Restoring Spirit

By Belvia Holt Tate

Restoring Spirit has taken eleven years to bring to publication. The bulk of it was written in 2004. Putting all these memories and feelings in writing was very therapeutic for me in the aftermath of the accident. But the accident was becoming the major event in my life that everything was chronologically placed around. I needed to put it to rest and move on to my future. I did return to it for a short period in 2007, when the Epilogue was written as the end of the story.

Knowing that God would take it for His use someday in his own time, it is now ready to be shared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491823354

Belvia Holt Tate

Belvia Holt Tate has worked as a Radiologic Technologist and Cardiovascular Professional for forty years. She enjoys photography, painting, and reading in her spare time. She lives with her family in Virgina.

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© 2013 Belvia Holt Tate. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/03/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2336-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2334-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-2335-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920683

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Prologue

My Family

Sit Up Straight

Darkness to Light

Yelling at God

Moving Mama

Empty Nest

Restoring Spirit

Recovering

Treasure Forever

Epilogue: August, 2007

Works Cited

About the Author

About the Book

Acknowledgements

I am forever grateful to so many individuals who have had great impact on my present state of mindfulness to God’s plan in our lives. Thanks to all of you.

. . . to my parents, the late Carl and Shirley Holt, for being such great examples of keeping faith with God even in the worst of times…

. . . to my husband and daughter, Richard Tate and Loren Mitchell, for their unwavering love, support and encouragement…

. . . to my favorite brother and his wife, Glen and Nita Holt, who are always there for me…

. . . to my church family at Bedford Presbyterian Church for taking care of my family when I couldn’t and for lifting me up to God in prayer; what a powerful presence you are in my life…

. . . to Reverend Joseph Gaston and his wife Karen, who have been instrumental in teaching me about God’s grace and love, what it means to forgive and be forgiven, and how to see God in everything…

. . . to everyone at Peaks Presbyterian Pilgrimage 34 whose presence and insight would get me focused to write this book…

. . . to Joyce Abbott Robertson and Reverend Marina Gopadze for their spiritual mentorship…

. . . to Reverend John Salley for using his English major to edit this text; your critique has been so helpful…

. . . to all my family and friends whose advice, help and love I could not live without…

Dearest Lord, teach me to be generous;

Teach me to serve thee as thou deservest;

To give and not count the cost,

To fight and not to heed the wounds,

To toil and not to seek the rest,

To labour and not to seek reward,

Save that of knowing that I do thy will.

I dedicate this writing to the glory of

God by whose grace I am here.

Prologue

The word spirit comes from the Latin origin of spiritus, meaning breath, courage, vigor, the soul, life.

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Our lives are much like water that flows down from a mountain, meandering willfully through the boulders in a stony creek bed. The water cascades over cliffs to pound pits into the sandy soil. There are lengths of flat shallow spaces where the water can rest for a time, comfortable in this place of refuge, getting used to this environment, familiar with this particular small area of the creek bed.

The water often stagnates, becoming too comfortable in that resting place with no movement forward. Then turbulence will appear from nowhere to flush the water out of its comfort zone. Crashing over the boulders, it spews through cracks and crevices too small to allow smooth passage.

There are shallow places along the way, filled with small rocks that cause the water to split without reason. Going in different directions, it quickly flows aimlessly here and there to eventually rejoin as one serene pool. Deep caverns can hold the water still for a long time, giving it opportunity to fathom its depths and gradually rise to the surface to warm in the sun and rejoin the flowing stream.

Life’s trials are sometimes like being caught in a stagnant pool with fear and trepidation for what lies ahead. We can choose to stay mired up in that trial or move through it, with God’s help, back to the main stream. We are given trials over and over during our lives and are allowed the choice of how we will get through them. We can either wallow in our misery or accept the challenge and ask God to lead us through. Ultimately that is the challenge… turning our lives over to God and accepting what he wills for us. Once admitting that we cannot do this alone, that only He is powerful enough to heal us, body and soul, only then will we experience the great joy and peace He can bring to our lives.

It took me fifty years of life to be able to do that, to admit that I could not make it through life anymore, physically or spiritually, without God to help me. What a joy and relief it has been to finally let God be the leader. I often think about all the time I’ve wasted, but the past is gone. We cannot change it, yet we can learn from our mistakes. I am so grateful that now I have a strong relationship with the Trinity of God… Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It has been a long time in the making, but better late than never. Because of the chain of events that brought me to the gift of God’s grace, it is all the more sweet now.

My Family

Daddy loved the place we lived. It really wasn’t anything special. It was simply his place. Originally, the house was five rooms with an outhouse and smokehouse out back. The water had to be pumped from the well which was just off the back porch. This was all upgraded to six rooms with a bathroom and indoor plumbing before I was born. We had fifty-two acres of land, about eight to ten acres of which was pasture land along the Staunton River. This was often my favorite place to escape from Mama’s ever watchful eyes. This particular piece of property was separated from the rest by fences and the Norfolk & Western railroad track. Mama would always make me promise not to walk the tracks before she would allow me to go down there. I say down there because the river road (as we called it) wound around and down a steep hill before reaching the track. Close to twenty acres of our land was wooded and very steep which made it virtually unusable except as a refuge for foxes, deer, squirrels, rabbits, quail, turkeys, and all the other wildlife calling south-central Virginia home. The pasture across the railroad tracks was longer than it was wide with the river on the long side opposite the railroad. Cows would be grazing in the sun. Huge sycamore, maple and oak trees along the river’s bank assisted Daddy in making a fence so the cows could not cross the river. A small spring came from a pipe under the railroad tracks at the west end of the field where they could easily get a drink of water or lie down in the cool moss under the trees.

It was near that particular area that I claimed my favorite spot. My brother, Glen and his friend Jerry had shown it to me one day. The tree covered river bank was like a small cliff near where the spring fed into the river. If I climbed through the barbed wire fence, there was a narrow path that meandered down the bank. About half way down to the water, there was a wider shelf covered with moss. One of the trees further down the bank had a low branch that protruded like an L over the carpeted shelf. As a child, it was like having my own private little room where no one could find me. I would sit on the tree branch chair with my back against the upright part of the limb listening to the river flow by as I usually read a book. The only disturbance would be the lowing of the cows or having to smack at a big black ant that decided to taste me as it crawled by on the tree. As I grew a little older, it became my place to think, to try to figure out what life was all about and why things happened the way they did.

My father was usually a happy, good natured man, who loved to talk and swap tales with his friends. He had an easy smile on his face for everyone he met. He was one of those people who would talk to anybody. He never met a stranger who wasn’t his friend before they parted. He loved God, family and country, in that order.

One of my earliest memories as a small child was sitting beside my father in church. He always had on a nice suit and a polished pair of wing tip shoes. His felt hat would be hanging at the back of the sanctuary on a hook. He was quite a handsome figure when he was all decked out for Sunday. Mama always made sure we were all clean and properly dressed to go to church. Our appearance was a reflection on her abilities as a homemaker and mother. We were not going to look like poor white people, even though we were. We had our everyday clothes and then we had our Sunday clothes. Mama made just about everything for all of us, except for Daddy. She made sure when he needed a new suit, it was good quality. She would look at all the seams and make sure it was put together right. Money was too hard to come by to waste it on a cheaply made suit. We children would get hand-me-downs sometimes from family and friends, but Mama made sure that if they were tattered at all that we didn’t wear them in public.

I never knew Daddy to have more than three pair of shoes at any given time, but they were always wing tips. He had long narrow feet. If I remember correctly the size was 11 ½ AAA, which guaranteed a high price to purchase them. He had his work shoes, his Sunday shoes and his farming shoes. When his work shoes would wear out, he would go get a new pair of Sunday shoes and make his Sunday shoes his new work shoes. If the old work shoes had the least bit of life left in them, they would be worn to work the garden and milk the cow. If a hole wore into the sole, they would be taken to the shoe shop to be resoled. They were only thrown away when repair was impossible. My daddy definitely got his money’s worth out of his wing tips. We children got one new pair of shoes a year which always seemed to coincide with going back to school. Our shoes were always purchased at least a half size too big, a whole size if Mama could make them stay on our feet, to give us some growing room so that we hopefully wouldn’t have to get another pair before the start of the next school year. I remember having to stick tissues in the toes of my shoes when I was little to make them fit better until I grew into them.

Sometimes at church they would ask Daddy to pray during the worship service. It seemed to me the preacher would randomly pick someone to pray on Sunday morning. I would always lay down on the church pew about prayer time. I didn’t want the preacher to see me and decide to call on me anytime soon. Yet, my daddy was always ready when he was asked. He would stand up, all tall and lanky, fold his hands on the back of the pew in front of us, and close his eyes. He didn’t bow his head when he prayed aloud so that everyone could hear him. It was more like he closed his eyes in reverence and lifted his voice toward heaven. His deep resonant voice with a slow southern drawl, consistent with our south-central Virginia roots, would fill the sanctuary with the sounds of a man praying truly from his heart. I wish I could remember his prayers. I do remember how they would make me feel. I would close my eyes and rest my head on Mama’s lap and let the sound of his voice lull me into a peaceful state. Years later, one of our family’s closest friends told me that she just loved to hear my daddy pray. She said, He could pray it all.

When other people would pray, that’s when Daddy would bow his head. He always sat forward in the church pew and rested his head on his hands which were resting on the pew in front of him. I guess he felt that was the best way he could prostrate himself before the Lord without Mama getting embarrassed and making him get up and act like a gentleman.

On many Sundays there would be an altar call at the end of the worship service. This is when the preacher would ask anyone who believed Jesus Christ was their Savior and wanted to turn their life over to God to come forward to kneel at the altar. Daddy would always go up front to kneel down, put his folded arms on the altar and then rest his head on his arms. In a few minutes, Mama would go too. I would peek out from the pew into the aisle and look up front to see what was going on. Eventually, Daddy’s back and shoulders would start shaking. He was crying as he always did when he went up front. Sometimes, a strange feeling would come over me. It wasn’t frightening. It was just different. That is when I would get out into the aisle and walk up there to be with my parents. Daddy would take me in his arms and quietly sob until it was time to go outside after the service to shake hands with everybody and smoke a cigarette with his cronies under the big oak tree. It wasn’t until I was older that I truly understood where my daddy’s tears came from and why he would cling to me so tightly as he sobbed at the altar.

Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. (Luke 14:27, The Catholic Study Bible: New American Bible, New Testament p.128)

My father and mother, Carl and Shirley, were married on April 25, 1936. They both had jobs at the local weaving mill for a while. The first child was born to them ten months later in February 1937. Then another child came every four years after that until my parents stopped procreating in 1953. Mama didn’t work publicly for too long after the children started coming. Daddy said it was cheaper for her to stay home with the children than work. He got a job as a rural letter carrier with the United States Postal Service and Mama became a housewife. I was the youngest of five children born to Carl and Shirley, the only girl with four big brothers. I grew up knowing one healthy brother, Glen, eight years older than me who would pick on me until I screamed at the top of my little lungs. Screaming was my only defense against a sibling so much older than me. I also knew my brother who was twelve years my senior, Dennis. He was quadriplegic, having had brain damage during his bouts with childhood diseases. Mama took care of Dennis at home for about four years after he became ill. Dennis was institutionalized because Mama was near the point of exhaustion and breakdown. We would go to see him every Sunday after lunch and sometimes bring him home for the weekend or maybe a week in the summer. It was hard work for my mother to take care of him while my daddy was at work, yet she did it without complaint and loved Dennis dearly. She always talked about how smart he had been when he started school, a near genius she said. He looked like her, blond hair, fair complexion and ice blue eyes. Glen and I both knew growing up that Dennis was Mama’s favorite child. He was the most helpless and needed her more than we did.

My other two brothers were unknown to me except through the stories my mother used to tell me as I was playing in the kitchen with her pots and pans or in the afternoons as she was trying to lull me to sleep for a nap. Roy was the first child born to my parents and sixteen years older. In the summer of 1943, Roy had his physical to start school which revealed anemia. The doctor gave him vitamins and iron to build up his blood and waited to give him his smallpox vaccination until he was stronger. Ten days before Christmas, the doctor felt he was better and gave him his vaccination. Whether it was from the anemia, some other blood disorder, or a rare allergy to the vaccination, we will never know; Roy died on December 31, 1943.

Dennis was two years old when Roy died and was still healthy at that point. Dennis didn’t become ill until he started to school and got measles,