Tenuous Ties

A Short Story By Amy Bovaird

“I want to see my baby! My BABY! Don’t take it away from me even before I get to hold it!” The nurse whisked the preemie to a waiting incubator. She knew it was crucial to move the baby to a safer environment, even if it meant taking her away from her own mother’s arms. Fatima dropped her outstretched arms in defeat. That was nearly a week ago. She still ached to hold her baby, an ache that hurt more than the physical pain she endured to have her.

She now focused on the four gray walls that surrounded her. She gathered her thick, black hair to one side and let it drop. Through the thin, flannel gown, she felt the rough patches of her belly where monitors had been placed in her own hour of need.

Three days ago, she was strong enough to walk with her mother’s assistance to the Special Care Baby Unit, and peered into the incubator to see Noora, a tiny wrinkled form connected to tangled tubes and wires. Wafts of antiseptic nauseated her; and the trembling hum of the strange machines weakened her knees. Fatima reached through an opening and stroked a dry, chapped leg. “Allah,” she cried, as she reached out for her mother.

Ayesha took charge, “Bas. Enough.” She led her away. From that day on, her fears ate at her. Would Noora live? She must! But what if she didn’t? What would Hamed say?

Fatima recalled when she first met Hamed on their wedding day. She was eighteen. He cast an appreciative eye over her. She noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, intelligent eyes, a full beard, and a moustache that emphasized his firm mouth. He wore a gold linen thob, fancier than the white robe grooms sometimes wore. She thought him very handsome, and smiled shyly. Pleased, he reached for her hand.

She prayed that he would treat her with respect and they would soon find love. But more importantly, that she would bear him many children. After all, becoming a mother was every woman’s duty. To be a mother was to be a queen.

“Mama, why don’t they give me news about my baby? Tell Zafar to find the consultant,” Fatima pleaded. “After all, since Father isn’t here, it’s Zafar’s duty to carry out these things as the oldest son. Mama, I’m begging you! This is urgent!”

Ayesha rose, and issued a command and Zafar left the room.

Soon, the curtain parted and a nurse’s face poked through. “The consultant is here,” Fatima donned her headscarf and made sure the blanket covered her legs. “Let him come.”

After the traditional greetings, the doctor directed his comments to Zafar, as was customary.

“I hear Fatima has asked about her baby,” he began.

“That’s true. What is the news?”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“Please. Fatima is crazy with fear! Speak, man.”

Fatima’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men in front of her.

“Ma’ash’allah!” May God protect baby Noora, Ayesha invoked, to prevent The Evil Eye.

Fatima’s rapid glances targeted each of the faces surrounding her. Everyone is so solemn. They’re not telling me something. Allah!

The consultant spoke. “Fatima’s baby died yesterday morning. She had hemorrhaging to the brain and great difficulty in breathing. It’s to be expected.” He shrugged. “Some premature babies make it, but that’s rare.”

Fatima stared. Her dry-throated voice cracked. “…my baby … died?”

The nurses nodded. The consultant, a thin man with glasses, looked away.

“I see,” Fatima whispered, “I see.”

After the consultant left, Fatima let out a series of thin, cracking, high-pitched squeals and began to thrash in bed. Her worst fear had become reality.

Ayesha ran to tend to her daughter, “Call Hamed,” she urged her son. “May Allah grant us mercy.”

“Oh Mama, I caused The Evil Eye to fall on my baby. I was too happy. Who would be jealous enough to inflict this tragedy upon us? Fatheyya? Aziza? Nadia? How could this happen? Allah!”

Her mother shook her, “You mustn’t ever question Allah! Do you hear? This is God’s Will.”

“Ay… my life lies in Hamed’s hands…” She began to groan and yank at her thick tresses until some hair came out by their roots.

“Fatima, stop that!” Her mother stilled Fatima. “These are dark days, yes. But all is not lost. Rest.”

After Fatima fell asleep, Ayesha considered the consequences. “Allah, this could ruin her life.” She smoothed Fatima’s blanket, finally letting the tears fall.

The silence unnerved her after the commotion earlier. To fill it, Ayesha listed the positives. “Hamed loves Fatima. He is a fair man. Fatima is a dutiful wife. She’s strong, and will bear him more children, Insha’allah, God willing.” She pulled the prayer beads from her pocket to calm herself. The round marble beads slipped between her fingers and gave her strength as her biggest fear assailed her, “God forbid that Hamed divorce her.”

Ayesha was dozing when the hospital door swung open and Hamed stepped inside. “How is my wife? Thank you for seeing to her.” He dismissed his mother-in-law with a curt nod. Ayesha left at once.

Hamed sat down on the bed. “Wake up, Fatima.” When she saw him, she buried her head in his chest, unable to face him.

He lifted her face toward him, “Look at me,” he commanded. “It’s true then?”

She nodded, her face crumpling.

His eyes fell upon the raw spots where she had yanked out her hair. “What is this? What happened to your beautiful hair?” He knew then, the extent of her grief. “Never mind. I’m here now,” he whispered as he kissed her wet eyelids.

“Our baby is gone. I failed you.” Fatima whimpered.

He didn’t respond, so she braved her question, “Hamed, will … you … divorce me?”

He paused, as if thinking it over. “Don’t be silly. You are my wife. Get well. We will try again next month, and the one after that. However long it takes. We will have another. Insha’allah,” God willing.

Together they embraced. Fatima smiled as he held her in his arms. She was lucky this time. But for how long? She wondered what their future would bring. What if the same thing happened again? Would Hamed be as patient? Or would he blame her? Demand a divorce, or worse, take another wife? “Allah, please give me a strong womb, let me be a mother, a good wife… Ma’ash’allah. May God protect me.”

Don Bovaird of Girard Alliance has passion for game of basketball

By Bob Healy

John Sargent believes his standout basketball guard plays beyond his years.

That may be because of the company he keeps.

For the last few summers, Don "Dee" Bovaird of the Girard Alliance Christian Academy has spent a good amount of time playing basketball at the playgound courts in Girard Borough.

His teammates and opponents in the pickup games have included such former Girard High School players as Coltin Ferrick, D.J. Green, Mike Droll, and Jeff McDonald.

"I'm up at the courts a lot just trying to get in some practice and to get my game perfected as much as I can," said Bovaird, who is in his senior year at GACA. Playing with the older guys helps my game a lot, especially my defense. Defense is the key to playing basketball."

That experience has paid dividends.

"Don plays the game much older than he really is. He's a much more mature player," said Sargent, head coach of the Girard Alliance Boys' team. "He loves the game. He's eager to go at all times. He reads the court like an older guy, a college player, would. Most players his age don't have the experience he has. He's really focused. He's not just out there running up and down the court. He either knows what he wants to do or he's planning what to do."

Bovaird has been a tremendous scoring threat throughout his four years at Girard Alliance. He recently surpassed the 1,000-point career-scoring milestone for the Lions.

But he wasn't always such a firm advocate of defense being the key to playing basketball.

"He has always done really well shooting, but he had struggled with his defense the last few years," Sargent said. "He's really been working on that over the past year and has picked up on that. He's really become an all-around ball player."

While Bovaird has had to work on improving his defensive skills, other facets of the game have come more naturally.

"His jumping ability is just phenomenal," Sargent said. "People are amazed at just how high he can jump. Because he can get so high in the air, it's sometimes hard to stop him from scoring. He's also a left-hander which makes it tough to play against."

Basketball has been almost a lifelong passion for Bovaird. According to his father, also Don, Dee began playing the game at the age of five.

"I love the game. I love the teamwork," Bovaird said.

Bovaird played his junior varsity ball in seventh and eighth grade at Cranseville Christian Academy . When that closed, he transferred to Girard Alliance and became a starter for the Lions' varsity team in his freshman year.

This year, Bovaird is averaging 21.4 points per game for the Lions who are 11-6 overall and 8-1 in the New York / Penn League.

"Playing at a Christian school has its ups and downs," Bovaird said. "On the plus side, we have a good basketball program at our school. I have friends and teammates that I can share the experience with. There is a good Godly atmosphere here that helps me make the right decisions."

On the downside, small Christian schools hardly draw the attention afforded their larger public and parochial counterparts.

"Dee would like to get a shot at being able to play in college," Sargent said. "Unfortunately, we don't get a whole lot of scouts out here. Donny would be a good catch for anyone interested."

Basketball or not, Bovaird is considering taking physical therapy in college.

"Since I've taken health classes, it's interested me -- the muscles and how the human body works," Bovaird said.

Maybe in the future, he can explain his jumping ability.
__________
REPRINTED FROM THE WEST COUNTY JOURNAL
February 4, 2010

A Precious Life

Linda. I remember her: a tall, slender woman with long blond hair parted down the middle. Fastidiously clean. No hand-me-down clothes or blankets, nothing that could have any germs from a previous owner. Life was such a struggle for her. She lived here. There. A trailer. Nothing permanent. Finally, she sold the few possessions she had. She chose to be homeless. Or, rather, she lived at a homeless center. She paid for her board by cleaning the building. It gave her a kind of satisfaction. She knew how to do her job, for sure, she told herself.

She liked living that way, working alone...didn't run into two many people. "Just keep doing what you know best," and even though it tired her out, she knew it was by far the best kind of work for her. Other jobs gave people too much power over her. Didn't like that at all. They always wanted to keep her back. Down. Be mean. Cold outside in the winter, too.Too long 'a walk to get to a job.

She kept to herself."Don't like nobody to know my business. Too many busybodies and that ain't good at all." She didn't know when it all started but little by little, she cut off even those she had trusted. Betrayal did that to ya. Somehow ya end up in prison overnight or locked up in a hospital. "Don't want no medicine. No way I'm gonna be drugged up. I got a daughter." They take everything you love away. Who can you trust?

Brittany. She thought of her daughter. Severely handicapped. But her joy. "Well, I got my pride but I will bend that pride for a phone card to call Brittany." It was the only thing she would bend it for. They took her baby away when she got too big to care for. So hard to lift her. They said she couldn't care for her properly. Or didn't. How would they know? She'd lost track of who sent her away. The State? The neighbors? It didn't matter anymore. She knew they all got it wrong. How did they know what she could do, or just how much she loved her daughter? When they did that, a part of her died inside. The phone was her lifeline. She called Brittany every week to the special home where she'd been taken. She would call her every day if she had the money to buy more phone cards. Sometimes she dreamed that she did.

Nobody understood her. She had to rely on herself. Just herself. "I can trust me." Well, she did let a few into her life. Carolyn. She wouldn't hurt her. She knew she cared. Came from a good family. She brought phone cards, and took her out for a bit. Sometimes to the grocery store. Sometimes to the 7-11. She brought phone cards and money for smokes. Sometimes she tried to convince her to take hand-me-downs but she kept her standard up, and refused. She didn't hold it against her though. She knew Carolyn just wished her to have a warm coat ... or pants ... or sturdy shoes.

She called Carolyn once a week. Woulda called her more but she knew that Carolyn was busy with her own family. Didn't want to be too familiar. "I like my freedom," she'd say but whenever Carolyn came she found herself feeling happy, and relieved. Wouldn't have to walk all that way to the store. Just a short drive. Some cigarettes and a phone card. Callin' ya soon, baby girl. Sometimes hard to remember her baby was almost thirty.

Sometimes the sister came too. Lately she started bringing a cane. Had some kind of a vision problem. Not too bad, though, mostly dropped her off at the library while she and Carolyn shopped. She didn't always feel that way. In the beginning, she didn't like her coming and intruding on her time that way. But little by little she got used to her. Kinda reminded her of the mom, who'd helped her in the past.

Life went on in the same way for some time. Then, everything changed. Suddenly, the pain came. Terrible, horrible pain. She wanted to scream and scream with the pain. She kept it inside when she could. But called Carolyn. She would know what to do. The pain felt so bad, she started calling her three or maybe six times a day, depending on the pain. Somehow she could make her feel better. A little bit anyway. When Carolyn came, she felt she'd been given a lifeline. Things just seemed more in control.

They said it was blood poisoning. And bone cancer. Never felt anything so terrible before. She called and called. Only Carolyn. "No, not leaving my place at the homeless shelter." Can't you see this is my home? Don't have any family. She did but had closed herself off from them. Couldn't trust 'em. Carolyn helped, did what she could. When she came, she could close her eyes. She felt safe. At last.

I remember seeing Linda shortly before she died. Thin, gaunt, but fiercely independent. "They keep on cluttering my place up," she'd motioned to the area around her hospital bed at the county home, muttering darkly. I wondered if she considered my Christmas ornament to her part of the clutter. She didn't want the Christmas tree, nor the television, nor a radio. She wanted it all be neat and tidy. She wanted nothing. Nothing but Brittany. And her continued privacy. She chose who to let into her life. "Those people at the shelter--they are not my family. I don't have any family. Don't call them that," she said sharply. "I don't want anyone calling Brittany either. This is my life. My. Own. Life."

That day the pain made her burst into tears as my sister, Carolyn, tried to bring circulation into her legs. She thought Carolyn bumped something integral to her catheter. I had to leave. I felt that I would burst into tears myself. My heart broke for Linda who longed for the old control over life -- but would never have it again. She was used to ordering people about. But now she was at the mercy of my sister's schedule to receive her caring ministrations. Whether she knew it or not, Carolyn had become her closest friend-no, even more--her family! Linda let down her guard, let her tears flow, didn't monitor her words--everything one does with family when she was around my sister. I stepped out of the room to stop the queasiness in my stomach and get a grip on my emotions. I couldn't break down now.

That was the last time I saw Linda.

She held the hand of an employee at the Geriatric Center as she passed away this past month - her hand in the hand of a stranger's hand. My sister couldn't be with her the day she died and this made me feel the saddest of all. I knew that was a hard choice for my sister as she had to travel with her husband. But I wonder what Linda felt that last day. And I wonder how my sister felt.

I like to think the prayers my sister, her husband and I prayed with her would lead her to put her hand in the Master's hand as she crossed over to be with Him.

I choose to think that's how it was. My heart now sings for her. The day before when she admitted to being afraid, my sister's friends told Linda, "You don't have to be afraid if you're God's child." She nodded and allowed them to pray for and with her. It seems that for the first time in her life she had come to a place of calm, which allowed her at the end of her life to slip away...no paranoia, no distrust, simply calm.

I cry only for myself and those who loved her because we never could reach her. She never realized how precious she was... and she touched me sooo.

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

Faith Aligns Our Treasures

For where your treasure is, there your heart will also be. Matthew 6:21 NIV

“Hi, Aunt Amy. Talia and I came to visit you,”

I looked up to find Rachel, and her bubbly daughter.

At two-years-old, Talia already had an eye for beauty.

“Oooh. Babies! Open please,” she’d whisper when she saw the Japanese kokeshi dolls stored behind glass. She longed to touch the brightly-painted collection. That and everything else! My booty from foreign travels delighted her.

This time, Talia stopped at an ornate Indian shelf. This held several teapots from around the world. There, she spied one just her size! A miniature tea set from England.

“Hey, she’s never looked at that before!” I exclaimed. “When did she become interested in teapots?”

“Her aunt Emily gave her a play set for her birthday last week,”

We admired the tea set with its tiny rosebud pattern. It was, of course, very fragile. “You can’t find this in America,” I commented.

“no, Tali--.”

“Let her play,” I suggested.

Talia pretended to pour some tea into a cup. Then she added some cream. At last she drank it up. We chatted. She continued to play. A few minutes later, Talia stopped. She scuttled closer to Mama. “What is it, TT?”

One small hand clutched a slender handle. Our eyes traveled to the shelf where the creamer sat.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Amy,” Rachel gasped, “Her fingers are too clumsy to handle this stuff.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured. “It can be fixed. How about we keep this as Talia’s special tea set for when she comes to visit?”

Relief spread over Rachel’s face. “TT, isn’t that nice!”

Application: Realize our earthly treasures pale in comparison to us, God’s children, and what He has for waiting for us.

Leave Takings

As I mentioned yesterday, traveling has always been the easy part for me to do. But saying goodbye has upon occasion torn my heart out. I still remember a very poignant moment with my nieces. It has burned itself into my memory. The girls were still pretty young. I guess Rachel was seven, Emily, six. It was the end of August, 1988 after their first day back to school. I had come home for a high school reunion earlier, had a short visit, and was heading back to Indonesia the following day.

~~~~
I had spent the day with my nieces and two little kids that my sister also babysat, Christina and Jeremiah. The three children and I were seated on the living room floor. I recall we had just finished coloring.

"Emily, you always color so nicely in the lines," I complimented.

"I know."

I smiled. I love how kids acknowledge their talents with that supreme confidence.

"Who taught you how to do that?" I asked.

Emily lay on her belly, with her legs crossed in the air. She was very focused. "My daddy."

"Hey, everyone! how about a book? If we pick up this stuff, you can choose a book for me to read."

"Yay! Hurry up!" the girls cried.

"You pick all the broken crayons, and you pick the books " That was Emily, the little organizer, trying to tidy it as quickly as possible. After a flurry of activity, the kids were ready.

"Aunt Amy, sit here!" Rachel called out.

Emily plopped down on the other side of me. She peered into the book...

Christina stood up, her hands on her hips. "I want Aunt Amy to sit by me, too!"

Emily narrowed her eyes and placed a possessive hand on the book I was holding, "She's our Aunt Amy, not yours."

"Hey, hey, hey! None of that," I chided. "Let's sit in a circle so we can all be together and see the pictures. Besides, I am everybody's Aunt Amy."

We got on with the business of reading. I had a captive audience and really let my storytelling skills go wild. It was a fun, exciting time. I even recall that Jeremiah, an adorable, chubby toddler, wore a big wide grin. He looked from person to person and began to clap his hands as he picked up on the excitement in the room. Maybe my sister had brought him in to share in part of the fun. She always wanted to capitalize on positive experiences. I don't remember what book I read but I remember thinking it was a perfect end to an excellent afternoon.

Soon after, Christina and Jeremiah went home for the day. I stayed on with Rachel and Emily as it was almost dinnertime. We ate dinner and the girls had their baths. Soon it was time for them to go bed.

"Can I tuck them into bed, and say goodnight--and I guess, goodbye?" I asked her.

"Sure," she responded.

I sat down with Rachel and tucked her in. Rachel burst into big, noisy sobs. She just didn't understand why I had to leave. She lay in her bed sobbing and I sat holding her. I didn't have any words this time, no pat hotel plan. I teared up myself. It was all I could do not to cry in front of her. When I left her, she was sleepy and finally calm.

Next, I checked in on Emily, who had been waiting. She lay very, very quietly in her bed and didn't say much. But when I kissed her goodnight, I felt the hot tears that covered her face. She had been crying silently for some time and the hurt seemed to go even deeper.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

She struggled to get the words out, "How come you like them better than us?"

"How come I like who?"

"Those IN-DO-NEE-SIANS!" The words burst out with a torrent of feeling.

"Oh honey, I don't. I don't. I promise you."

"But you keep on going there."

How does a little girl grapple with such emotions? Emily reasoning abilities surprised me.

"I just work there."

"You're not even going to be here for my BIRTHday!" She, too, sobbed.

"Oh, Emily! When is your birthday?"

"I don't know. Ask my mommy!"

I wanted to laugh, but this little girl was so intense that I had to hide it.

We talked for a bit more until she felt better. I promised to write her a lot.

When I finally closed the door, I was an emotional wreck. This goodbye stuff had really taken its toll on me.

I told my sister about what happened, and she sighed, "They're overemotional. Remember it was the first day of school for them. You've been with them ever since. Emily rarely shows her emotions. And both of them really miss you when you're gone."

"I guess..."

I was still pretty shaken by the unexpected way they'd pulled on my heartstrings. In fact, so much so that I canceled a date with an old friend I had planned to meet up with. I just wanted to go to bed and wake up early to catch my flight out. I felt drained.

I found that I couldn't enjoy my flight back as I normally did. All I could think of was the little girls I had left behind. Of course, they woke up and went to school. Life was back to normal for them already. And it would be for me when I settled back into my job. I loved it all over again.

But I will never forget my encounter with their tears. Children have such an innocent way of showering us with honest emotion, in a way that adults rarely do. We keep it inside. Like my mom did for so many years each time I left. I think it got harder for my mother to hide it, though. A few years back I watched my mother walk away from me from inside the window at Erie International Airport. She slowly hobbled back to her car, leaning heavily on her cane. The sight of her stooped over made her appear so lonely that I was at once reminded of that long ago farewell scene with my nieces. I decided then that I would have to come home soon to live. Farewells has begun to hurt too much.

Amy's Hotel List

I ran across some items recently that I had stored away for many years. It reminded me of how important my relationship with my nieces has always been in my life.

As a rule, I wan't overly sentimental about leaving my family and returning to wherever I was living overseas at any given time. My mind was already on the airplane, thinking of the stops I had to make, and when I could relax and get back to "my real life."

But I have to admit that it was always somewhat difficult to leave my nieces behind. They had me at my heartstrings sometimes.

The first memento I found was "Amy's Hotel List."

"Aunt Amy, why d' ya haf' to keep going away all the time? I miss you." This, from honey-haired Rachel. She was seated cross-legged on my bed watching me finish pack. She fidgeted with some little purse I'd given her from Guatemala.

"Ya, Aunt Amy. You're s'possed t' live here! We like it when you read books to us 'n' stuff," Emily chimed in. She frowned at me, accusingly.

I sighed. "You know, guys, what about if you come over to the house ... maybe on Friday or Saturday night to visit Grandma and Grandpa, and then sleep in my room? There are two beds here, one for each of you!"

Rachel's eyes lit up. "Can we really?"

"Sure, and ... uh, it'll be just like a hotel...whenever I go to a hotel, I have to write my name and all kinds of information!" I added, ad-libbing as I went along. "It'll be like you are traveling too."

"Ya, that'll be fun!" Rachel shouted.

"No, it won't. Aunt Amy won't be here! She'll be ... I can't 'member where you're goin'..." Emily looked as if she might burst into tears.

"It will be lotsa fun. You'll have to sign in and write the date you stayed, and say what you thought of your stay. I do that when I travel. We can sit down and talk about it when I come home again. That'll help you remember. And to pay for staying over night, you'll have to help grandma with the dishes or make the beds. Or maybe grandpa, you can help him do some fun jobs!" I said encouragingly.

"Like plant some stuff, or pick strawberries!" added Rachel, already imagining the fun she'd have. "Maybe he'll give us a ride in his old truck!"

"That's not work!" Emily scoffed, "but I guess so...okay, it's a deal. But what if I want to stay and Rachel doesn't? Or what if our dad doesn't let her 'cause she does something bad?" Emily always thought everything out. She was a very practical young girl.

"I wanna stay, too. I'm allowed, can't I, Aunt Amy?"

"Yep, you can both stay but ya gotta sign the list. An' ya gotta be good and help grandma."

They agreed and we made the list right then and there. We taped it to my desk blotter and got it ready for their first visit.

"Hmm. Remember just write your first name."

"C'mon girls," their mother called upstairs to us, "Daddy's ready to go now."

"Bye, Aunt Amy" they chorused, and hugged me tightly. Then they ran to tell their mom about the hotel list and our agreement.

Now as I look at the list, a lump forms in my throat. I put it back next to the construction paper ice cream cones they made for me one time when I left. It has their good-byes written in childish print. I place that on the chalkboard with a set of school photos, glued to it and the message "To Aunt Amy: World's Best Aunt" written in glitter-glue.

I find that I'm getting emotional; the tears are coming as I write.

I guess when you cultivate a relationship, it becomes such a big part of you that even the moments of separation become mementos of your life.

Though I was gone so frequently, I nurtured our relationship through letters with word pictures and stick-figures of the people I met. I punctuated my letters with funny stories and sent cassettes for them to listen to for nights when they stayed "in the hotel." I bought them typical dolls from everywhere I traveled. They consisted of straw, felt, clay, rope, cloth, cones ... you get the picture. The most basic elements. I sent them traditional clothing of some of the countries I lived in and explained what the styles and colors meant. I taught them to look into their hearts and reach out to those who have different lifestyles and languages. So, while leaving them was always difficult, I shared as much of my foreign life with them as I could back then.

When I was pregnant, I dreamed of having daughters just like Rachel and Emily. When God took my twins to heaven, He lovingly reminded me of the connection that I still had with these two precious nieces who had grown up in my shadow - and that comforted me. Now when I spend time, and observe them nurture their own families, my heart overflows with gratitude and love for the women they've become.

They have both done some overseas mission work, and I like to think I opened their hearts just a little bit to doing that through my own love for missions and life abroad.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for teaching me how to nurture this relationship throughout all the separations, and reunions. Thank you for loving me enough to allow my life to be enriched by them. Thank you for allowing them to step in and fill the place my twin daughters would have taken up in my life had they lived. I'm so grateful, Father, for your etermal provisions.

Trusting The Master

I took a long walk down to the Boro park the other day. During the walk, I picked up leaves. I decided to take them home and flatten them under a big book, then make cards with them. As I bent over to look for good leaf specimens, I began to think about all the leaves along the path. It was kind of windy so I pulled up my hood and secured it. I could hear the wind moaning through the hundreds of trees along the banks surrounding the road. I looked up and saw that the wind was prying some leaves off and throwing them to the ground at that very moment.

This caused me to reflect on not only the leaves but our lives as well. "Trusting the Master"is the result is the result of my reflections that day.

It's as if we are leaves in God's palm. Oftentimes, we are at odds with letting go of the familiar. We almost have to be pried from the safety of our branches, limbs, and taken from the tree, which has been our home for a season...how much do we trust Him? How many emotions we go through on our flight off the stem! Do our deeper colors demonstrate our maturity ... or is it our size ... or speed in which we fly? Or is it how we land?

~ ~ ~ ~

"...because he himself (God) gives all men life and breath and everything else...He determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is never far. For in him we live and move and have our being." Acts 17:25-28, NIV.

Trusting the Master

Yellow-belly core
Hugging slender stems,
Unwilling to let loose--
Prying, tearing, lifting,
Filtered through His Hands.
Sailing, lunging, laughing,
Each unique acrobatic performance
Highlights the changing
Crimson-tipped free form
Cupped within His fingers,
Finally wafting to resettle.

Wherever it is that we land, may we never lose sight that God is the one who gives us life and breath, and it is His course that we spiral through during our lifetime.

Walking through the woods made me realize that I cannot chart my own path or determine how fast or slow I am to move, but I have to depend on God to guide me. I am lost in the wind without Him.

My Father's Early Years

I'm trying out different ways to begin writing about my father. Most of the facts in this post were taken from my grandmother's diary, which my aunt kindly made available to me. I just want to see how a chronological approach comes across to readers... will it be interesting only to family? Will those who knew my father want to read this kind of background? What about strangers???

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I feel almost as if my father were born as a teenager because it’s then we begin to hear of his exploits, especially with the cars that he tinkered with. But naturally, my father came with a past that goes further than that.

My grandmother kept a diary of facts about her children so it’s here we discovered the most interesting nuggets of his early years. My father, Donald Thomas Bovaird, was born on December 17, 1928. In her carefully written, distinctive script we found my grandmother’s comments, “Baby Donald Thomas weighed 10 lbs. at birth, 12 at 3 wks., 20 lbs. at 4 mos.” At 4 months, he was learning to sit alone. The third of as many boys and seven children total, he was the first to start teething. “At 5 months, he got his first tooth and his second at 5½ months. By 6 1/2 months, he had gotten 5 of his teeth and at 8 months, 8 teeth.”

As a baby, he loved to eat and my grandmother wrote that he was “awfully fat” as a toddler. Dad retained this enthusiasm for eating his whole life long. Because he always worked very hard, he kept trim although he stubbornly ate whatever and however much he wanted of any given food. Mulish about his eating habits, it is how I most remember him. He liked just about everything and he almost always had seconds. A few years ago when doctors thought he had a heart attack, they checked the fat content of his heart and to their astonishment, found only 5 % blockage. He was by far one of the healthiest patients his age they’d ever seen. In the end, they determined he hadn’t suffered a heart attack at all. He’d simply pulled a muscle!

Grandma Florence also recorded that my father sat alone between 5 and 6 months old but that he still didn’t know how to “catch his head” when he fell. She commented that he didn’t creep much, but pulled himself up by his knees in his bed and carriage. At about 8 months, he started to creep, first on his stomach then on his hands and knees, finally hands and feet “and he surely can fly the last way!” At 10 months he started walking. “He goes nearly across the floor before losing his balance” she wrote. My father loved to “figure things out” by trial and error, it seems even as a baby in learning to walk.

I think my father has always been both independent and content. My grandmother’s remarks confirmed what I’d always thought about him. “I feed him and put him in his bed at about 11 am and he goes to sleep by himself. Sometimes I leave him sitting up in bed playing and he lies down himself. The other boys would never do that.” My father always seemed in calm and in control of his world.

On July 15th, 1928 both my uncle Byron and my father were baptized by Reverend Tait at the nearby Presbyterian church. In an account that seemed to both exasperate and amuse my grandmother she writes, “As usual, Rev. Tait made a mistake. Called Byron “Donald Kearney” [using my grandmother’s maiden name] and the baby – Donald Thomas.”

My grandmother described my father as a “home boy” and wrote “He’s so much better at playing by himself than the other boys were.” Perhaps it’s this ease in being by himself that led him to accomplish the goals he did in his life, building up unusual businesses. My father developed fortitude at an early age.

“He tries to say nearly everything if I insist on it,” she annotated. I noticed he also developed leadership traits at an early age. After watching my father try to put wood in the family woodstove, my uncle Alan, then just a year old, imitated him. My father loved to take charge of things.

On Sept 15, 1933 my father started school. He joined the ranks of his two older brothers while his younger brother, Alan, 2 ½ and 1 ½ year old sister, Mary Jane waited anxiously for their return. Mary Jane, the first girl in the family, was the sweetheart of all her brothers.

Dad’s early years were busy ones. He was an active child, always had something to do and places to be. But when he went to sleep, he slept like a log! My aunt Carolyn recalls the many times my grandmother had to trail through “the girls’ bedroom” to get to “the boys’ bedroom” where she’d attempt to wake my father up for school. He slept deeply like that until just before he died. No matter what was going on in his life, he had the ability to throw it off and serenely get a good night’s rest before tackling the demands of the next day.