The Glow At Midnight

This manuscript was written and submitted several years ago. It seemed appropriate to publish an edited version as a blog posting this Mother's Day since it occurred on Mother's Day on May 8, 1983. As Mother and I prayed this very night, I heard myself saying to the Lord, "Help me to remember how faithful you have been to us over these last several years even through many difficulties." May we realize what great blessings we have received from God as He has given loving, devoted women to us as mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers.

The Glow at Midnight

            Some days can seem unbearably long—draining all energy and emotion. A day like that occurred for our family in 1983 on Mother’s Day. That day was the culmination of a long, difficult journey that began in early October of the previous year. But it hadn’t always been that way.

Gladys Vivian Rainey Smith, my maternal grandma, and Bernyce Smith Gates,
my mother, on Mother's Day, 1973. Notice one of Grandma's rose bushes .
Grandma followed the tradition to wear a white flower to honor her deceased
mother, and Mother wore a red corsage to honor her living mother. I don't recall
if Angie or I took the picture. Let's just say we were learning!

            My sister and I grew up in the same house with our parents and maternal grandparents. We worked together on our farm growing a garden, caring for a herd of cattle, and raising sometimes as many as five hundred laying hens. Grandma was a hard-worker and frequently drafted us as her unenthusiastic assistants. 

Times of fun and laughter punctuated our work-filled summers. After finishing a farm task such as canning fifty quarts of green beans (after picking and breaking them that same day), Grandpa would pack up the cane poles and tackle box in the bed of one of the farm trucks. Angie and I hopped into the back of the pickup and bumped off to one of the three ponds on our farm. As the sun began to sink below the western horizon, we delighted in roasting wieners on old tree branches that Grandpa had whittled to a point with his pocketknife. Those sticks would pierce and hold the wieners or marshmallows over the fire he and Dad had built. My sister and I would have not been happier if we had been taken on a summer-long European holiday than those fishing excursions.

            But in 1982, one October morning after breakfast, my sister and my mother heard a terribly frightening crash as Grandma collapsed onto the floor of the hall after suffering a major stroke.  After several days in the hospital, she was transferred to a rehabilitation facility.  Because rehab services, such as physical therapy, were limited at that time, my mother and sister were told after Grandma’s thirty-day stay, “Just take her home and make her comfortable.”

My sister chose to put her career plans on hold and actively assisted my mother with Grandma’s therapy. She, along with Mother, had a crash course in caring for a patient with paralysis on one side. My father helped in the evenings when he came in from his carpentry job.  We received invaluable daily support from one of our closest neighbors, Charlotte Hutchens, who was a home health nurse.

 In early May of the following year, Grandma’s kidneys began to shut down. Her last day was Mother’s Day. My father and I led the music worship at our small rural church as song leader and pianist that morning. Grandma lingered throughout the day even though she was unconscious. Later that evening, Grandma passed away.

 Our family was emotionally spent after over six months of care and daily seeing a woman with enormous talent, capability, intelligence, and fervor debilitated by the stroke. Even though at her death we grieved deeply, we still had a peace because of our belief in life after death. That peace found its basis in the fact that Grandma, at age thirty-one, following her father’s death, had sought forgiveness and made a life-altering commitment to follow Jesus the rest of her life trusting her eternal life to Him.

 Soon her body was moved to the local mortuary from our family home. Those who have had a loved one die after an extended illness can identify with the weariness and fatigue that comes following the passing of the loved one. My sister had been by Grandma’s side as her breathing pattern changed and death approached. She was exhausted physically and emotionally. By midnight, she decided to try to sleep in her bedroom that was adjacent to Grandma’s room where I was staying that night, too.

She put a record on the turntable. As the record slowly spun on the spindle, a beautiful musical rendition of Psalm 23 filled the room. My sister turned out the light so we could try to relax and go to sleep although our hearts were heavy with grief.  Instantly out of the darkness, a vintage portrait of Jesus hanging on the wall to the left above the bed was glowing and illumining that portion of the room. Its brilliance startled my sister who was the first to see it. The antique frame holding an artist’s conception of Christ had originally belonged to my mother (See the photo of it to the left.). To Mother’s knowledge, the painting had never glowed so brightly before that night. Ironically, the painting never glowed so intensely again after the night of Grandma’s death.  Our tears changed from tears of grief to tears of peaceful gratitude confident that we were not alone.

The warm glow emanating from the old sacred representation seemed to be a reminder that He was with us as our Shepherd, lovingly guiding us through this valley of the shadow of death.  He assured us that the glow of His presence would never be diminished by the darkness of our situation.  From that night forward, these truths were indelibly written in our minds and on our hearts, knowing Grandma spent her first Mother’s Day in heaven with the Lord she loved.

When the Raineys Lived Among the Seminoles

           Gladys Rainey Smith, my maternal grandmother, loved to entertain me with stories – always stories that were true. Her true experiences ranged from comical to adventuresome to downright scary - at least to me, since I wasn't quite the daredevil she was!  Many of these stories originated during her childhood in Konawa or Seminole County.

She delighted in telling about one of the country schools they attended while in that area. From her description, the school was designed in the “shotgun” style – just a long narrow structure and only one door. So much for meeting the fire marshal’s code! Grandma always chuckled as she told how the locals had nicknamed the building the “daubers’ den.” Some gifted rural poet crafted a little rhyme much to the dismay of the youngest pupils in the school, among whom were her youngest sister, Emma and her younger brother, Gene. (To see childhood photograph of Emma and Gene Rainey, click on: http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/02/alice-rainey-valentine-baby.html ).

This teasing rhyme flowed from the lips of older kids provoking the little ones to tears.

The Daubers’ Den  -

The hole in the end

Where the daubers go in!

                As the name of the county denotes, the Rainey family lived among the Seminole tribe that had been forcibly removed from their homeland in Florida. Less than ten years earlier, a horrendous event occurred in that area of Indian Territory when a crazed mob became vigilantes and burned two Seminole young men at the stake. (To read the account from the Seminole perspective go to: http://www.seminolenation-indianterritory.org/seminole_burnings.htm

                The clash between the two cultures occurred one year before my grandma’s birth. However, her parents were already in Indian Territory at the time of the awful happening. I can understand why Great-grandma Rainey had such a fear and even dislike of Native Americans, even though it was unfounded. She only learned to “like Indians” after my grandpa, Calvin Callcayah Smith, married into the Rainey family. To read more about their relationship see: http://bernadeanjgates.blogspot.com/2014/01/hens-humming-and-having-enough.html

                My grandma, as a child, was instructed sternly by her mother to never talk or associate with Seminole Indians. What did my defiant grandma do? Precisely the opposite! Seminole Indians riding in their wagons, enjoying fresh watermelon in the summer, stopped in front of the Rainey home. They called to my grandma, who at the time was around 8-10 years old. They asked her if they could borrow some salt for their watermelon. Grandma obliged and shared gladly. As one would expect, she got into major trouble on three accounts – talking to the Seminole Indians, lending them salt, and disobeying her mother!

                Grandma, the adventuresome one, recalled patrolling their homestead at night. The tension and uneasiness with their hosts, the Seminoles, reflected the need for vigilance. The reason for the nightly watch originated with the fence wires being cut at night and their cattle being driven onto the land of their Seminole neighbors. Grandma’s father was then required to pay an amount to the Seminole neighbor for the animals encroaching on their property! Grandma related of walking the fences of their farm, with her father holding the lantern, when they heard the zing of the barbed  wire as it was being cut! That always seemed a little too close for comfort for me, but not for Grandma. She loved the excitement of assisting her father in guarding their property.

Even though I am not as bold, courageous, or daring as my grandma, many times when faced with a daunting task, I pray to the Lord for wisdom and strength. In the back of my mind, I remember my ancestral DNA.  As Clark Kellogg, the sports broadcaster, says about second- and third-generation athletes, "You can't run from the DNA."  The memory of  my predecessors' bravery, combined with my faith in His strength, serves as a springboard to success.

I Hope This Is Not My "Seward's Folly"

William Seward, as secretary of state, in 1867, brokered the deal to acquire Alaska from Russia. His opponents nicknamed his deal to buy the Alaska territory "Seward's Folly." They thought it was the absolute, worst way to spend 7.2 million dollars of Uncle Sam's money. It turned out ok for Mr. Seward. I hope my deal does, too.

The Piano Restoration

                Dad’s release from the rehab center loomed large on the month’s calendar. Mother’s surgery was scheduled for the upcoming week in April of 2012.

                Mother was engineering the preparation for his homecoming. She insisted adamantly that Dad’s bed be placed in the living room. She knew that Dad was a "people person" so he needed to be in the middle of everything to maximize his therapy and hasten his recovery.

                Angie, my sister, and Mother began the transformation of the living room. I stayed with Dad at the rehab that day. I recall that day as I graded the third graders’ papers and used my laptop to record the scores on our district’s online grading program. As I stood up to stretch, I gazed out the hospital window and began thinking of the future of the vintage Story and Clark piano in my parents’ home.

                My maternal grandparents had purchased the piano in the early 1930s, from one of the Ralston churches when several churches joined to form the Ralston Federated Church. Mother, Angie, and I had learned to play on this instrument. As sentimental as I can be, I could hardly bear the thought of the old piano being salvaged. So I did an internet search using its serial number that my sister had given to me.

                My search revealed it had been crafted in 1916, in Chicago, Illinois. I discovered that we had an upright grand piano, which explained its rich tone.  Unfortunately, it had got so horribly out-of-tune that my sister, with a gifted musical ear much like my grandpa, Calvin Callcayah Smith, forbade even one note be sounded on it.

I emailed quickly Bill Miller, one of the foremost piano restorers in Oklahoma. His wife, Kathy, affirmed that it was a high quality piano and worth considering restoration. She affirmed this after seeing some photos I sent to her.

                As Saturday approached, I began lobbying for saving it from destruction, a piece at a time. As Rick, Tyler, and Caleb Rice helped my brother-in-law move the furniture to prepare the living room for Dad, Rick commented that he liked the “distressed-look” of the old piano. My mother characterized it as “ugly.”

The 1916 Upright Grand Piano in 2012.

                During Dad’s stroke recovery, the vintage piano served as a shelf for all of his supplies. I even bought a small keyboard so we could sing each night. Occasionally, I could persuade him to walk back to the redecorated north room where we had placed my small spinet piano. He enjoyed hearing his favorite hymns played.

The recently restored exterior of the 1916 Upright Grand
Piano as of April 2016. For 100 years old, it looks terrific.

                Within hours of  Dad’s death, as the medical supply company picked up the equipment, the living room began being transformed back into what it originally had been. The carpet took a beating as we used the lift and the wheel chair during Dad’s convalescence. Angie insisted that Mother needed the carpet replaced. Angie set the wheels in motion for new carpet since she was purchasing it for Mother.

                What was my role? I had to decide what to do with the “old, ugly, out-of-tune piano.” By this time, I had been retired three years. I thought I could swing financially its restoration. On Halloween morning of 2015, Bill Miller and his assistant picked up the vintage piano. That’s how it began.

                Bill Miller contacted me this week to say the piano's restoration is almost complete. His wife, Kathy, sent photos of the newly refinished 1916 Story and Clark upright grand piano. Within a few days, the new wire strings will be tuned precisely, ready for playing. If it sounds as good as it looks, in no way will it be my "Seward's Folly."

                Restoration is one of God's hallmarks made possible by the gift of Jesus and His death on the cross for our personal redemption. We can be a partner in God's restoration of a person who may have accumulated many years of old, "crusty" behavior or engrained destructive habits. God instantly gives the redeemed person a "new nature," but the external restoration can be inhibited when we refuse to allow the person to change. We hold onto long-ago wrongs done to us by the old "codger" or old "biddy." That would be just as if I had gone into Mr. Miller's workshop and interferred with his work on the vintage piano, saying something like, "This piano is too far gone. It's been this way for years. It just needs to be junked."

                Let's look for "ugly-acting, horribly-sounding" people and instead of "writing them off" as hopeless, pray for them. When we see God at work in a person with "lots of layers," let's try to join Him and at least, be sure to get out of His way.

Live creatively, friends. If someone falls into sin, forgivingly restore him, saving your critical comments for yourself. You might be needing forgiveness before the day's out. Stoop down and reach out to those who are oppressed. Share their burdens, and so complete Christ's law. If you think you are too good for that, you are badly deceived. 

Galatians 6:1-3- The Message