Covered by Joy
by Penny Wright,
edited by Bob Chaffin
It was 2:00 a.m. when I crept into her hospital room and saw her there, looking like a child, curled up, sound asleep with her “blankie” snuggled up in her arms. She was tired, and rightfully so, because she had brought a precious new soul into the world that day. She had borne our son. Of course, technically he wasn’t ours yet, not legally, but in our hearts he already held a special place as did, I shall call her “Amy.” The blankie was not a blanket at all but a quilt that had been made especially for Amy by Margret (Maggie) Wright, my husband’s grandmother. My “grandmother-in-love”, “Nanny” we called her, loved to make patchwork quilts and she had a special gift for the craft. Making quilts brought her Joy and although she could have made a handsome sum selling what she pieced together, she declared she would never sell a quilt. They were too personal, too much love, too much of herself, went into each one. No they were never sold, they were always given away to commemorate some special event or some special person in her life. So it was with our son’s birthmother, Amy.
I know that Amy’s life had been difficult with no father or mother to “train up this child in the way she should go” and she struggled with many of her own personal demons, perhaps as a result of feeling no one cared for her on this earth. The quilt, picked especially for her to commemorate this great event in her life, this unselfish act of deferring to the welfare of her baby, rather than seeking her own good; was a sign to her that someone cared and that someone approved, at last, of a choice she had made.
I had received one other of Nanny’s quilts earlier and it will retain a life-long special place in my heart. We knew we could not have children by birth and so had tried to adopt for many years, sometimes with heart breaking outcomes. Nanny had made us a baby quilt as a sign of her faith that we would one day have a baby of our own to love and cherish. Even when I lost hope on occasion, I could look at the quilt know that Nanny’s faith remained strong, and that she was always in prayer on our behalf. She remained Joyful and confident that God had a plan for us and that His plan would, in His good time, unfold at just the right moment. The baby quilt not only eventually covered our baby, many times it also covered our fears and our discouragement with Nanny’s love and optimism.
While quilt making and giving was a unique gift in this unusual woman, Nanny found Joy in all things. She found Joy in family, friends and often even strangers. Giving gave her more Joy than receiving, but it was her love and happiness in grandchildren and great grandchildren that provided the centerpiece of Nanny’s Joy. Her home contained some unique decorations, for here and there were crayon scribbled art, obviously the work of a child. “Oh no, “ she would say, “I wouldn’t clean that off, why I remember the day he did that.’
So it is that when I think of the Fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control and a person who represents those qualities, I think of Nanny. I have to admit that picking a single element to focus on is difficult, but overall I think she is best described by JOY. Although she truly embodied many of the elements of that Fruit, the inescapable truth is that all she did, she did with Joy in her heart, while placing Joy in the hearts of others.
I pray that I have just a touch of the Joy Nanny possessed, and that I develop the ability to be joyful and faithful in all things, no matter how simple or how small. She was a shining example and a great blessing to all, not only in our family but to all who knew her. Nanny went to be with the Lord a few years ago now, and last night Pa went to join her. It has given me Joy just knowing she will be there to meet him with a laugh, a smile, and a twinkle in her eye.
I wish all of you Joy like Maggie Wright possessed. Penny
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Why Frank, He's Somebody's Boy
Why Frank, He’s Somebody’s Boy
Written by Joyce Duvall, edited by Bob Chaffin
One of the things I remember most about Mama Hill (Sarah Lucy Hill) was what seemed to a city kid like me, the paradox of the woman. She had such soft lovely hands and when she wrapped you in her arms you felt as if you were to be loved for a lifetime. She was tender and kind with her grown children and farm animals alike, but she was at once firm and dealt in the reality of life that was the lot of a farm woman of the forties and fifties. I remember yet watching her walk softly up to an unsuspecting red hen and with a quick twist take the first steps toward a fried chicken supper. As I have considered that moment through the years it became clear to me why everyone, including her grown children, addressed her as “ma’am.”
Mama Hill had soft twinkly brown eyes and always wore a smile. She laughed softly and often -- she delighted in her 21 grandchildren. We traveled each summer, when the GM plants closed for vacation, to Middle Tennessee to see our beloved relatives. Each time we went to her home, we were given to understand that she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of our visit, and that we were, indeed, the most favorite of all her favorites!
She was born in 1876, when our nation was but 100 years old, and married Papa at 20 years of age. She was the mother of 9 children and her days were spent doing all the things that a farm wife of the time did. She cooked, sewed, canned, saw that her daughters learned to do all those things, and set a sumptuous table on Sunday for the preacher and any visitors who might come to the Stiversville church of Christ. (When purchasing their farm property, a portion of the land was set aside for the building of the church house.) Stiversville was (and probably still is) a close-knit farming community outside of Columbia, Tennessee where the people there were known to call one another "cousin". I grew up thinking they were all truly my relatives – and many were!
Papa was a farmer, but he also ran his own general store, taught school, served as a county magistrate, was a member of the local school board, and an elder in the church--most of these at the same time! Although primarily a farmer, Papa Hill was an accomplished man who had such a reputation for honesty, fairness, and good judgment that he was often called on for advice, and chosen to settle the occasional dispute among neighbors. Being one of the youngest of their grandchildren, I did not know Papa until his eyesight had failed to the extent that he was forced to use a magnifying glass as he sat on the front porch in the afternoons to read the Bible or the Gospel Advocate.
Mama Hill understood the value of children feeling they were contributing, adding value to the general welfare of the family, and allowed me to work beside her in the kitchen, the garden, and the orchard. I am sure her days must have been full and busy and I probably was more hindrance than help, but she always seemed to have time to answer my questions about farm life, biscuit making, sewing (which she called “handwork”) and other things that a “city girl” would have known no other way. She got up early each morning to fix breakfast for Papa, but she let me sleep late, then help roll and cut out the biscuits for my own breakfast. I suspect she did not dwell on the word “self esteem” much, but she knew how to make me feel fulfilled and competent when a job was well done.
As a child, I was proud of my Tennessee relatives, and their dedication to the church. Mama and Papa were great Bible scholars, knowing and reciting many scriptures from memory. They believed it was the greatest guide for how to conduct their lives and made every attempt to follow its precepts.
Mama Hill was truly a "helpmeet" for Papa -- she helped with the farming, and assisted in every undertaking which he found necessary. At any given time, there were a few tenant families living on the farm who earned their livelihood by taking care of Papa’s crops, etc. In return, each one got a garden plot, a house, and a small piece of ground on which to farm for themselves. It was not part of the deal, nor was it always customary, but Mama and Papa Hill took care of them like family. Mama helped with the births of their children, took care of them when they were sick, and she and Papa made sure that their needs were met.
Mama Hill was also busy in her own house, often doing two or three chores at the same time (like making tea cakes for supper as she cleared the breakfast dishes - while soaking peaches or tomatoes in pots of hot water, in order to make them easier to peel for canning -- or a cobbler!) She felt that every person with whom she came in contact was worthy of her care and compassion.
But above all else, Sarah Lucy Hill personified kindness. During the Great Depression, many homeless people – some would call tramps - traveled along U.S. Highway 31 and would put a rock on the fence of those who had shown them a kindness or given them a meal as a sign to others passing that way. Mama Hill made daily trips to her "spring house" that was cooled by the very cold water of the creek which flowed along Route 31. She often placed food in the spring house for the taking and, if no rock was visible on the fence, she would place one there. Frequently, Papa Hill would come home to find that she had offered their hospitality to a passing stranger -- even to the extent of giving away Papa's clothes or shoes to a man far from home and in need. Being concerned for her safety, he would sometimes chastise her about the wisdom of taking in strangers. All of his concern would be brushed away with a warm, brown-eyed smile and a gentle comment, "Why Frank, he's someone's boy."
When Mama Hill passed from this earth, I was not at all surprised to see that there was not enough room in the Stiversville church of Christ to hold all of those who came to show their love and respect for her. Like Dorcas of Acts 9:36 – 42, many of the mourners had stories to tell of her kindness and generosity toward them. As Doctor Paul Southern of Michigan Christian College used to say, “She was a P 31”. A woman like the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 – full of kindness.
Have a blessed day, and find someone to be kind to today. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Written by Joyce Duvall, edited by Bob Chaffin
One of the things I remember most about Mama Hill (Sarah Lucy Hill) was what seemed to a city kid like me, the paradox of the woman. She had such soft lovely hands and when she wrapped you in her arms you felt as if you were to be loved for a lifetime. She was tender and kind with her grown children and farm animals alike, but she was at once firm and dealt in the reality of life that was the lot of a farm woman of the forties and fifties. I remember yet watching her walk softly up to an unsuspecting red hen and with a quick twist take the first steps toward a fried chicken supper. As I have considered that moment through the years it became clear to me why everyone, including her grown children, addressed her as “ma’am.”
Mama Hill had soft twinkly brown eyes and always wore a smile. She laughed softly and often -- she delighted in her 21 grandchildren. We traveled each summer, when the GM plants closed for vacation, to Middle Tennessee to see our beloved relatives. Each time we went to her home, we were given to understand that she could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of our visit, and that we were, indeed, the most favorite of all her favorites!
She was born in 1876, when our nation was but 100 years old, and married Papa at 20 years of age. She was the mother of 9 children and her days were spent doing all the things that a farm wife of the time did. She cooked, sewed, canned, saw that her daughters learned to do all those things, and set a sumptuous table on Sunday for the preacher and any visitors who might come to the Stiversville church of Christ. (When purchasing their farm property, a portion of the land was set aside for the building of the church house.) Stiversville was (and probably still is) a close-knit farming community outside of Columbia, Tennessee where the people there were known to call one another "cousin". I grew up thinking they were all truly my relatives – and many were!
Papa was a farmer, but he also ran his own general store, taught school, served as a county magistrate, was a member of the local school board, and an elder in the church--most of these at the same time! Although primarily a farmer, Papa Hill was an accomplished man who had such a reputation for honesty, fairness, and good judgment that he was often called on for advice, and chosen to settle the occasional dispute among neighbors. Being one of the youngest of their grandchildren, I did not know Papa until his eyesight had failed to the extent that he was forced to use a magnifying glass as he sat on the front porch in the afternoons to read the Bible or the Gospel Advocate.
Mama Hill understood the value of children feeling they were contributing, adding value to the general welfare of the family, and allowed me to work beside her in the kitchen, the garden, and the orchard. I am sure her days must have been full and busy and I probably was more hindrance than help, but she always seemed to have time to answer my questions about farm life, biscuit making, sewing (which she called “handwork”) and other things that a “city girl” would have known no other way. She got up early each morning to fix breakfast for Papa, but she let me sleep late, then help roll and cut out the biscuits for my own breakfast. I suspect she did not dwell on the word “self esteem” much, but she knew how to make me feel fulfilled and competent when a job was well done.
As a child, I was proud of my Tennessee relatives, and their dedication to the church. Mama and Papa were great Bible scholars, knowing and reciting many scriptures from memory. They believed it was the greatest guide for how to conduct their lives and made every attempt to follow its precepts.
Mama Hill was truly a "helpmeet" for Papa -- she helped with the farming, and assisted in every undertaking which he found necessary. At any given time, there were a few tenant families living on the farm who earned their livelihood by taking care of Papa’s crops, etc. In return, each one got a garden plot, a house, and a small piece of ground on which to farm for themselves. It was not part of the deal, nor was it always customary, but Mama and Papa Hill took care of them like family. Mama helped with the births of their children, took care of them when they were sick, and she and Papa made sure that their needs were met.
Mama Hill was also busy in her own house, often doing two or three chores at the same time (like making tea cakes for supper as she cleared the breakfast dishes - while soaking peaches or tomatoes in pots of hot water, in order to make them easier to peel for canning -- or a cobbler!) She felt that every person with whom she came in contact was worthy of her care and compassion.
But above all else, Sarah Lucy Hill personified kindness. During the Great Depression, many homeless people – some would call tramps - traveled along U.S. Highway 31 and would put a rock on the fence of those who had shown them a kindness or given them a meal as a sign to others passing that way. Mama Hill made daily trips to her "spring house" that was cooled by the very cold water of the creek which flowed along Route 31. She often placed food in the spring house for the taking and, if no rock was visible on the fence, she would place one there. Frequently, Papa Hill would come home to find that she had offered their hospitality to a passing stranger -- even to the extent of giving away Papa's clothes or shoes to a man far from home and in need. Being concerned for her safety, he would sometimes chastise her about the wisdom of taking in strangers. All of his concern would be brushed away with a warm, brown-eyed smile and a gentle comment, "Why Frank, he's someone's boy."
When Mama Hill passed from this earth, I was not at all surprised to see that there was not enough room in the Stiversville church of Christ to hold all of those who came to show their love and respect for her. Like Dorcas of Acts 9:36 – 42, many of the mourners had stories to tell of her kindness and generosity toward them. As Doctor Paul Southern of Michigan Christian College used to say, “She was a P 31”. A woman like the virtuous woman of Proverbs 31 – full of kindness.
Have a blessed day, and find someone to be kind to today. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A Tough Little Knot.
A Tough Little Knot
My father’s parents passed away when he was but a boy and so my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew. He was Edgar Monroe Maberry and she was Lola Betsey (Gentry) Maberry. They were from the Morrison’s Creek area of Jackson County which is about 7 miles east of the town of Gainesboro. About 1940, they had moved out of Jackson County to farm Dr. Sloan’s big place in Sullivan’s Bend. Then in 1946 they had gone further from home to farm Judge Hubert Turner’s farm, which lies just north of the new Wal-Mart on the Highway 25 bypass around Carthage. It was a much bigger farm in those days and was bounded by the high school football field on the south, running along the creek and up to the big oak that stood at Clyde White’s house. From there it ran along the Ed Reynolds’ property line to the Cumberland River and probably contained considerably in excess of 500 acres.
Ma Ma and Pa Maberry were an interesting couple, but I’ll tell you about him first. He was smart and crafty, if uneducated. Although he was the son of a teacher, he could not so much as write his name when I first remember. I could never understand the dynamic which led to that, unless it was due to the fact that today he would undoubtedly have been diagnosed as being ADHD. He was often loud, boisterous, could not keep his mind on a single task for more than an hour, but was full of fun and loved pulling a prank on someone.
He believed that hard work, not cleanliness, was next to Godliness and he filled his life with backbreaking, sweat producing, body debilitating, work and it seemed to me that he often sought out the hardest way to accomplish a task.
I remember that we had an old army surplus jeep of the variety with no windshield, no top and canvass seats that we drove back and forth to the fields when we were working in the “bottom land.” It was probably about 3 miles from their house, which stood near the entrance to Smith County Memorial Gardens, to the fields nearest the river, so walking was a formidable task. Many times my Uncle Billy Maberry and I would linger over lunch longer than Pa thought necessary, so he would say, “Well, I’m gonna git started back to the field, you’ns can come on when yer done.” With that he would walk out the door, only to be picked up about a mile down the road as we too started back to the field. It may not have been progress, but it certainly was motion and he seemed to value one as much as the other. Now days, looking back, I suspect it was management by infliction of guilt.
He walked with what we all called a “hippty-hop” since years ago, he had his foot broken by a falling railroad cross tie. (He often carried and loaded crossties for the railroad during the depression to get a little cash money, walking miles each way to the job.) There was no money for a doctor, so the foot was never set and healed with a decided hump which made his foot look somewhat like a claw. He wore high top shoes for both field and Sunday wear, although the Sunday pair was finished and shiny like “slippers” as he called regular dress shoes. His walk was reminiscent of Walter Brennan’s look in “The Real McCoys” television program so we often called him “Grand pappy Amos” with no disrespect intended.
He could not stand to be other than in front of the pack when doing any kind of work, so when we were chopping corn or tobacco, it was not uncommon for him to skip long sections of a row to stay ahead of the group of us who were hoeing adjoining rows and engaging in a little light banter to break the monotony.
Pa never learned to drive, primarily because he could never keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. While trying to learn, he would spy a cow in the field, or a particularly weedy patch of corn or tobacco and soon would be driving off the road toward the item which had captured his attention. Finally, Mama and Daddy decided that in the interest of curtsey and public safety they would stop trying to give Pa driving lessons. That suited him just fine since he could “catch a ride” from Billy or at last resort from me on the tractor. I have many times driven him to town before I reached the age of 12 with him standing on the drawbar giving me unneeded and unwanted instructions. His objective was the old City Café and a daily meeting of his coffee buddies to discuss the latest in politics – usually only county and state races were of interest to them.
He was what people used to call, “a tough little knot of a man” and he provided for his family in spite of his physical disabilities and lack of education. He always worked and always did the best he could for my mama and her two brothers. He was different, would ask you how much money you made, talk about politics and religion, and had no idea what politically correct meant. As far as he was concerned, it was being on the correct side politically – and that was, of course, his side.
I don’t think a single person would think of him when thinking of patience, for he was seldom patient with the mules he was plowing, me when I was not doing something quite right, or Ma Ma Maberry when he wanted her to come help with what ever he was working on. But he was patient in the way that all farmers are forced to be patient. No weekly paycheck, no monthly paycheck. The tobacco was started in February and the returns came just before Christmas – maybe. The calves came in the spring but didn’t go to market until November. The hay that was cut in June and August, was not of any use until December and January. The corn was planted in April or May and it was weeks before the first green shoots appeared, but the harvest did not come until November. So it was the farmer’s lot to be patient and wait for the early and late rain as the Bible says and Pa Maberry was no different. Although he was not patient by nature, he was patient by calling, and perhaps that is what counts.
“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7
We like Pa Maberry are called to be patient through the excesses of this world we live in, waiting for the reward which will surely come.
Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
My father’s parents passed away when he was but a boy and so my mother’s parents were the only grandparents I knew. He was Edgar Monroe Maberry and she was Lola Betsey (Gentry) Maberry. They were from the Morrison’s Creek area of Jackson County which is about 7 miles east of the town of Gainesboro. About 1940, they had moved out of Jackson County to farm Dr. Sloan’s big place in Sullivan’s Bend. Then in 1946 they had gone further from home to farm Judge Hubert Turner’s farm, which lies just north of the new Wal-Mart on the Highway 25 bypass around Carthage. It was a much bigger farm in those days and was bounded by the high school football field on the south, running along the creek and up to the big oak that stood at Clyde White’s house. From there it ran along the Ed Reynolds’ property line to the Cumberland River and probably contained considerably in excess of 500 acres.
Ma Ma and Pa Maberry were an interesting couple, but I’ll tell you about him first. He was smart and crafty, if uneducated. Although he was the son of a teacher, he could not so much as write his name when I first remember. I could never understand the dynamic which led to that, unless it was due to the fact that today he would undoubtedly have been diagnosed as being ADHD. He was often loud, boisterous, could not keep his mind on a single task for more than an hour, but was full of fun and loved pulling a prank on someone.
He believed that hard work, not cleanliness, was next to Godliness and he filled his life with backbreaking, sweat producing, body debilitating, work and it seemed to me that he often sought out the hardest way to accomplish a task.
I remember that we had an old army surplus jeep of the variety with no windshield, no top and canvass seats that we drove back and forth to the fields when we were working in the “bottom land.” It was probably about 3 miles from their house, which stood near the entrance to Smith County Memorial Gardens, to the fields nearest the river, so walking was a formidable task. Many times my Uncle Billy Maberry and I would linger over lunch longer than Pa thought necessary, so he would say, “Well, I’m gonna git started back to the field, you’ns can come on when yer done.” With that he would walk out the door, only to be picked up about a mile down the road as we too started back to the field. It may not have been progress, but it certainly was motion and he seemed to value one as much as the other. Now days, looking back, I suspect it was management by infliction of guilt.
He walked with what we all called a “hippty-hop” since years ago, he had his foot broken by a falling railroad cross tie. (He often carried and loaded crossties for the railroad during the depression to get a little cash money, walking miles each way to the job.) There was no money for a doctor, so the foot was never set and healed with a decided hump which made his foot look somewhat like a claw. He wore high top shoes for both field and Sunday wear, although the Sunday pair was finished and shiny like “slippers” as he called regular dress shoes. His walk was reminiscent of Walter Brennan’s look in “The Real McCoys” television program so we often called him “Grand pappy Amos” with no disrespect intended.
He could not stand to be other than in front of the pack when doing any kind of work, so when we were chopping corn or tobacco, it was not uncommon for him to skip long sections of a row to stay ahead of the group of us who were hoeing adjoining rows and engaging in a little light banter to break the monotony.
Pa never learned to drive, primarily because he could never keep his mind from wandering off the task at hand. While trying to learn, he would spy a cow in the field, or a particularly weedy patch of corn or tobacco and soon would be driving off the road toward the item which had captured his attention. Finally, Mama and Daddy decided that in the interest of curtsey and public safety they would stop trying to give Pa driving lessons. That suited him just fine since he could “catch a ride” from Billy or at last resort from me on the tractor. I have many times driven him to town before I reached the age of 12 with him standing on the drawbar giving me unneeded and unwanted instructions. His objective was the old City Café and a daily meeting of his coffee buddies to discuss the latest in politics – usually only county and state races were of interest to them.
He was what people used to call, “a tough little knot of a man” and he provided for his family in spite of his physical disabilities and lack of education. He always worked and always did the best he could for my mama and her two brothers. He was different, would ask you how much money you made, talk about politics and religion, and had no idea what politically correct meant. As far as he was concerned, it was being on the correct side politically – and that was, of course, his side.
I don’t think a single person would think of him when thinking of patience, for he was seldom patient with the mules he was plowing, me when I was not doing something quite right, or Ma Ma Maberry when he wanted her to come help with what ever he was working on. But he was patient in the way that all farmers are forced to be patient. No weekly paycheck, no monthly paycheck. The tobacco was started in February and the returns came just before Christmas – maybe. The calves came in the spring but didn’t go to market until November. The hay that was cut in June and August, was not of any use until December and January. The corn was planted in April or May and it was weeks before the first green shoots appeared, but the harvest did not come until November. So it was the farmer’s lot to be patient and wait for the early and late rain as the Bible says and Pa Maberry was no different. Although he was not patient by nature, he was patient by calling, and perhaps that is what counts.
“Therefore be patient, brethren, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious produce of the soil, being patient about it, until it gets the early and late rains.” James 5:7
We like Pa Maberry are called to be patient through the excesses of this world we live in, waiting for the reward which will surely come.
Have a blessed day, Bob bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
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