Editor’s note: Last month, we asked our readers to share their stories about family life. We received several stories; each was unique, but all reflected a common thread: the constant presence of God in the knitting together and sustaining of their families. Here are some of the stories we received.

 

Life Lessons from Zeta

by Angel Brabham, Fairfax

Some stories are woven in love, some in war, and some in heartache. My family’s story seems like something out of a made-for-TV movie.

A little over four years ago, my husband and our boys and I were finishing up our last little vacation before school started. After we returned home, our lives forever changed: I found out I was pregnant with our third child. Steve and I were surprised by this unexpected blessing God had chosen to bestow upon us. To explain it more appropriately, we were shocked and scared. Our life had been perfectly planned up until this point. We were high school sweethearts who married while still in college. We had our first child a few years later and our second (and what we thought to be final) child nearly two years after that. At this point in our lives, we thought we had it all, and we thought we had it all figured out. With a 6- and 8-year-old, we thought our family was complete, so news of a new baby caught us off guard.

The pregnancy was filled with morning sickness, doctor’s visits, and a couple of hospitalizations. On the day we found out that our third child would be a girl, we also found out that she would have some health problems. At one time the doctors even explained that if certain tests gave us indications of the poor prognosis they expected, then we would have to discuss what we wanted “to do” with the rest of the pregnancy. Well, there was no question there. I certainly would not choose to end a life, no matter how newly formed or how dire the diagnosis. Thankfully, some of the tests were coming back better than they first feared, and we trekked on to our scheduled appointments three times a week for checkups and tests.

The days seemed to drag on, and at around 28 weeks the baby seemed to stop growing. Many of the tests were showing definite issues with the baby, and there was a strong possibility she would come early. We made it to 37 weeks, and she was delivered via planned C-section. The mood in the room was somewhat somber, but when she arrived weighing almost a full pound more than expected and breathing on her own, there was huge relief and excitement from everyone.

The hours went on, and our daughter, Zeta Christian, began having trouble breathing. She also had trouble eating. We were comforted in knowing that she was a little early (and small), and this was a common issue for small preemies. However, doctors quickly discovered there were more problems that just her being small. Within a couple of days, we were transferred to the children’s hospital, where there were more specialists who could better treat Zeta. The days after that were a whirlwind. It seemed as if each day someone was coming to tell us about something else that was wrong. There was something wrong with virtually every organ in her tiny little body, everything from her eyes to the tips of her toes.

Eventually, the doctors deemed that she was strong enough to come home. We stayed home a few days but soon had to return because of breathing issues. This pattern continued for some time. Then the seizures started. It seemed that every time we got one thing under control, some new thing would pop up. I stopped counting the hospitalizations and procedures after she had been admitted close to 40 times.

My husband, my boys, and Zeta and I were living separate lives, it seemed. Zeta and I lived in the hospital for two years, while Steve and the boys visited on weekends and when other times would allow. It was a difficult and revealing time in our lives.

It was also during this time that I understood the depth of God’s love and the fact that he is the only constant that remains. I believed in God, accepted God and was baptized in his name at a young age. However, I still held on to a lot of worldly hope in my heart. Only when I accepted that the doctors didn’t fully understand Zeta’s condition and that her life (and my decisions) rested fully in God’s hands was I able to live with blind faith. What I mean is that God was the only thing I had to hold onto. No one else could help me, just as it seemed as though no one was able to help Zeta. We had many wonderful doctors who helped and gave us hope, but no one but God would ever be able to restore my daughter’s body.

After realizing we were no longer making any real progress medically, coupled with the fact that our family had basically lived separately for two years, we contacted Hands of Hope, a subsidiary of Hospice Care of South Carolina. Our desire to keep Zeta out of the hospital had been strong for a long time. With Hands of Hope, we would be able to do more of her care at home. (By this time she required breathing assistance, had uncontrollable seizures and remained tube-fed.) We wanted the freedom to still take her to the hospital if we found a new treatment or if we felt uncomfortable caring for her at home. But, more than anything, we wanted her to remain at home and for us to live more fully as a family unit.

Zeta was remarkable in the fact that, despite the countless hospitalizations, pokes, prods and procedures, she never failed to smile. That smile, which I know was a work of God, kept me going. I can picture her now coming out of sedation, or between seizures, trying to give me her best smile — as if she were trying to tell me it would all be OK. I wanted Zeta home so we could all know what that was like. I wanted her home because, although everyone at the hospital was super and sincerely concerned, there was no new or different treatment being done. There wasn’t anymore “fixing” to be done; we simply were trying to maintain her status.

The first few months that Zeta was covered under hospice care, I spent a lot of time trying to explain to everyone that this particular hospice care was not what one would traditionally consider hospice. When you hear the word hospice, it strikes a chord deep in your soul. The first thing you think of is death, right? Not with Hands of Hope. There is a palliative care movement for children with life-limiting illness, with the hope that more comprehensive home care will be available at an early time for children like Zeta. We chose Hands of Hope to help Zeta live more freely — without the constant doctors’ visits and all of the poking and prodding, without the hospitalizations, and, most importantly, to help her live at home with her family.

That is exactly what happened for us. Zeta lived more fully! We even took a trip to Disney World — not a small feat with a child who is fully ventilator-dependent and whose body does not take any transition very well. And do you know that Zeta had the most marvelous week? Do you know that we celebrated that vacation as a family? Our Disney trip was in February. We second-guessed ourselves many times before going, but her medical team made it possible by making all of the connections and helping us prepare for any scenario.

By April, we knew it was time to discuss true hospice care. It was time to let go. Zeta’s life was being maintained by machines, and her sweet, happy spirit seemed to be slipping further and further away. Zeta died May 7. I held her in my arms, with Stevie’s arms surrounding mine. She was home, and it was the most peaceful home-going I think one could ever experience. That week, we knew time was drawing near. We had all of the “what-if” plans in place. I texted my friend and asked her to go and pick up the boys from school. She asked no questions, but faithfully granted my request. When they boys arrived, they held her, and we all sat there on our couch quietly, sobbing and saying our goodbyes. She took her final breath within minutes of her brothers hugging her and holding her. The memories of that day are still so fresh and new, yet, ironically, seem so long ago. I said goodbye to my dear, sweet angel’s earthly body and rejoiced in the fact that she would suffer no more. Our family, my friend, and two of Zeta’s nurses surrounded us with more care and hope and love than my heart could comprehend.

More than that, I felt Jesus right by my side. I knew that he held my heart in the palm of his hand at that very moment, and he reassured me that we would be reunited again in heaven. Just as badly as I wanted my baby home with me, our heavenly Father also wants us home with him when our time on earth is gone. All it takes is a decision to follow him and accept his salvation.

 

 

A Father’s Perspective on Adoption

by Barry Kinard

On Nov. 10, 2010, my wife received a phone call from Miracle Hill, a foster-home agency, about a baby that needed to be taken into DSS custody. She told me all the specifics and asked if we would be interested in taking this little girl into our home.

I asked the standard questions: Any health or mental problems? My mind was going a million different directions, planning for my next class and preparing for a ball game that night. I told Joy, “If she needs a home, let’s give her one,” not knowing that this little girl would be mine in two years. Through my wife’s prayers and the Lord working on my heart, I knew we were going to adopt a little girl. The idea I had of our adopted daughter was completely different from the plan of our Lord and Savior. God has a sense of humor, and he loves to show it when we make our own plans for our lives.

Two years later, on March 18, 2013, I sat on the stand in family court. The judge asked a simple question: What did I think about this little girl? I looked at my wedding ring and started to fidget with it, as most guys do when emotion ties up their lips. I looked up, with tears of joy running down my face, and said, “She is my little girl.” The judge was satisfied with my simple, honest answer.

Keke (her nickname) is not mine through DNA, she is mine through God’s will. I allowed the Lord to work in my life and lead me to make sacrifices that only adoptive parents can understand. Kendra has taken up a place in our hearts that only daughters can fill. The journey to becoming an adoptive father was filled with pain, joy and laughter. I think Ephesians 1:5 says it best about adoption: “He predestined us to be adopted through Jesus Christ for himself according to his favor and will, to the praise of his glorious grace that he favored us within the beloved.”

 

 

God’s Family Goodness

by Harry Scarborough, Goose Creek

Our parents wheeled my twin brother and me across the street and helped clear a piece of land, and the Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention sent them a tent to house a new church start. My family was a goodly portion of the church, since there were 11 children.

With only a fifth-grade education, Dad served our country as a sheet-metal worker at the Charleston Naval Shipyard, and most of the time he worked the 4 p.m.-till-midnight shift.

He set a great spiritual example. Even though he didn’t get home until after 12:30 in the morning, Dad was already up when we left for school, sitting in the living room, reading his Bible and studying his Sunday school lesson in order to teach the men’s class, which he did for more than 30 years.

He and Mom were faithful in our home church, and we were in church when the doors were open. They raised us by the grace of God and gave the world two preachers of the gospel, five deacons and four daughters, all of whom became part of serving the Lord in local churches.

 

 

Not About Differences: Why Our Family ‘Works’

by Bettie Fabian, Columbia

In autumn each year, when many folks begin to fret about the drama of family holiday get-togethers, my family is gearing up for good times. About 50 years ago, in deference to married children and their spouses, my parents established our family Christmas celebration on Christmas Eve, leaving Christmas day for the in-law families. As my siblings and I moved farther from the home fires of Greenville, S.C., Mother and Daddy tried an experiment and took us all to the home of friends on Folly Beach for a Christmas retreat the weekend before Christmas. Sixteen of us bunked up, shared meals, played games, exchanged gifts and prayed together after Daddy read the Christmas story, a Yuletide tradition. An annual holiday reunion was born on that frigid weekend at the beach, and now, 38 years later, we all look forward to our five days together at Myrtle Beach over the New Year’s holiday.

Mother and Daddy have gone on to their home in glory, and we’ve said goodbye to several others far too soon. But when we gather in late December, many of our 43 brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins (once, twice and three times removed) will come from Virginia, Indiana, North Carolina, Arizona and South Carolina (the Upstate, Midlands and coast) to fellowship, catch up, and celebrate. Food will be in abundance. A premium will be placed on any Myrtle Beach restaurant willing to set a table for 25 or 30. Some will burn the midnight oil trying to put the last piece of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in place, while others get up before dawn to catch the sunrise one last time. And that is the key to the success of our reunions.

We are a family of friends. We honor and celebrate our differences as we unite to embrace our family relationships honed and polished by our common love for Jesus Christ and each other. This year we will range in age from almost 3 to almost 80. We represent congregations of faith as small as an inner-city neighborhood church with a few hundred members to a near megachurch with upwards of 150 in the choir alone. Our worship styles vary from formally traditional to exuberantly casual and contemporary. Most of us are in service to our congregations in one way or another. From our family, servants have gone on mission all over the USA, including New York after 9/11 and the Gulf Coast after it was ravaged by hurricanes, and to Moldova, Ecuador, China, Kenya, Ukraine, India, Brazil, Peru and Canada. Other trips are on the horizon. This year alone we will welcome back loved ones who have been living in Italy and Thailand, and we will rejoice over one who has triumphed over cancer.

I believe there are two things that make our family work. The first is the firm foundation established by our parents, and the second is an acceptance, even celebration, of our differences. And they are many! For the most part, we are ordinary people. But, as we gather, one who was born to shop and socialize will listen with curiosity to our environmentalist and her work on behalf of our planet. One who considers it folly to take to the open highway on only two wheels will give kudos to another who lobbies in the area of motorcycle rights and safety in another state. The tone-deaf will praise the one who has just taken part in a choral celebration of Christ’s birth. The one who is flourishing on a Paleo Diet will still bake her yummy apple pies for those who embrace carbs. Those who have retired will ask with enthusiasm about new careers for those just starting out. A few who crave order and organization make allowances for the other few who scatter socks, shoes, bags, gloves, sunglasses, books, cups and such, as if they have no place to belong. Some will seek a quiet corner to nap, read or play on their iPads as others nearly wreck the place playing Cranium and Pit. Usually the “not so fond of dogs” tolerate the “love to bring my pooch with me” pretty well. The cautious stay in the house, while the carefree dazzle themselves with fireworks on New Year’s Eve. But all of us will smile as we watch the ball drop to count down the minutes to a new year. Then it’s hugs all around and wishes for a wonderful year. For five glorious days, scattered relatives laugh, cry, play, sympathize, encourage, exhort and tease, all while getting very little sleep.

Oh, how God has blessed us! And oh, how I wish my parents could see our happy conglomeration. Now there is a great-great-great-granddaughter who comes with her 60-pound pit bull, Turbo, in tow. They would be so pleased — not because we are all alike, but because for a few grand days each year we bring our differences together in love.

 

 

Growing Up in the ’50s

by Tina Poole, Gaffney

Growing up in the 1950s, I remember my family enjoyed the simple things of life together. My family was made up of my daddy, mother, five sisters and myself.

Sometimes I long for those simpler times. Some of those memories include my dad on the back porch making a churn of homemade ice cream that my mother had mixed up. My mother would cut a watermelon on the picnic table under the trees for us to enjoy. Daddy would take us for truck rides; it was so much fun, and back then it wasn’t illegal. On Wednesday nights we got to have sandwiches, chips and Cokes. That was a treat, as were all of the wonderful meals my mother cooked every day. We laugh about it now, but we really thought having those sandwiches was special.

We played many games of softball and volleyball. We loved playing “Mother, May I,” “Red Light, Green Light” and “Red Rover.” We stayed outside for hours and lost all sense of time because we were having so much fun. We also enjoyed playing board games like Monopoly. Our home was filled with love and laughter.

When we ate meals, we all sat at the table together. We enjoyed talking to each other and sharing the events of the day. The TV was always turned off during meals because they wanted to teach us that family time was important.

On Saturday nights it was the norm to see six pairs of shoes freshly polished and shined, lined up in a row. Daddy made sure our shoes were ready for us to wear to church on Sunday. Mother always made sure our hair was washed and rolled when we were little so we would look our best for church on Sunday. I remember her rolling our hair up on bobby pins. We didn’t wait till Sunday morning to decide if we were going to church. That had already been decided, and we loved going.

Another wonderful thing my parents did was instill in all of their children a love of gospel music. We would spend hours singing around the piano. For many years we went to numerous churches and sang gospel music. Our group was known as the Felmet Sisters.

My daddy, Jesse Jack Felmet, went home to be with the Lord in 1979. My mother, Maureen Sproles Felmet, joined him in 2006. We are so thankful they passed their love and faith down to us, and it continues on. Daddy and Mother showed us what being a family is all about and how to stick together through the good and bad times.

 

 

Smokey Alert at Exit 3!

by Charlene Campbell, Taylors

We were a military family and moved frequently. We were on our way to Alaska, and we were entering Washington state. We had just eaten supper and were going to try to get to Seattle for the night.

I warned my husband about the Washington State Police and how they enforced the speeding laws. I had just gotten the words out of my mouth when we saw the blue lights. We stopped, of course, and the highway patrolman came up to our window as my husband was reaching for his license. As he was rolling down the window, our oldest son reached for the CB radio. “Breaker, breaker, one-nine: smokey alert. We have a smokey at exit 3.” Our other son said, “Mom told him to slow down.” The officer just smiled.

As it turned out, the officer was a retired major and had seen my husband’s military I.D. He gave us a warning, and we went on our way.

In all of our military travels, God watched over us in such an awesome way. We were never in an accident or lived in an area where we experienced flooding, fires or major storms. The first thing we did when we arrived at a new duty station was find a church home. This was always our first priority. Since we moved so much, this gave our family the stability we needed. We praise God for this foundation for our family. Many times we were the only family on the block that attended church. This was a witness to our neighbors, as they noticed.

 

 

Back to School with Grandma

by Marie Stevens, Woodruff

In the fall of 2006, I resigned from my position as church secretary. Everyone teased me about “retiring” from a part-time job, but I was giving up something that I loved and had been trained to do. (I was a Southern Baptist advanced certified ministry assistant!)

My new career was to be a stay-at-home grandmother with my new grandson, Cody, while our son-in-law worked and our daughter began her career as a school teacher. I knew the Lord would take care of the missed income, so as that summer ended, I was getting excited!

Later, we were blessed with another grandson, Taylor. I don’t know if it was being older or wiser, but I learned to slow down and be content — I didn’t want to miss anything these precious boys would do or say. I have tried to capture every stage of their life with photographs or by writing down the things they have said. I cherish those days of rocking them to sleep, singing songs, telling them stories, coloring, and playing games.

The years have passed much too quickly, and both grandsons are now in school. Now my job description is to be “on call” on sick days and to pick up both boys each day after school. I’m excited once again and hope my grandsons are looking forward to going back to school with Grandma.

 

 

God’s Blessing Is No Accident

(Writer’s name withheld by request)

Our son is not an accident or a mistake, although the world might attempt to label him as such. God designed him to be our child, even though we only learned of his existence three days before his birth.

My wife and I spent years attempting to conceive. We petitioned God for a child, but he remained silent. After much prayer, we felt the desire to adopt. In retrospect, this was the exact avenue God intended for us; despite the horror stories we heard, our adoption process was seamless, and in nine weeks time, we received “the call.” We learned of our baby on a Wednesday, he was born the following Friday, and we took him home from the hospital on Monday.

During this whirlwind of events, we had the privilege to meet our son’s birth mother. Despite the shame that our culture — and even the church — places upon a woman in this situation, this courageous woman had the conviction to choose life when death was such a convenient option. She devoted every ounce of her energy to this child for nine months, and now she was entrusting us with his care. What a sacred honor! Our time was short, but we simply thanked her and prayed with her. We have a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

Yes, the world might attempt to label our son as a “surprise” that could easily be corrected. But nothing surprises God, and he set our son apart before the beginning of time to be our own. What an amazing God we serve!