCC). The doctor says it is in Stage 3, at least. Tumors are all in the liver, both lobes. The don't know yet if it has gotten outside the liver, which would be a Stage 4, the hightest Stage number

He is to be treated with a new chemo durg, Nexavar (Sorafenib), in hopes it will shrink at least some of the tumors/lesions. She says it will be slow acting, gave him info on the cancer and the treatment and some other things to be working on while she gets the med approved for him.

I looked both up on the internet. Sounds really, really, serious, but she seems to think there is some hope that he will get some better. Said it's a team effort, she will do her part (as long as he stops drinking his beer), he'll have to do his part, then we'll just have to trust God to do His part. She seemed glad to see so many of his siblings with him. Said he is going to have to have a lot of support.

I talked to him late this evening, and he sounds good. He's been working on getting his disability set up like she told him to, and was gathering up his beer cans, the empty ones and the full ones, to get rid of them.

Please say a prayer for him. Thank you.

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS

2011-06-23T16:41:00.004-05:00

Elmira Gilbert Kendrick, the woman who purchased the K-Springs property at the 1873 tax sale (in my June 19 Blog) was the widow of Isham H. Kendrick, son of the first Kendrick to this area. Isham had joined the Civil War in 1862, but was discharged less that three months later because of a “chronic hepatic disease.”

This is part of the tale about his wife and the K-Springs property at Chelsea, Alabama as taken from my local history, EARLY SETTLERS OF THE K-SPRINGS/CHELSEA AREA:

“On December 29, 1866, in the bitter cold of winter, a tiny baby girl was born to Elmira Kendrick, widow of Isham H. Kendrick. Three years later, in the winter of 1869-70, Elmira was so deeply in debt that in order to pay creditors and make a crop in the spring, she mortgaged her land and “all the crop corn and cotton to be raised in the year 1870.

"She was to keep possession of the land until November 1, 1870 when the debt was to be paid in full with interest. If in default, creditors (Duran and Nelson) were to take into possession the land and sell it to the highest bidder to pay the debt...." (Statements by descendants indicate where this land might have been.)

"It appears that Elmira, her children and daughter-in-law Carrie (Carrie Ann Davis Kendrick), worked together through the summer of 1870 to raise enough corn and cotton to pay off creditors and hold onto her land. Furthermore, only a short time later, Elmira began to acquire additional land. According to later deeds -- and to family members at K-Springs -- she owned a 'right smart of land' in this area. (Statements by descendants attested to this fact)

"In 1873, at a public tax sale, Elmira bought for $8.75, the south half of the southwest quarter of Section 4, Township 20, Range One West, on which the old K-Springs Church of God building is located....

"(The late) Luther Kendrick... passed on to his children the information that he was but a boy, fifteen years of age, when he became head of the house (remember, his father had died in 1866) and built a cabin for the family on the K-Springs property...."

Around 1980, when I was compiling the book, some of the now-deceased children of Luther Kendrick described the cabin to me as follows:

Flora Kendrick Nivens: ""It was one room originally, I think, with additional rooms added later. There was a kitchen built separately, just a little piece from the house with a walk going out to it."

Clifton Kendrick: "It had a big room and a back room and two side rooms and a long kitchen out back with a fireplace. My mother had a loom there (the kitchen) and I helped her make cloth. ...There was not a lot of furniture in the house and that in one room. My mother had rope cords in the bed for springs.

"The cabin was located about one quarter mile back in the woods behind where the old K-Springs Church of God building and (former) parsonage now stand on the south side of County Highway 39...."

Next installment: A discovery near the cabin.

Story taken from EARLY SETTLERS OF THE K-SPRINGS/CHELSEA AREA

by Shelba Shelton Nivens
(email for permission to quote or copy shelbasn@juno.com)

Begetting a Community

2011-06-19T20:16:00.002-05:00

“It was over a century and a half ago that James Lewis Kendrick, with his wife, children and several other relatives, left South Carolina to beat a path through the wilderness to the new Alabama Territory. Today, descendants of this little band of pioneers are scattered throughout Shelby County in the heart of the State of Alabama. There is, in fact, a thriving rural community along about the center of the county which was named for the Kendrick family.

“‘Kendrick Springs’ the place was first called when early settlers would meet at springs located on property purchased by a Kendrick widow at an 1873 tax sale, to do the family wash, bathe the kids, and carry home buckets of water for other household uses. (The springs were located down the hill behind the little white church building where St. Catherine’s Episcopal Church meets.) The name (of the community) has now been shortened to “K-Springs” but the Kendricks and their descendants still make up a large portion of the community’s population. It is the Kendricks of Kendrick Springs -- and other pioneers who helped to carve out of the wilderness a loving, caring community -- that we wish to share on these pages.”

*****

This is the beginning of a book of local history that I wrote around thirty years ago. Over 100 people came to the first book signing on the day it came off the press. Since then it has sold to people across the country and in Australia. It is now in its third printing.

Since there still seems to be an interest in the story of these early settlers, and since the woods, hills and hollows surrounding the community are now filled with sub-divisions full of people who may know nothing about the people who once lived where they live, I thought I would tell a little of their stories in future blogs. I’ll take most of the stories from the book, and maybe a few from a play script I wrote several years ago about the history of the K-Springs church and community people.

I hope you find their stories as interesting as I did as I wrote and put them together.

Story taken from EARLY SETTLERS OF THE K-SPRINGS/CHELSEA AREA

by Shelba Shelton Nivens
(email for permission to quote or copy shelbasn@juno.com)

More Rocking Grannies

2011-05-14T17:22:00.005-05:00

Edwina Chappell, of Westover, Ms. Senior Alabama 2008 and Director of the 2011 Ms. Senior Shelby County pageant

ROCKING GRANNY REDEFINED

2011-05-14T16:34:00.001-05:00

“Today’s senior woman has redefined the term rocking granny,” said Karen Guice, Chairman of the Board for Ms. Senior Alabama, Inc.

Guice was emcee for the recent pageant I attended -- and about which I wrote in this week’s Chelsea Community column in the Shelby County Reporter (Find it at Shelbanivens,shelbycountyreporter.)

According to their website, Ms. Senior Alabama, Inc is a “non-profit organization designed to enrich the lives of senior women while also allowing them to share their experiences, wisdom, and interests with others.” Winners at the state level go on to compete nationally.

Participants are women sixty years and older, who have “reached the Age of Elegance.” Winners serve as ambassadors, performing for nursing homes, parades, and civic organizations.

Ms. Senior Alabama, Inc. also provides opportunity for inter-generational activities through the presentation of a college scholarship.

“Women grow through the pageants,” Sally Beth Vick, Ms. Senior Alabama 2009, said. “They get to do things they have never done before.”

TRACING THE WYATTS FROM VIKINGS TO SHELBY COUNTY, ALABAMA

2011-03-26T15:46:00.003-05:00

(This is my family line through my grandmother Edna Cordelia Seagle Shelton Fulgham. This post is especially for people who have contacted me about their interest in, or connection to Wyatt family history -- and any others interested in genealogy, history and tales of intrigue)

Did you know that back beyond the Wyatt name we can claim some of the same ancestors as King Henry VIII of England -- who stole Anne Boleyn from our ancestor Thomas Wyatt? This can be traced through dozens of history books, websites, movies and even some of Shakespeare’s plays. Some of our ancestors appear in the Tudor television series and are featured in novels.

A book I’m reading now (THE LADY IN THE TOWER, by Jean Plaidy) is about Anne Boleyn and King Henry VIII. Thomas Wyatt and his sister Mary are prominent characters in it as friends of Anne Boleyn and her family. Their estate and castle, Allington, is “next door” to the Boleyn estate and castle Hever. Thomas Wyatt and Anne are together a lot growing up and as adults (when their life activities allow it). Actually, Thomas is in love with Anne.

Anne and King Henry (parents of the first Queen Elizabeth) are not our ancestors. But Thomas and his wife Elizabeth Brooke are. It is through Elizabeth that we are descendants of kings and queens of England (and other countries) and Viking kings and warriors.

Our Wyatt family tree has already been traced in bits and pieces by other people back to the Vikings in the year 160 A.D. All we have to do is put all the pieces together by digging a little deeper into information we already have: info on family members we know, gravestones of people we once knew, information passed down to us through generations of family members, census records on the oldest family member we knew or have information on, etc. Check the internet, history books, old letters, photos, newspaper articles…. And be sure to check out surnames of people who marry into the family.

It was when I checked Elizabeth Brooke’s family name (wife of Thomas Wyatt I) on the internet, that things really opened up for me.

Sound easy? Sound like fun? It is. But it took lots of digging off and on for several years for me to find all the connections to trace some of the people through Norway, France, Germany, even Jerusalem. I feel sure that someone smarter than I and with more knowledge in this sort of thing can put all the pieces together much quicker.

Information was more difficult to verify after our second generation in America. Our family line was more difficult to trace. I had no doubt that Martin’s information was correct, but felt I should do my own work to trace our line. So, through census records, christening, marriage and death records, and family charts on the web, I came up with the same people that he did.

It was the brief notation in his book about Thomas Wyatt II dying at the Tower of London, that prompted me to dig deeper into the family’s earlier history. Since I had information from family members and the cemetery where several of my ancestors is buried, I was able to trace backwards to Haute Wyatt (first of this Wyatt line into America) and forwards from Haute in Virginia to Shelby County, Alabama. I then traced “backwards” from Haute, grandson of Thomas Wyatt II through his mother Elizabeth Brooke and her family line.

In later posts I’ll try to share some of the connections, and some of the more interesting characters I’ve found. I’ll let you have the fun of connecting the dots, since it would take too much time and space for me to go through all my research to tell you which dots connect where.

It’s with Elizabeth Brooke -- wife of Thomas Wyatt who divorced her hoping to marry Anne Boleyn -- that the name Wyatt changes on this particular branch of our family tree. I discovered this while researching Thomas Wyatt “The Younger,” after becoming interested in why he died in London Tower -- as recorded in Donald Braxton Martin’s book.

King Henry VIII is on our family tree, but he personally is not in our direct line. Our branches split off from each other with John of Gaunt, along about the time of the “Wars of the Roses.” John himself was a fascinating character, known as "Father of the Wars of the Roses." I’ll try, in a later post, to share some of the information I found on him.

MY TURN TO CHOOSE

2011-03-21T13:14:00.001-05:00

This story is a follow-up on my last post about the pulley bone. I wrote it many years ago and it won second place in a 1977 writing contest held by the Birmingham Quill Club.

MY TURN TO CHOOSE (a love story)

He is lying very still under the covers, his eyes closed, the bedside light still burning. I slip out of my robe and lean across him to turn out the lamp. But his eyes fly open and his arms come up to pull me close to him.

“I love you,” he says with unexpected fervor.

I snuggle closer and tell him, “I love you, too.”

“Do you?” he asks quietly, holding me even tighter.

“Yes. More than anything on this earth,” I mumble against his chest.

Loosening his hold on me, he looks into my face. “I thought you… loved your writing,” he says, and I can feel his unspoken “more than anything on this earth,” hanging there between us.

I pull free of his embrace. He doesn’t try to hold me. With one arm across his broad, bare chest, I settle down beside him to consider his challenge.

Has my seemingly understanding, liberated guy suddenly become the male chauvinist, asking me to make a decision between him and this mania I have for the written word? Once, long ago, in another time and another place, I recall, I had faced a similar decision with him.

He had known from the beginning -- my charming, young suitor -- that I wanted to be a writer. On our first date, I’d told him of my plans to go to New York right after graduation (that’s where all the big publishing houses were located back then) to seek my fame and fortune in the publishing world.

As a matter of fact, I’d felt that this declaration was the very thing that kept him coming back to take me out every weekend. He was enjoying his freedom far too much to contemplate matrimony. His friend, Don, told me that Ken never dated one girl more than twice because he didn’t want to become involved in a serious relationship.

Growing up on a farm with only his elderly grandmother, Ken had started dating only after graduation from high school and going to live in town with his mother and stepfather. He’d found a job, bought a little second-hand car, and according to Don, discovered that girls really go for the strong, silent type. Much to Ken’s embarrassment, Don even kidded him in front of me about how the girls chased him.

And I’d silently renewed my vow of years before to never give him reason to think I was out to “catch him.”

We were just barefoot kids when Ken came to spend that first summer with his father, who was a boarder at my grandparent’s house. I was accustomed to playing next door in Grandma’s yard with my brothers and male cousins, and when one of the boys told me that Kenneth thought girls were silly, I tried to act like a boy so he would forget that I was a girl.

But when he suddenly showed up again in the neighborhood one evening at the beginning of my senior year in high school, I found myself wanting him to see me as a girl. I think when I told him, “I’m going to have a writing career,” it was more to remind myself than to inform him.

Usually, Ken kissed me goodnight after our dates, but there was no bickering about the heavy stuff as there too often was with other boys. I was truly enjoying our youthful and refreshing relationship. Then on Christmas Eve he’d put a bow from a package in my hair and called me his Christmas present. I found myself wishing that it might be so. But the look in his eyes recalled a challenge from a time in years gone by:

We were playing chase in Grandma’s yard, and I was It.

Chasing a wad of the boys and running with my head down, I saw bare feet scatter in all directions. I continued behind one flying pair without looking up, running and laughing breathlessly. When I was within a few feet of making a tag, the feet in front of me halted. Startled, I stopped, almost colliding with Kenneth at the cow lot fence.

I reached out to tag him, then instinctively withdrew my hand, suddenly conscious of the fact that I was a girl and Kenneth Nivens didn’t like girls.

Laughing, he caught the top rail of the lot fence and sprang over. When I made no move to scamper over after him, the laughter left his eyes to be replaced by a deep, challenging look. “You’re not going to catch me?” he taunted.

So, on a Christmas Eve night around five years later, when he put the bow in my hair, I seemed to read the same challenge in the same dark eyes. But just as I’d done at the cow lot fence, I turned away from him.

After that Christmas Eve night, our goodnight kiss became just a little bit longer and Ken’s arm around my shoulders a little less casual. And I found myself looking forward to warm weather when he would wear short-sleeved shirts, and I could feel his bare arms around me.

At the first sign of spring we put back the top of his newly-acquired convertible and rode through the star-lit evenings laughing, singing and just being happy. I think it was along about the first of May when I decided that instead of going off to New York, it might be best for me to find a job with a smaller publishing establishment closer to home -- and to Ken.

I went to work for a local newspaper (The Birmingham News) as a payroll clerk, hoping to become a reporter. Shortly thereafter, Ken told me he loved me. Laughing and crying I told him I loved him, too.

There was no conflict between writing and being in love. Writing helped to express my love, and finally I could write from my own experiences of the heart instead of from those I heard about or imagined.

Then Ken asked me to marry him.

Expecting him to receive a draft notice at anytime, I agreed to marry him after his army hitch. (This would give me time to launch my writing career, I thought.)

“But I don’t believe in long engagements,” I told him. I asked that we not call ourselves engaged until closer to the time we would be married. Somehow, it seemed safer this way.

He agreed and convinced me to help him pick out rings, which he locked in the glove compartment of his car. And every now and then, sitting in my front yard in his convertible on a still, summer night, he would take out the little, blue box and slip the sparkling diamond onto my finger. “To be sure it still fits,” he would say. It was with reluctance that I let him slip the ring on and with reluctance that I had him take it off again.

Finally, one evening when he took it from the glove compartment, I refused to give him my hand. “No,” I said, “When it goes on again, I want it to stay.”

“Alright,” he quickly agreed, reaching for my hand. And as his eyes looked into mine, I found my mind returning again to a dusty summer afternoon in Grandma’s yard.

It was my turn to be first chooser for the ballgame that day. As I looked around at the boys, Kenneth’s dark, brooding eyes caught and held mine as though daring me to call out his name. He was the best player, and I wanted to win, so, throwing all caution to the wind, I called out bravely, “I choose Kenneth Nivens.”

My cousin Charles, giggled, his red hair and freckles shining in the sunlight.

Someone else taunted, “Get on over there beside her, Ken-neth. She chose you.”

I had thought that day that he surely hated me for singling him out, and embarrassing him.

But sitting in his car years later, I read a different meaning in that challenging look of his. It was with slow deliberation that I held out my hand to have the tiny, gold circle placed upon it.

We were married a few months later, two days after he finished army basic treating. Tony, our first child, was born during his two-year tour with the army.

For several years, I stayed busy with house and babies, office job and the P.T.A. And my writing career was slow to be launched. Our third child (we had four but lost the second one after two days) was in second grade before an editor decided that a manuscript on his slush pile from a little housewife in Alabama merited publication.

Ken had been proud of my accomplishment, and in intervening years, he had been very helpful and understanding when I left housework or typed way into the night, rushing to meet a deadline, while he went to bed alone.

Why, then, after all this time, I wondered, is he challenging me with this Love me or love your writing bit? And how am I to answer?

Actually, I have no decision to make tonight as I lay in my husband’s arms. I made my decision years ago, when I accepted his ring.

And, so, I tell him, “Yes, I love my writing. To me, writing is really living. But being able to spend all my days writing would not have near as much meaning for me if I did not know that you would be coming home to me at night. Writing is a part of me -- but not nearly as big a part as you are.”

Smiling, he pulls me close to him again.

I think of the night he placed his ring on my finger to stay.

“Remember the day you chose me to be on your ball team?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, “I thought you really hated me for that because you disliked girls.”

But he protestes, “No. I was afraid of girls, and especially of you. You tried to act like a boy, but I could never forget that you were a girl. And after you chose me first for your ball team, I knew that when we grew up you were going to be my girl.”

And just as I won a lot more than the game that day I chose Kenneth Nivens for my ball team, I’m still winning because I continue to choose him first -- for now and always.

End

P.S. Today after fifty-five years of marriage, I still choose him first, and I’m still winning.

The Pulley Bone Incident

2011-03-20T11:29:00.004-05:00

My daughter cooked chicken for us at lunch today, and it reminded me of one Sunday many years ago when I ate fried chicken for dinner at my grandma’s house.

After we got through eating my cousin Betty and I "pulled the pulley bone" around the leg of Grandma's dinner table. The person getting the shortest piece would get married first, so the old saying went.

I got the smaller piece when the bone broke, and sure enough, I wound up getting married first -- around nine years later.

But that’s not the most important point of this story.

Another old wives’ tale says that if the person with the shorter piece puts it over a doorway, the first “eligible” person who walks under it will be the person the owner of the pulley bone marries. So, anxious to see who I would marry, I had someone lift me up where I could place my pulley bone over the inner kitchen doorway at Grandma and Uncle Louie’s house.

(Uncle Louie was actually my step-grandpa, as well as my great-uncle. After Grandma’s first husband, my biological grandfather, died, she had married Louie, the widower of her sister Maude. He had two children, Betty and Charles, who were several years younger than my daddy and his three sisters.)

But back to the pulley bone.

A few days after the pulley bone incident, I walked next door to Grandma’s and Uncle Louie’s trying to sell fountain pens for my fourth-grade class at school. Although they might not have enough money to buy one, I felt sure their boarder, “Mr. Murray,” would. He always bought things kids sold for school, and in my mind he was rich.

He had a collection of silver dollars in a cedar chest in his room, and Betty, who did his laundry, said he wore silk underwear.

Mr. Murray didn’t let me down. He bought a fountain pen -- and turned and gave it to the strange boy sitting beside him.

I had been conscious of the boy when I first came in, but had managed to keep my cool. I’d only stared at him out of the corner of my eye while he watched me quietly from under a thatch of dark hair falling almost over his dark eyes.

Someone finally introduced us. He was Mr. Murray’s son! I didn’t even know Mr. Murray had a wife.

At the time, I didn’t think about my pulley bone resting over the kitchen doorway. But Grandma, in her teasing manner, later reminded me: I was going to marry Mr. Murray’s son, Kenneth. My fate was sealed.

The fact slipped my mind in intervening years, while I was busy with school, church, friends, casual sweethearts, and learning to be a writer.

Besides, Betty told me that Kenneth didn’t like girls.

My two siblings just younger than I were boys -- Jack two years younger, and James four years younger. Charles next door was three years older, while Betty was a whole five years older than I. Aunt Colamae, who came often on the train from the city to stay a few days, had boys the ages of Jack and me. Thus, during my grammar school years, I played mostly with boys.

When Kenneth, who was the age of Charles, came to visit his dad during the summer and school holidays, he played with the boys and I played with the boys, but we didn’t actually play with each other. I was always acutely aware of his presence, but knowing he didn’t like girls, I tried to
act like one of the boys.

After we grew up -- and the pulley bone prediction came true when I married Mr. Murray Nivens’ son Kenneth -- I learned that he had not disliked girls, but been afraid of them. However, he’d promised himself way back when we were playing in Grandma’s yard, he said, that when we were old enough he was going out with me, because I wasn’t silly and giggly like the girls he knew at school.

The summer I turned twelve, my family moved several miles from Grandma. For several years Kenneth and I saw each other only briefly a few times during chance encounters. I still felt that old awareness, but we never spoke more than a few words to each other.

Then, during my senior year of high school, he suddenly showed up at my door one day (we had no phone) and asked me out.

We were married a year later, November 13, 1955.

Chicken is still my favorite “meat.” But now days we seldom have a pulley bone to pull because we usually buy our chicken already cut up and packaged. The people who half the chicken breasts at the meat factory probably don't even know there's a pulley bone hidden inside it.

Rebels, Poets, and Preachers

2011-03-19T00:13:00.006-05:00

My ancestor was in love with her, but the king wanted her, too. So she became the wife of King Henry VIII and mother of the first Queen Elizabeth.

A recent email at requested genealogy information on the Wyatt family (The inquirer had read info from my blog post about members of the family). This got me to thinking about the interesting history of my Wyatt family line.

My new email friend and distant cousin Mark is descended, as I am, from Rev. Haute Wyatt, who came to theses shores from England in the fall of 1621 with his brother Sir Francis Wyatt, the newly-appointed governor of Jamestown, on the ship George. (See my June 13, 2007 blog post).

When Rev Haute later returned to England, he left behind several descendants. Among these was his son--and my 9th great-grandfather-- George Wyatt. Among George’s sons were Richard Wyatt and Henry Wyatt. And this is where our family tree branches out in separate directions. Mark’s ancestor is Henry; mine is Richard.

My branch of Richard Wyatt’s family eventually ended up in Shelby County, Alabama, where I was born and still live. Several generations of this family line are buried in Cedar Grove/Meredith Cemetery between Helena and Maylene in Shelby County, Alabama.

I recall going to “Homecoming” at this cemetery and the little white church across the road when I was a young child in the 1940s and 50s. I knew I had “kin-folks” buried in the cemetery, but don’t recall who or how many. It was only about five years ago that I began to learn a little about them.

Before my mother died in 2004, I took her to visit a first cousin of my father’s (He had died several years earlier), who gave us a book written by her grandson. It followed the Wyatt family line from Adam Wyatt (or Wiat) in the early 1300’s to the present day.

Using books and the internet I did my own research on the family info in this book, so I would have my own documentation. One entry in the book especially piqued my interest, but I was a year or more getting around to checking this out.

The entry said that one Thomas Wyatt died in London Tower. I knew that people close to the English throne, who had displeased the king or people who aspired to the throne, were often thrown into prison in London Tower. I finally decided to check the internet to see if I could find Thomas Wyatt mentioned in anyway close to English royalty.

I googled his name and dates, and lo and behold! All this stuff began popping up about him. I found that he was known as “The Rebel,” after leading a rebellion against “Bloody Queen Mary,” daughter of King Henry VIII and half-sister of the first Queen Elizabeth. Both he and Lady Jane Grey, whom he was attempting to place on the throne, were beheaded at London Tower.His father, also Thomas Wyatt, was known as the tudor poet. He was a poet in King Henry VIII’s court and an Ambassador for him. He grew up on the Wyatt estate next door to the Boleyn Estate. Anne Boleyn was a Lady In Waiting to Queen Catherine, who was one of the eight wives of Henry VIII and the mother of Queen Eliabeth.

As children on neighboring estates, Anne Boleyn and Thomas Wyatt I (the elder) were friends. But after they were older, they went different ways, until they ended up in King Henry VIII’s court at the same time.

By this time Thomas was married to Elizabeth Brooke, who would become my 13th grandmother. Falling in love with Anne Boleyn, Thomas divorced Elizabeth to marry Anne, but she had found favor with the king and Thomas was forced to back off. She became one of Henry’s eight wives and the mother of their daughter who would become Queen Elizabeth. After Henry grew tired of Anne, he found reason to have her thrown into the tower and executed. Thomas, too, spent some time in the tower, accused of committing adultery with Anne, but the king found a reason to get him off and he returned to court.

Thomas Wyatt I and his wife Elizabeth Brooke (WHO DESCENDED FROM KINGS AND QUEENS. I‘ll have to wait until another time to go into this) were parents of Thomas Wyatt II (who married Jane Haute). Thomas II “The Rebel,” and Jane were parents of Haute Wyatt (the first of this line to Virginia and an early pastor of the Church of England).

That part of Rev. Haute Wyatt’s family line which is also my direct line is as follows:

1. Rev. Haute Wyatt married Barbara E. Milford

2. George Wyatt married Susannah R ?

3. Richard Wyatt married Catherine Long

4. Henry married Elizabeth Dandridge

5. Joseph Wyatt married Dorothy Peyton

6. William Wyatt married Susanne E. Jones.

7. William H. Wyatt married Lucinda Meredith (William was apparently the first of this line into Shelby County. Lucinca’s parents David and Sarah Meredith lived and died here and are buried at Cedar Grove/Meredith Cemetery.)

8. Elizabeth Meredith married Josiah (Joseph) Pledger (several earlier generations of the Pledger family are also buried in this cemetery.)

9. Betty M. Pledger married Charles Augustus Seagle (buried at Cedar Grove)

10. Edna Cordelia Seagle married James Thomas Shelton

11. J. T. Shelton married Ethel Robert Motes

12 Shelba Dean Shelton (that’s me) married Kenneth L. Nivens

Are any of the above people in your family tree? If so, I’d love to hear from you. Comment in this blog or email shelbasn@juno.com. Or contact me through face book: Shelba S. Nivens.

PRAYER

2011-03-05T09:27:00.003-06:00

I received an email on prayer that I thought was so good that I'd share it here today. Thanks "Brother Eddie."

MOM'S EMPTY CHAIR
A woman's daughter had asked the local minister to come and pray with her mother.
When the minister arrived, he found the woman lying in bed with her head propped up on two pillows. An empty chair sat beside her bed. The minister assumed that the woman had been informed of his visit... 'I guess you were expecting me, he said.
'No, who are you?' said the mother.
The minister told her his name and then remarked, 'I saw the empty chair and I figured you knew I was going to show up..'
'Oh yeah, the chair,' said the bedridden woman. 'Would you mind closing the door?'
Puzzled, the minister shut the door.
'I have never told anyone this, not even my daughter,' said the woman. 'But all of my life I have never known how to pray. At church I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it went right over my head... I abandoned any attempt at prayer,'
The old woman continued, ' until one day four years ago, my best friend said to me, ‘Prayer is just a simple matter of having a conversation with Jesus. Here is what I suggest.. 'Sit down in a chair; place an empty chair in front of you, and in faith see Jesus on the chair. It's not spooky because he promised, 'I will be with you always'.. 'Then just speak to him in the same way you're doing with me right now....
'So, I tried it and I've liked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I'm careful though . If my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she'd either have a nervous breakdown or send me off to the funny farm.'
The minister was deeply moved by the story and encouraged the old woman to continue on the journey. Then he prayed with her, anointed her with oil, and returned to the church.
Two nights later the daughter called to tell the minister that her mama had died that afternoon.
'Did she die in peace?' he asked.
‘Yes, when I left the house about two o'clock, she called me over to her bedside, told me she loved me and kissed me on the cheek. When I got back from the store an hour later, I found her . But there was something strange about her death. Apparently, just before Mom died, she leaned over and rested her head on the chair beside the bed. What do you make of that?'
The minister wiped a tear from his eye and said, 'I wish we could all go like that.'
Prayer is one of the best free gifts we receive.
I asked God for water, He gave me an ocean.*
I asked God for a flower, He gave me a garden.*
I asked God for a friend, He gave me all of YOU...
If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.
Happy moments, praise God.
Difficult moments, seek God.
Quiet moments, worship God
Painful moments, trust God.
Every moment, thank God.

THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ANYONE BUT ME

2011-02-28T13:40:00.008-06:00

Have you ever had an experience where you had this feeling like you were the only person this has ever happened to?

When Tony, my first child, was born my husband Ken was overseas with the army. Back then, a military wife went to a military hospital to have a baby. It wasn’t like today when the military pays for her to use civilian doctors and give birth in a civilian hospital. So, I went to the nearest military hospital.

My husband couldn’t be with me and him thousands of miles away in Japan. So his grandmother was spending the week with me at the base guest house where I would be near the hospital for the delivery. But, after riding to the hospital with me in a taxi, she was sent back to the guest house to await a call about delivery.

This left me at the hospital without friend or family when my first child was born. And to top it off, I had never even seen the doctor before he walked in to deliver my baby. After the delivery, I had no one running into my room to hug me and tell me how beautiful my little boy was. No one to greet me and grin at me in the hallway as I was wheeled from the recovery room and into the “Maternity Ward.”

There were no private rooms, or even semi-private ones, but a long room full of beds occupied by new mothers, with curtains to pull between them for “privacy.”

However, none of this took away my joy and excitement.

When I was wheeled into the ward, the curtains were open and all eyes turned toward me. I recall seeing only a bunch of solemn faces in a sea of white bed linens. But I was grinning proudly from ear to ear as if to say: “Look at me. I’ve just given birth to a beautiful baby boy,” like I was the only one in the room -- in the whole world -- who had ever accomplished such a feat.

Ten years later, this “beautiful baby boy,” led me to a second such experience.

Tony had gone to kneel at the altar in our little church several times, where the pastor’s wife prayed with him. (I learned later that he was praying about God’s call to become a minister.) I had given my heart to Christ as a seven-year-old, and had tried to “be good” growing up. But many times through the years, I’d had doubts about my being a Christian because I didn’t always “feel saved,” and didn’t feel I was good enough to go to Heaven. Now, as I watched my child respond to prompting from God, the Holy Spirit began to deal with me, too.

Along about this time, I had read someplace that “Salvation is a fact, not a feeling.” Searching the Scriptures, I found the “fact” in Romans 10: 9 and 13: I’m saved when I call on God to save me, and confess Him as the Lord of my life.

After spending some special time alone with God, making sure I was truly a Christian, I got a little “nudging” one night to go up and kneel at the altar with Tony. I didn’t understand why, because I knew now that I was a Christian, and the pastor was praying with him. But I knew I needed to go.

When I slipped out of the pew Ken followed me. Together, we knelt beside our son. The pastor's wife knelt to pray with us. I don't know what she prayed, but I didn't need to know; I was having my own conversation with God.

All I could say was a silent,"Thank you, God, thank you," over and over again. I didn't even wonder why I was saying it, for I knew that something wonderful had happened within me when

I obeyed the Lord's prompting to walk up in front of the congregation to kneel before Him.

That was forty-five years ago. I know I’m still not “good enough“ to go to Heaven, but Jesus took care of that when He died on the cross. And his Holy Spirit has taken care of my doubts, for as Romans 8:16 says Christ’s Spirit bears witness with my spirit that I am a child of God.

This is the "fact" that gave me the wonderful “I’m the only person this has ever happened to” feeling and made me grin that big, silly grin as I walked back to my pew that night -- as I did when wheeled into that maternity ward ten years earlier.

Both times, a new life had just begun.

My Greatest Joy

2010-08-30T08:12:00.005-05:00

Well, it looks like about every two months is as often as I've been posting, so it's that time again.

I wanted to share about this weekend. A great Southern Gospel Singing Saturday evening by the Brasher family, also a great service Sunday morning, then two of our three "kids" here for Sunday lunch, a long nap afterwards and some time working on my column and the Rosalie of Rosebud story.

Most of the family is out-of-state right now: some living in Arkansas, Missouri and Los Angeles; some visiting in California and Denver; some on working vacation in Denver and Canada. They all used to come for Sunday dinner, but now they're too scattered. Oh, well, that's what we raise them for -- to be happy, responsible, productive (especially for the Lord) adults, living their own lives in their own way (or rather, in God's way).

A verse I have framed and sitting on a shelf above snapshots of the family on the livingroom wall says: "I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth." (3 John: 4 NIV).

That's my main prayer for them, that they will walk in God's truth. Knowing they are physically safe and seeing them often comes after that.

California, Kids and Rosebud

2010-06-26T19:51:00.002-05:00

Since I’m finally through putting together the proposal sheets for ICRS, with the help of my wonderful agent Diana, I guess I’d better get back to Rosebud. I left Jared still unable to remember who he is.

It’s been a month since I’ve posted, and a lot has been going on around here. I’ve written some on the Rosebud story, but had a lot of church and family things going on, and other writing projects pushing. And my house is still piled up.

My grandchildren here on the hill by us, just up our driveway, moved to California -- clear across the country from Alabama!!. My granddaughter Val and husband Nate (Some of you may have read her blog californiabarberstyle.blogspot.com or their posts on face book) have lived here by us since they married, and the kids, Cori 11 and Joel 9, have lived here all their lives. I’m glad they like it out there, but sure do miss them!

We are so fortunate to have had them close by where we could see the kids growing up, though. I really miss seeing the smaller ones in Arkansas, too, miss seeing their “everyday“ learning experiences like we did Cori‘s and Joel‘s. But they and the one in west Alabama are so much closer that we‘ll get to see them a little more often.

All five of the great-grands were here for the big “Going Away” party before Val’s family left for California. Some of the grandchildren didn’t make it, but we had 17 kids from ages 7 months to 12 years, scattered across the hillside above the lake between their house and ours. It was a hot late May Saturday and they had a ball taking turns on the water slid “Aunt Jon” got for them. Alex, about to turn 2, was the star of the show. He just couldn’t get enough of flying down the slide and splashing in the water. The other kids had to watch out or he would be saying “My turn, my turn,” and running in line ahead of them.

Lots of other busy, fun things have been going on, but guess I’d better hush and get on back to Rosebud.

I’m anxious to see how Rosalie has been making out with her patient since I’ve been gone.

RESEARCHING OLD RECORDS

2010-04-28T12:42:00.007-05:00

My newspaper column this week is about the history of an early family (the Blackerbys) to our area, and a book about them. Yesterday, I visited the home of a Blackerby couple whom I had not seen to talk to in years.

That's one of the great things about writing this weekly community column for the paper. I get to not only meet a lot of new people who have moved into the area, but see a lot of people I have known for years, but not seen for a long time. Since my children are all out of school, Little League, music lessons, etc. I don't get out to the places where I used to to see a lot of these old friends and acquaintances. But writing about people and events in the community gives me opportunity to.

Sometimes Ken goes with me to do interviews and make pictures, especially when I'm seeing people he once knew. But yesterday, he was exhausted, stiff and sore from crawling around under the house the prior evening working on a plumbing problem. The couple I'm writing about urged me to come back to visit and bring Ken, so hopefully, I can do that when I return books they loaned me.

One book was written by a lady in Texas who is descended from the same family as these Central Alabama Blackerbys. When she was researching for it some twenty years ago, she came out and spent a week with them while they helped her with information.

Hearing about the research brought back a lot of memories from years ago when I was doing research for my local history book. We didn't have the internet or the tidy records at our county's historical society office to use in our search. I, like the Blackerbys, tramped through old cemeteries, copying inscriptions on tombstones; searched early census records in books and on microfilm; dug through boxes of old, dusty, unorganized records in the attic and cubbyholes of our county courthouse.

It was an exhausting and sometimes hot--or cold--and dirty job. But it was interesting--and exciting when discovering a new piece to the puzzle we were working on.

As was the story I just finished writing about an early family to our community. Trying to fit together pieces of the story from notes I made at yesterday's visit and info scattered throughout the borrowed tome, it was interesting and fun to see the whole story emerge.

I hope it pleases the story's subjects and the readers of the newspaper.

HUGGING THE FLOOR

2010-02-15T16:59:00.002-06:00

My feeling when I walked into church yesterday morning (after being away sick for a month) was much like our two-year-old Tony’s must have been when he walked into his MawMaw and Granddaddy’s house after eight months away from it.

Tony’s father, my husband Ken, was in Japan in the military when Tony was born. Back then (late 1950s) military personnel didn’t get furloughs to come home unless it was a dire emergency, and Uncle Sam didn’t consider the birth of a military person’s child an emergency, even in peace time. So Ken and Tony had never seen each other until Ken came home at the end of his two-year overseas tour.

Still, Tony appeared to adjust well to his new circumstances when he and I moved from the home of Maw Maw and Granddaddy to live with a “strange” man in North Carolina, where Ken was stationed for the remainder of his eight months in the army. None of us realized how very much Tony had missed the only home he had ever known before our move -- until he returned to it.

Ken’s mom and step-father drove to North Carolina a couple weeks before Ken’s discharge and brought Tony back to Alabama so I (who was 6½ months pregnant) would not have to chase a two-year-old while packing to return home.

As Maw Maw later related, Tony was so happy to be back home, that as soon as they walked in her kitchen door, he dropped to the floor on his belly, and with a big smile, stretched out his arms hugging the floor.

This was my feeling when I walked into the church building yesterday. It was so good to be back home that I felt like lying down and hugging the floor!

THANKS FOR LETTING ME KNOW

2010-02-07T22:10:00.004-06:00

I've just now checked my blog for the first time since my December 17 post about the "Jesus Tree," and I want to say a special "Thank you," to two people who left comments on it. One of the comments was labeled "PuraAbarca," (I hope that's not an obscene word. Please forgive me if it is) and the only message was the word "wonderful" followed by a line of dots. The other comment and the message were in symbols followed by a line of dots. Although I could not read your messages, and do not know who you are, I am glad that you read my message about Jesus and the gift of salvation that He gave to the world. Thank you for letting me know. I'm glad you were impressed enough to write. Shelba

QUESTION FOR READERS?
Can any of you translate the word on the first comment and the symbols on the second one for me? Thanks.

The Jesus Tree

2009-12-07T11:57:00.003-06:00

Do you realize that not one of the four Gospel writers said that Jesus was nailed to the cross?

I've written and directed a lot of Easter dramas through the years, where we used the pounding of the hammer on a nail for sound effects. But I never realized, until a few days ago, that the Bible does not specifically say that Jesus was NAILED to the cross.

Pastor Greg had asked that each family in our church family either buy or make a tree ornament that somehow represents Jesus, then attach the related Bible verse to it and bring it to church yesterday morning to decorate a "Jesus Tree."

There was a huge, bare "Christmas" tree standing on the front platform of the worship center, and at the appropriate time during the service each family came up and hung their ornament on the tree. A few people, who had been asked ahead of time, told how their ornaments related to Jesus and what that means to them.

Well, Ken had a large nail -- more like a spike -- that he wanted us to use. So I went to the Bible to find the verse that says Jesus was nailed to the cross. And found that not one of the stories about his crucifiction says that nails were used. They just say that he was crucified.

According to history, during the time that Jesus died people were sometimes crucified by being nailed to a cross. But sometimes their hands and feet were TIED to a cross and they were left hanging there until they died.

We know, though, that Jesus was NAILED to the cross, because of a story that the writer of John's Gospel (John 20:26-27) tells us. When the disciple that we call "Doubting Thomas" heard that Jesus had risen from the dead, he said he would not believe it unless he saw the nail marks in his hands and put his finger where the nails were. So, a week later, Jesus appeared to him and told him to look at his hands and put his finger in the nailprints. And to stop doubting and believe.

I know that, to some people, it may sound a little morbid for us to talk about Jesus' dying at this season when we celebrate his birth. Especially if we hang a symbol of his death on a Christmas tree.

But, if it were not for his death and his rising from the dead, his birth would be meaningless. He would be just another prophet or teacher -- like the muslims' Mohammed.

However, as Jesus said to Pilate before he handed Him over to the mob to be crucified, "... For this reason I was born, and for this I came into the world..." (John 18:37).

He could have called legions of angels (Matther 26:53) to his rescue, but he CHOSE to take our sins to the Cross so the world through him might be saved (John 3:16,17).

There's a song that talks about it being nails that held him to the cross, but love that made him stay.

I am thankful for Jesus' birth and for the freedom to celebrate it -- although the ways and the places we can celebrate have been severely limited in recent years. But I am even more thankful that he endured the pain of the nails that held him to the Cross and for the love that made him stay, so that I -- and all who receive His gift of salvation -- can be resurrected, too, someday to live with him forever.

HOW DO WE, AS WRITERS, BALANCE OUR LIVES?

2009-11-14T11:48:00.004-06:00

I told Ken yesterday, "If I didn't write maybe I could keep a neat house. But I don't dare ask God to take the writing away because I think it's part of me. It's something that I was born with, maybe even something that was a part of me while I was still in the womb. It's something that I feel God has given me to do."

But how do we, as writers, balance our lives between living life and writing about it?

I've thought of putting a sign on our front door that says, "Novel under construction; Please forgive the mess," then just let things pile up while I go on with my writing.

That's what I have to do a lot of times anyway, to get any writing done. Ken doesn't seem to mind that as much as I do. He works a lot outside, cutting two acres of grass, blowing or raking leaves, cleaning out the pond, working on projects in his woodwork shop or in his garden, etc. It doesn't seem to bother him to sit at the diningroom table with a brother or buddy, drinking coffee and talking with books and papers stacked all over the table. But every now and then, when things start to get too bad, he'll get out the vacumn cleaner and go to cleaning house.

I thank God for an understanding and helpful husband; for my home and my family; for my writing which brings so much joy -- when I stop worrying about stuff. And, as a line in an old hymn says, "I thank Him for the strength He daily gives me." For, when it comes down to it, it's really chronic illness (two of the chief characteristics of lupus are weakness and fatique) that takes my strength and slows me down more than trying to balance writing and daily living do.

My three children were ages 6, 8 and 12 when I was first diagnosed with a chronic illness. I was busy with them and their activities; Ken and I were church youth leaders; I worked full-time as a bookkeeper and office manager. I thought I didn't have time to write -- or to be sick.

On the night that I became deathly ill, I prayed, "Lord, it would feel so good to lie down in your shady green pastures and rest. But I don't want to die yet. I want to live to raise my children, and grow old with my husband."

Then a voice, so clear it was almost audible to my ears, added, "And write."

To me, that was a promise from God: I would live to raise my family and grow old with my husband, but I must get back to my writing.

While I was still recuperating from that bout of illness, I began to write again -- and to publish in newspapers and magazines. Through following years, I continued to write, while struggling with bouts of illness. I was unable to go back to work full-time or to keep up with an active youth group.

Some twenty years after that initial diagnosis, I found myself in the hospital, diagnosed with lupus and seemingly close to death again. Ken had stood beside my bed every day for a week, feeding me ice chips, the only thing I was allowed to have by mouth while tests were being run. Then he had a stroke there in my hospital room and was rushed down to the ER. After a day in ER, he was put to bed, still hooked up to tubes, on the floor below me.

Now I prayed, "Lord, what are we going to do? What's going to happen to us?" and the answer that came back to me was "I'm still answering your prayer."

"What prayer?" I asked, and then it came to me: the prayer I had prayed over twenty years earlier. I had raised my children, even had young grandchildren. I didn't consider Ken and me old yet. I was still writing. I was assured again that everything would be alright.

And it was. Effects of the stroke cleared up completely; medications -- and prayers -- got my lupus under control; and God kept sending me writing assignments.

Recently, I spent several days in the hospital again, two of them in the Intensive Care Unit, after being transported from home in a "911" ambulance.

But God is still answering my prayer. By most people's standards, Ken and I are probably considered "old" now. Our children are almost old enough to be considered "Senior Citizens;" we now have 5 great-grandchildren. And I'm busier than every with my writing.

If I were to stop writing, would God's promise to me over forty years ago become void? Does the answer to that long-ago prayer hinge on my willingness to keep writing for Him?

I don't know the answers to these questions, but I don't want to stop writing to find them.

I think I'll go put that sign on my front door.

2009-10-30T10:34:00.003-05:00

THIS MORNING'S UPDATE FROM MY PASTOR ON OUR WALK-THRU DRAMA: THE HAUNTING TRUTH:

Good Morning to all you AWESOME people. Just a quick update. Last night was once again just amazing. 181 more folks (mainly adults) came through. 18 more gave their hearts to Jesus and 36 made recommitments. WOW!!!! God is so good. That brings our running totals to 481 who have been through, 62 who have given their lives to Christ and 76 have made recommitments.

I wish 15% of people who come to church on Sundays gave their lives to Christ!!! What an amazing impact this is having on our community. Way to go team. You are building the Kingdom!!!

See ya tonight as God continues to show out on our behalf. He always blesses FAITHFULNESS!!!

Pastor Greg Davis
Lead Pastor
Chelsea Community Church
http://www.chelseacc.com/
205-678-9565

Color, Color Everywhere

2009-10-29T11:00:00.005-05:00

It's raining color outside my window. Red, yellow, brown, orange.... The fall colors are just gorgeous! The space outside my window where the computer sits is filled with colorful trees, some reflecting in the water below, and specs of gray/blue sky showing through the leaves. The bright sunshine highlights it all.

The Lord created a beautiful world for us to enjoy. Wherever you are, I hope you are enjoying His creation this morning as much as I am.

How can I ever get any work done while sitting here?

2009-10-26T20:42:00.005-05:00

"The Haunting Truth."

Wow, what a powerful walk-through drama!

It's being presented by my congregtation October 28-31. But the congregation (members who are not in the cast) got a sneak preview last night.

Audience members register, get a name tag and a group number in the gym, where the concession and "holding" area are also located. A new group is called up every 15 minutes. A walk-through lasts around 45 minutes.

Scenes are set up in several rooms, spaced out from one end of the church and preschool facilities to the other, upstairs and down. Although I have worked in church drama (I'm not working in this one) for over forty years, I have never been more impressed with a performance by amateurs. It's as though they are really experiencing what they are doing and what is happening in the scenes. And watching, it's easy to forget that this is only make-believe.

"The Haunting Truth" is about two teenage girls and their families, and the consequences of their decisions. Hundreds of people are expected for this week's productions. And many lives are expected to be changed.

I pray, God, this is so.

Seeing Clearly

2009-08-14T15:38:00.008-05:00

A recent experience has helped me to better understand what the Apostle Paul meant when he told the Corinthians that now we see God "through a glass darkly," but that someday we'll be able to see Him clearly.

It's sort of like having cateracts, then having eye surgery.

For several years my eyesight had been getting fuzzier and fuzzier. Then, on Monday I had cateract surgery on my right eye. I can already see better, and can hardly wait to get the left eye done in two weeks.

I was surprised to learn, though, that I'm now walking around with a little sheet of plastic in my eye.

I'd always thought that a cataract was a growth in the eye. But it's a cloudy, or yellowed, lens! No wonder I was always cleaning my glasses and wondering why there continued to be a film over them. It wasn't the lens in my glasses that were dirty, but the lens in my eyes. So, the surgeon removed the dirty, foggy, natural lens in my right eye and replaced it with a clear plastic one.

It's wonderful to know that someday God will replace my foggy spiritual lens with clean, clear spiritual "lens" so I can see Him clearly. So I can know Him even as He knows me. (I Corinthians 13:12)

GOD HAS WORKED! AND IS STILL WORKING.

2009-08-05T17:09:00.004-05:00

Six months ago we were having around forty people in Sunday morning services at our church, and financial problems were plaguing us. Now we have between 180 and 218 on Sundays and 100 sometimes for Wednesday evening supper and classes. At least 40 people have accepted Christ through our services and close to that many have been baptized. And we are no longer having financial problems.

Would you call that God at work? I do.

The K-Springs Church, first called the East Saginaw Church of God, was established 107 years ago in East Saginaw, a little logging town located around two or three miles southwest of our present facilities. At first the people met in homes to hold services. Then in 1911, a family donated land for a church building.

Traveling evangelists and singers came often, some from national church headquarters in Indiana, to help with the church. They traveled by horse and buggy or on a log train from Saginaw or Bessemer. Some even rode into town on railroad handcars, where they stood and pumped a hand lever, propelling themselves manually down the tracks. Or on small, work cars where they sat on the back of the car and pushed themselves along with their feet.

The church people came by foot, on horseback or in wagons. They forded swollen streams or walked across on foot logs.

These were still the main modes of travel when the congregation moved to the old K-Springs School House after the logging operation moved out of the area and people followed their jobs.

After a few years, around 1936, the congregation tore down the old school building and erected a little, white church building (This building still stands across the road from our newer, modern facilities, and is in use by another congregation). Pews and altar rail for the little building were built by men of the church.

The congregation later built a basement by digging and drawing out the dirt with a mule and a slipscrape. They also added a wood-burning furnace, where warm air rose up into the sanctuary through a hole in the floor. They baptized in creeks and lakes.

The church moved across the road into a new brick building in 1978. Several years later, they added another wing.

Almost every adult you talk to who grew up in this community, attended, K-Springs church at one time or another, if not as a regular member of the congregation, at least for a funeral, wedding, drama, Vacation Bible School or youth activity. Numerous ministers and dedicated lay leaders grew up in this church. And it has been a lighthouse to many others.

The church has had many faithful pastors through the years. Oftentimes, in the early days, when there was not enough money to pay a pastor with money, he was paid with chickens, eggs or vegetables from community gardens. One pastor, too ill with cancer to stand in the pulpit, sat on a stool to preach. Still later, he spoke to the congregation from his sick bed via a special telephone hookup.

Many people of the congregation and many faithful pastors have sacrificed and worked hard to keep a ministry going at K-Springs. A few years ago, when it looked as though we would have to sell the property or lose it, part of the congregation was anxious to sell. Others could not see giving it up --if there was a way to save it. We didn’t feel that God wanted us to give up and sell these wonderful facilities for ministry, which so many had worked and sacrificed to save.

And, so, we hung on, trusting God and doing everything we could to make, at the least, mortgage interest payments when they came due. People from out-of-town but with long-time ties to the church, stepped in with large donations. But even this was not enough for very long.

Then, early this year, God brought this 107 year old congregations into fellowship with a congregation who had been in existence for a little less than a year. They needed more space; we needed more people. So, in March the K-Springs Church of God merged with Chelsea Community Church and changed its name again.

Over 200 people gathered for our first joint meeting. 268 came for worship on Easter. Average Sunday morning attendance is now between 180 and 220. At least 40 people have accepted Christ through the services and around that same number have been baptized. We no longer have financial woes.

We have found that no matter what name we go by, as followers of Jesus Christ, we are all part of the same family -- God’s family. We share not only these facilities, but the work of the ministry, a loving pastor, who -- under God‘s leadership -- began Chelsea Community Church.

And we now share the history and heritage of the little group of Believers who first began meeting at old East Saginaw, and who, worked so hard to get -- and keep -- a ministry going at K-Springs.

Today, the people are working together to increase the Kingdom of God in this community and beyond.

New Life, New Pastor, New Writing Possiblities

2008-05-17T18:22:00.007-05:00

Hopefully, Ken and I will be going to south Alabama the first of the week -- if my bronchitis clears up enough by then -- to check out an area that my agent wants me to use as setting for a novel. She now has two of my novel manuscripts which she's trying to place with publishers. One is a contemporary set in central Alabama where we live, and the other is historical set partially in this area and partially in South Carolina. I'm looking forward to exploring the possibilities in this new area of our state, and writing the proposal for the book. Then I have to finish the proposal for a nonfiction about living with chronic illness.

I'm also working on a couple of articles with my new pastor, and trying to place an article on the work of our local pregnancy resource center and a young woman who works there.

These little problems with lupus, or things related to the disease, keep popping up to slow me down. But evidently God is not through with me yet, or He would not keep giving me all these writing assignments, or all these people in my life to love. I say God because I feel that it is He who called me into this work and this ministry and who gives me the ability to do them. And it is He who gives me my wonderful family. A new great-grandson is due next week.

The Lord is Working

2008-01-05T12:31:00.000-06:00

If anyone has checked on my posts lately, they probably think that the Lord has been a very long time working on the situation I talked about in the last post, since it was dated August 5, 2007 and titled "Waiting for the Lord to work."

He hasn't been a long time working, though. He actually began working very quickly - had already started working on the situation even before I posted the last time. Someone who lived in our community and attended our church several years ago, saw one of the evening news stories about the church property being put up for sale, left the t.v. to sit in the bathroom and cry for thirty minutes, then got up and made a call that put the ball to rolling. The person they called, called someone else, and this person talked with their spouse who made a call to a church leader the next morning offering a large sum of money to help pay off the building loan so the church could continue to operate at its present location.

Since that time, our pastor has resigned to begin a different type ministry in another area, taking a core group from the congregation with him. The congregation is now regrouping and continuing to minister in the community where it has been ministering for over a hundred years. The congregation is small for the time being, but we still have a group of people, youth and adults who are excited about our potential for growth and ministry to a mushrooming community. Our "new" children's program has fewer children than a few months ago, but the ones who are still here are excited about it -- and about their new teachers.

We are not yet seeking a new pastor while trying to get reorganized and get some new Boards and Committees in place. But we have been having some very good speakers from a nearby Bible college, from some of our other churches in the state, and now some ordained ministers from our own congregation are on the schedule for this month. We do need some singers and muscians, though. A talented young lady is leading the music, but she needs some help with it.

But we can see evidence all around us of ways the Lord has been working and ways that He still is. Exciting things are happening. And as I ended the last post (and told the reporter): "We don't know what the Lord might decide to do" NEXT. For, as the Bible tells us, His ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts higher than our thoughts. (Isaiah 55:9)

WAITING FOR THE LORD TO WORK

2007-08-05T16:58:00.000-05:00

Wow! Was last week busy! Tiring but exciting.

The first thing Monday morning (I don't know how she heard about it so quickly) a reporter from a Birmingham television station called our pastor, asking to come out and do a story about our church property that had just gone on the market. The pastor was on his way out of town for an appointment, so they set up the interview for the next morning.

Then he called me about being in on the interview because I've written quite a bit on the history of the church, its founders and the community. The reporter was interested in the history because of the age of the congregation and our little, white frame building which sets across the road from our large brick facility along the main thoroughfare through the community.

The congregation had decided to put it up for sale because the loan on the new addition that was added to the brick building a few years ago, plus overhead, was eating up our finances. And we needed more money with which to do actual ministry.

The news about the potential sale had created quite a bit of interest in the community and among families who no longer attend church or have moved away. And now the news media had become interested.

On Monday afternoon a reporter from a second major television network in Birmingham called me about doing a story. She'd been unable to reach our pastor and someone had given her my phone number. She wanted to talk to both of us.

When she called, two ladies were at my house to pick up copies of my local history book and stayed to talk history and genealogy. After they left, I began trying to help the reporter reach our pastor, but was unsuccessful.

I had told my pastor and the reporter that I didn't want to be on television, but they could use the church history from my book. I also copied, for both reporters, a couple of articles I'd written with more up-to-date information on the church history.

On Tuesday morning, my pastor came by the house to pick up the information for the reporter who was on her way out with a photographer. I reiterated to him that I didn't want to be on television, especially since my hair looked a mess. I had an appointment that afternoon to get it cut.

I told my daughter what I'd told them about being on television. Then recalled the time about 15 years ago when someone suggested that I have a television reporter come out and do a story about a drama we were doing about the church history for our 90th anniversary celebration. I didn't want to do that, because I knew that as the writer and director, I'd have to be on television. At that time, I was on high doses of prednisone for an acute attack of lupus and was so puffed up from it that I looked like the little cartoon "Dough Boy" from television commercials.

"See, Mom," she said, "If you had done that, it would have probably brought lots of people to the church who would be coming there now to help with finances."

She said it in a teasing manner, but her words spoke to me in a real way.

"And I let my pride get in the way," I said. "Like I'm about to do again."

So, when my pastor called, saying the reporter and photographer wanted to come by my house and talk to me about the church history, I agreed -- messy hair and all.

Then, when he called awhile later, saying the reporter and photographer from the second station were coming out to do a story, and wanted to talk to me, too, I changed my hair appointment to
the next morning and met them at the church.

That evening the stories were on one channel at 5:00 and the other at 9:00 and 10:00. They created some excitement right away, and now we are waiting to see what happens next.

As for the rest of the busy week, there's too much to try to tell it all right here right now. There was annual campmeeting at our state campgrounds for our churches from all across the state; more people calling to order my book and talk history or coming by to pick up books and talk history; trips to doctors' offices and other medical facilities; a birthday dinner for my grandson.....

But the one thing that keeps coming back to me is a remark I made to a reporter, without stopping to think about my answer, when she asked what I think might happen next. "We don't know what the Lord might decide to do," I said.

For, as the Bible tells us, His ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts higher than our thoughts. (Isaiah 55:9)

FAMILY REUNION

2007-07-16T17:02:00.000-05:00

(Photo right: Part of today's crowd at the Pike/Folsom Family reunion. Shelba stands on the end of the front row left in white pants. Her husband Ken, in pale yellow shirt, stands behind her. Photo by V Jon Nivens.)

(Photo left: Grandma Brown's birthday celebration, July 1918.)

It's been two weeks since Ken and I went to the annual reunion of his maternal grandmother's branch of the family. During this time, we have looked again and again at the pictures from the reunion, and still have trouble figuring out who belongs with whom. That's probably to be expected, though, since over 200 people come, and we see most of them only once a year.

The annual gathering began around 90 years ago with Ken's great-great grandmother's 82nd birthday party. Although she died three years later, the celebration continued. Today, people gather from across the country for the two-day event now known as the Pike/Folsom Family Reunion.

"Grandma Brown" (Jemima Adaline Pike) was born on July 10, 1836 in Heard County, Ga. to William T. Pike, Sr. and Bethenia Reeves Pike. She maried Hillary H. Brown, who was born in 1830 to George Brown and wife Keziah.

By 1850 Jemima Adaline and Hillary were living in Randolph County in East Alabama. Sometime before the Civil War they built a home near Roanoke at a place called Rock Mills. This is where they raised their three children. Or rather, it's where Jemima Adaline raised them. Hillary was killed in the Civil War when their youngest child, Bethany Talitha, was less than two years old. He died in Elmira, New York December 13, 1864 and was buried in the Woodland National Cemetery.

Bethany Talitha married John Franklin Folsom, son of Floyd Fretwell Folsom and Elizabeth Mary Sanders Folsom. Floyd Fretwell, son of Rachel and Benjamin Folsom, was also in the Civil War. Bethany and John lived with her mother, Jemima Adaline, in the Brown home and they, too, raised their children in this house. Later, Floyd, a son of Bethany and John, made his home here. Thus, the place became known as Uncle Floyd's house.

For many years family reunions were held at Uncle Floyd's house. Today the house stands vacant and is in need of repairs. Reunions are now held across the hollow at another old family homeplace.

Children of Bethany and John Folsom also included Ken's grandmother Jemima, who married Elra Kendrick of Shelby County in Central Alabama. Ken recalls many trips across the mountains and streams (many times crossing Coosa River on a ferry) as a child, to visit the people at the old homeplace in East Alabama. He has many fond memories of family reunions at the old Brown/Folsom homeplace, where he climbed a chinaberry tree near the long dinner table so he could see all the dishes of delicious fried chicken, homegrown vegetables and desserts and point out to his mother what he wanted to eat. The first time I went to one of these gatherings it was at this house the summer before Ken and I married.

The place where we meet now was once the homeplace of one of John and Bethany's children. One of their grandsons, a veteran of the Viet Nam War, owns the place and has made renovations and additions to accommodate the many friends and family members who visit. Each summer before the reunion, he mows several acres of grass, making room for camping, parking, games, tables and chairs.

Family members bring guitars and sound equipment for "pickin' and grinnin'" sessions on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon. One cousin who owns a recording studio, and writes and sings his own songs, composes songs commemorating the lives of deceased family members and past reunions. He makes DVDs of music and photos of ancestors and past reunions for people to watch on TV while sitting inside to cool off. And they can thumb through picture albums that other people bring to share.

The little kids and teenagers seem to enjoy the reunions as much as the older folk do. They ride horses, wade in the branch, go on treasure hunts, join the singing, play softball and horseshoes and romp in the weathered barn.

The day of the reunion always seems to be the hottest of the summer. As we sit on the long front porch or under a century-old tree fanning ourselves, we think and maybe even voice aloud, "I don't think I can do this another year."

But the next summer, as July rolls around, we think about all the hugs and smiles, good country cooking and music, and the folks who may not be around to make it to the reunion next year. So we cook, pack lawn chairs, guitars, cameras, photo albums and food in ice chests and hampers, and head out again. In the long run, we know it's worth it.

I just wish I had remembered this while my children were growing up, and taken them to Pike/Folsom Family reunions.

PREGNANCY RESOURCE CENTER INSPIRES AND EQUIPS

2007-06-30T17:01:00.000-05:00

I'd heard a lot of good things about Save-A-Life, but until I visited one of their Pregnancy Resource Centers I had no idea what an amazing array of services the organization offers. And all for free.

They provide not only pregnancy testing, but consultation with a medical professional. The center where my daughter Joni and I conducted interviews and make pictures for a magazine article, has two registered nurses on staff.

(Photo: Rachel shows items in the Center's "Baby Boutique.")
(Photo by VJon Nivens, rebelchase@juno.com)

Classes are offered at the Center on pregnancy, parenting, healthy relationships, lifestyle issues and related concerns, and are oftentimes attended by the fathers as well as the mothers. This particular center also offers a Bible study class, which some of the parents attend even after the baby is born -- bringing the baby with them. And in which, participants have accepted Christ as Savior.

The centers also offer mentoring and emotional support and resources and referrals for medical care, housing and other social services. And, although they do not provide abortions or make referrals for them, they do offer post-abortion counseling to women who have already chosen to have an abortion.

The local center we visited, also provides free ultrasound services. But, as Rachel, the Bible Study teacher, told us, one of their most popular features is their "Baby Botique." This is a room where the parents "shop" for new or used baby items with "Mommy Bucks" (tickets they receive when attending classes at the Center).

And the parents and babies are not deserted after the babies are born. They can continue to attend classes and can shop for baby items in the Botique until their babies are a year old.

Funds for these centers come from donations -- both monetary and material -- baby showers and banquets hosted by churches and other groups, an annual "Walk" and other fund raisers.

One young mother said that the "Mommy Buck" program helped her get a crib for her baby, while she received a lot of valuable information about pregnancy and childcare.

"Everyone is wonderful," said another. "And I look forward to being here."

All the workers my daughter and I met -- teachers, counselors, office workers, nurses -- appear to be as excited as the young mothers about all the things that take place at the Center. As were Joni and I.

And I agree with the young woman who said, "It has inspired me to keep the faith." For now, when I hear about all the bad stuff going on in our society, I can think about Save-A-Life's Pregnancy Resource Centers and know that there is also a lot of good going on out there.

Screams in the Night

2007-06-27T19:01:00.001-05:00

“Learn to live with it.”

How many times have I heard that through the years? Too many to count.

And that’s virtually what the orthopedic surgeon said today that I would have to do. Unless I want him to practically make me two new feet, which would involve whacking several toes in two, removing the joints and inserting steel rods.

Did I actually hear him use such gross terms? Well, almost.

Anyway, I decided I’d bear with it awhile longer. At least I have medication right now that stops me from waking Ken -- and myself -- with screams of pain.

The first couple of times that happened, Ken shot straight up in bed. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter? What can I do?”

There was nothing either of us could do to stop the electric-shock feeling that shoots through my toes and causes me to wake us both with my screaming. So, I finally went to see my doctor about it.

I hate taking pain pills, and feel blessed that I have had to take so few these many years that I’ve lived with autoimmune diseases. Of course, I have plenty pills for other things. So many that I get embarrassed -- and broke -- having so many prescriptions filled. But when I mentioned this to my doctor, she said, “Well, they are all for things related to your lupus.”

So I swallow my pills, take my lung and eye treatments, pull on my shoes with custom-made insoles and thank God for giving humans the ability to develop treatments for all these ailments that befall us humans.

Take prednisone, for instance. I realize that it was God who saved my life during my severe illness when I was first diagnosed with lupus. But I feel that prednisone was one of the things He used to do it.

Now, if He would help these humans to stop charging so much for what He’s helped them develop, we would be able to buy our pills and groceries, too.

SOMEBODY SPECIAL

2007-06-22T11:55:00.000-05:00

My husband, Ken, and I recently attended our brother-in-law Ed’s sixtieth-birthday party in Florida -- on his fifty-ninth birthday.

Five months before the event was to take place, my sister Jan emailed telling me what she and their children were talking about doing. “We know he’ll be expecting something big for his sixtieth,” she wrote. “And we want to surprise him for that, so we figure the best way to do it is to give it a year early.”

Later, we had email from both of her daughters telling more about plans for the party, and about rooms that were being reserved for out-of-town guests at a local marina and resort -- on the beautiful Emerald Coast of Florida’s panhandle -- where the party would be held. Excited about their plans, Jan and the girls had a great time shopping and making arrangements for food, decorations and entertainment, while trying to keep everything hidden from Ed.

On the day of the party, they told Ed that the family -- their two daughters, their son, the three spouses and their granddaughter -- were meeting for dinner at their favorite steak house. That morning, while the women decorated the party room, a son-in-law lured Ed off to Destin for lunch and to shop for fishing gear. As they dressed to go out for dinner, Jan told him, “Tom (mine and Jan’s younger brother) is in town and going to eat with us, but we need to stop by the motel where he’s staying so he can follow us to the restaurant.”

When they, their younger daughter Katie and her husband reached the motel at the marina, Katie glanced at her watch with a big sigh. “Christy (her sister) was supposed to meet us here,” she said. “But you know she’s always late. Why don’t we go in to the bar and wait for her.” At the front desk, she told the receptionist, “We’re going back to the bar and wait for my uncle and sister.”

In on the plot, the woman answered, “Sure. Just go to the end of the hall there and turn right and you’ll see the door to the bar.”

As they walked away from the desk they heard a man behind them say, “I didn’t know you had a bar in here.”

Later, Ed said with a laugh, “I didn’t know it either, but I’ve learned that when I’m out with Jan and the kids it’s better just to go along with whatever they say instead of asking questions.”

With all the talk that goes on when family members are together, he paid little attention anyhow to what was going on around them. So when they opened the door at the end of the hall to shouts of “Happy Birthday,” he was surprised to see around fifty of his friends and family members from across Florida and Alabama converging on him to hug his neck, shake his hand and record with cameras the shocked expression on his face.

The room was elaborately decorated. A friend, formerly in the catering business, had prepared barbeque, which was served with all the trimmings. Pecan pies, baked by a niece from his mama's recipe, were served along with a decorated birthday cake. A DJ supplied taped music from Jan's and Ed's courting days. A friend sang and played jazz on his saxophone while another sang old country love songs karoke style.

“I can’t believe all these people came all this way and went to all this trouble and expense for me,” Ed said. “You’d think I was somebody special, or something.”

“You are somebody special,” someone said.

And I agree. Ed is Somebody Special. We are all somebody special. So special that God carefully planned, then formed each of us individually before we were born.

“…(You) created my inmost being,” said the Psalmist. “You knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made….” God weaved us carefully together with great plans for our lives as he was forming us (Psalm 139:13-16).

Yes, we’re all special people. When we're feeling down on ourselves, or looking down on someone else, we need to remind ourselves that God made each of us special. And we need to find ways to show others how special they are. We don’t have to go to all the trouble and expense that so many people went to in order to wish Ed a happy sixtieth birthday--on his fifty-ninth-- but there are all sorts of little ways we can show it. Like a phone call. A card for no special reason but to say “I think you’re special.” A smile. An encouraging word. A glass of iced tea served on a hot day to someone just coming in out of the heat.

Speaking of iced tea, maybe I should get up from the computer and go take a tall glassful to my Somebody Special, who’s working out in the yard in the heat.

(photos by V Jon Nivens, rebelchase@aol.com).

History and Ancestors at Jamestown

2007-06-13T21:59:00.000-05:00

The big anniversary weekend to wrap up an 18-month commemoration of our country’s 400 year anniversary just ended at Jamestown. But the celebrating is still going on this week. Beginning Monday and running through Saturday, are activities celebrating America’s Providential History.

Although I am not there, I celebrate with them, not only because of the celebration's importance to our Christian heritage, but because one of my ancestors played a big part in America's Providential History.

According to Vision Forum Ministries’ website, the celebration this week highlights--among other things-- the role Jamestown played in introducing the Christian common law to North America and its role in conducting America’s first Protestant Christian worship services and baptisms.

Doug Phillips, President of Vision Forum Ministries quoted these words found among the writings of Richard Hakluyt, one of Jamestown’s Founding Fathers: “Wee shall by plantinge there inlarge the glory of the gospel, and from England plante sincere religion, and provide a safe and a sure place to receave people from all partes of the worlds that are forced to flee for the truthe of Gods worde."

The first permanent settlers to Jamestown came to American shores in 1607 as the Virginia Company of London, a commercial venture under the Proprietary System. Under this system, the King granted companies or individuals commercial charters to establish colonies. But, although the group came as a commercial venture, many of them came, too, for the purpose of spreading the gospel. And among them was a minister of the (Anglican) Church of England.

According to the writings of Captain John Smith, the first place of worship in the New World was a hastily-constructed shelter with a ship’s sail stretched across tree branches for a top and rails for the sides. Worshippers sat on benches made from un-hewn tree trunks and prayed at an altar made of a tree trunk nailed between two trees.

I don’t know if any of my ancestors were among this first group of Jamestown worshippers, but Rev. Haute Wyatt, my great-grandfather+8 was one of the early ministers who helped bring the gospel to Jamestown and America.

Haute Wyatt was born in 1594 in Boxley, Kent County, England. He attended Queens College, Oxford, and was later ordained as a Priest in the Church of England. He came to Jamestown in 1621, just fourteen years after its settlement, and a year after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, with his brother Sir Francis Wyatt who had been appointed Governor of Virginia.

As a proprietary of England, the London Company appointed their own governors and other officials. Francis Wyatt was appointed Colonial Governor of Virginia under the proprietary system and Rev. Haute Wyatt was sent as spiritual leader. Records from a Court held in London July 16, 1621 reads in part:

"Sir Francis Wyatt's brother beinge a M[aste]r of Arts and a good divine and very willinge to goe wth him this present Voyadge, migant be entertayned and placed as Mynister over his people and have ye same allowance towards the furnishings of himself wth the necessaries as others have hadd, and that his wife might have her transporte freed, wch motion was thought verie reasonable..."

Rev. Haute Wyatt and Governor Francis Wyatt arrived at Jamestown in either October or November of 1621 on board the ship George.

Francis Wyatt served as Colonial Governor from 1621 until the crown took over government of the colony in 1624. At the request of the crown, he remained as Crown Governor until 1626. Then he served again as Crown Governor from 1639-1642.

Rev. Haute Wyatt served as chaplain for his brother, the governor, and as vicar, or minister, for the (Anglican) Church of England.

The Church in England had separated from the Roman Catholic Church in 1534. Prior to this time, there were already movements within the English church to do away with some of the ceremony and conform it to a more Biblical and New Testament model of the church. The separation came when the pope refused to annul the marriage of King Henry VIII to Catherine of Aragon, the first of his six wives. To ensure the annulment, Henry split with the Catholic Church and declared himself the Supreme Head of the Church of England. He still adhered to other Catholic beliefs, but the church gradually took on more Protestant beliefs. From this came the Anglican Church, then the Episcopal Church.

The settlers at Jamestown had built a fort soon after arriving in Virginia, then erected a church building inside the fort. However, this structure burned in January 1608 and they built another. In 1617 they erected a building on the site where the present church stands. The first Representative Legislative Assembly convened in this building in July 1619, and this would have been the church building in which Rev. Haute Wyatt served after he came to Virginia in 1621. Then, in 1639, it was replaced by a brick structure.

Francis Wyatt was replaced as Governor of Virginia at his own request, to return to England and take possession of the family’s estate, Boxley Hall. He had inherited the estate as first son after their father’s death. According to some accounts, he left no immediate descendants in America.

Rev. Haute Wyatt returned to England around 1624/25. He became vicar/rector of Boxley Parish, and held this position until his death in 1638. He was buried in the Chancel of Boxley Church.

A memorial erected in the church at Boxley in memory of several members of the Wyatt family, includes the following: “George Wiat left also Hawt Wiat who died vicar of this parish, and hath issue liveing in Virginia.”

Some of this “issue” were my ancestors, and at least one of their descendants made his way to Alabama and became my great, great-grandfather, William H. Wyatt.

Born in 1802, William H. Wyatt died in 1858 and is buried in an old graveyard in the county where I live, along with some of my other ancestors.

At least in part, it’s because of the Gospel and those early Jamestown settlers’ desire to bring it to the New World, that I am an American. For, if not for the Gospel, My great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather very likely would not have come to these shores.

I thank God for the Gospel, for those early Jamestown settlers who brought it to America, and for the fun of researching my family heritage.

(Much of this information came from several sources in history books and on the web. Some came from family records kept by my family members.)

GIFTS AND BLOGS

2007-06-05T20:55:00.000-05:00

The Bible says that God gave all of us gifts and talents.

I’m afraid that a gift for doing technical things is not one of the gifts He gave me.

My older son, Tony, told me several months ago that he would create a website for me if I would give him the information I wanted on it. But I never could seem to figure out what that should be. Then I heard two men on television talking about creating a blog. They gave a web address where you could go for easy directions to set one up for free in about five minutes.

“That’s what I need,” I said. “A blog should be much easier to deal with than a website.”

But it wasn’t easy for me.

And I couldn’t call on my husband Ken for help because he won’t touch the computer. He calls on me to do his emailing and look things up on the web for him.

After struggling with it for about five days, instead of five minutes, I put the blog aside and turned to the writing projects I had piling up on my desk. When I decided to try again, I got a blog set up and did my first post. (As you can see, that was quite awhile ago.) But things didn’t wind up on the page the way I wanted them.

In exasperation, I called my granddaughter Christy about 9:30 one night thinking she might give me instructions over the phone. Instead, she came up and showed me how to rearrange things. It looked pretty good. I was pleased.

The next morning I sat down at the computer anxious to open my blog and post another entry before working on the manuscript I needed to complete.

But I couldn’t find my blog!

“I guess I lost it somehow,“ I told Ken. “And I’m tired of fooling with it.“ I put that project aside and went back to work on a manuscript.

Several days later I decided to call Christy again. “I’m not sure what you should do to find it, Maw Maw,” she said. “I’ll call Jason (her Air Force husband) and ask him.”

In a few minutes she called me back. The directions were simple and my blog was still there.

Romans 12:6 says that we all have “gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us…“

I truly thank God for this difference. For, although He didn’t give me a gift for technical things, He gave it to my granddaughter and her husband, along with a few other members of my family. And I’m so thankful that they are willing to use the gift to help their Mama and Maw Maw with these frustrating technical things on the computer.

(Be Still and Know) Writing and illness

2007-05-05T16:13:00.001-05:00

“Sometimes we get so busy listening to so many other voices, that we can’t hear the voice of God,” a wise man once told me.

This is what happened to me. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was in second grade. It wasn’t until I was a young mother, full-time bookkeeper and church youth leader -- thinking I didn’t have time to write -- that I began to sense God calling me to a writing ministry. Then it took chronic illness -- an autoimmune disease -- to make me listen to God‘s voice.

Lying in bed during recuperation from my first major flare, I kept a pad and pencil under my pillow where I wrote prayers and thoughts from God. As soon as I was able to be up, I began writing stories and poems with a borrowed typewriter, then sending them out to editors. Before long, I was seeing my work in print. Then my ministry moved out into other areas.

Talking with other chronically ill persons, I’ve found that many of them had similar experiences. Some with writing. Some with other ministries, new relationships or new jobs. Many with a new or renewed relationship with God.

It was also a chronic health condition that forced my sister Janice to leave work with the public, and brought her back to her love of writing.

My friend Nita doesn’t want to write, but she loves to read Christian books. Reading about other people’s walk with the Lord, inspires and strengthens her in her walk. But a few years ago she found herself so busy that she never had time to read. “I was working two jobs and doing a lot of things at the church,“ she recalls. “I was always rushing to go someplace or do something so I would rush through my Bible reading and prayer time. I longed for a closer relationship with the Lord, but never seemed to have time to just be alone with Him.”

Then Nita came down with an illness that put her to bed for several weeks. “Now I had plenty time to read, listen to Christian tapes, talk to the Lord and listen to him talk to me,” she says. “And it was so good.”

This time alone with God helped Nita sort out some things in her busy life, and after she was better, she gave up the two jobs. Instead, she began working in the church office where she could still minister to people as well as earn a little money toward family expenses.

"Be still and know that I am God...," The Lord said through the Psalmist (46:10). "...commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still" (4:4)

Sometimes it takes putting us upon our beds before He can get our attention so we will listen to Him.