When the Hart Speaks: Whimsy and Wisdom from the Little House on the Alley

By Janet Hart Leonard

"God, I know you are writing my story, but it's not supposed to be this way. Could you have mistaken me for someone else?"

Have you ever questioned if God has forgotten about you? Have you told God that life is unfair?

If you've experienced unexpected disappointments in your life, you

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Hart Leonard
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985991215

Janet Hart Leonard

Janet Hart Leonard is truly a hometown girl, having lived on the same street in Old Town Noblesville her entire life. When she is not writing, she is hanging out with her Kitchen Aid Mixer in her kitchen or taking long walks or meandering through her favorite downtown shops where everyone knows her name. She doesn't know a stranger and often returns home with the name of a new friend she met at the coffee shop or antique store.Janet and her husband Chuck live in a 116-year-old little house on the alley just three blocks from the house where she grew up. She loves baking chocolate cream pies, with mile-high meringue, and cooking all kinds of comfort food for their family. They have a blended family of three sons and a daughter along with their spouses and a total of ten grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren (so far). Every weeknight at 7:30 they will be found watching Jeopardy.Every few weeks they escape to Chuck's home in Tampa where Janet nestles into her writing nook on the lanai while Chuck plays golf at the course where his son, Jeff, is the golf pro. As an award-winning writer, Janet continues to write a weekly column for her hometown newspaper, The Hamilton County Reporter. Her brave editors allow her to voice her opinion and share her thoughts on the front page of the newspaper every Sunday morning. Some fun things you may want to know about Janet...She was a church organist for over fifteen years. She can name that hymn in five notes. She sang in a Gospel trio, The Three of His, for over thirty years. Janet had a ventriloquist dummy when she was a child. Janet is addicted to mulch, so her husband has several yards delivered, every Spring, for her flower gardens. She loves mowing the yard with different designs in the summer. Janet is terrified of clowns and roller coasters and bees. Janet dreads going to yoga but loves how she feels when she leaves the class. Janet and God have an agreement. She will allow God to hold her pen and do her best to not take it from Him. On the occasion when she does grab it away from God, she will exchange it for a pencil. God is the only one allowed to use a pen to write her story. He continues to do so.

Book preview

Foreword

I was a classroom teacher, in both junior high school and high school, for thirty-five years. Sometimes I think God must have looked down on me one fine celestial day as he walked along with the archangel Gabriel and said, "Gabe, I think that fellow down there needs help. I know what I’m going to do! I’m going to place him in Noblesville, Indiana, and I’m going to send him some of my best children to teach! I was blessed from the beginning.

One of those best children he sent me was Janet Hart, now Janet Hart Leonard. I first met Janet when I walked into my Noblesville Junior High classroom on the first day of school in the fall of 1968. Anyone who has ever taught knows the trepidation a teacher feels as they face a class for the first time. I was no exception. I looked out at that group of kids, each one of them, Life’s longing for itself as the poet said, and for the very first time, I saw her smile. Janet’s smile wasn’t a big pearly smile like you see in a toothpaste commercial. It was a small, gentle smile. It was warm. It was the kind of smile that said, Relax. You can do this. It made a difference that day. It still does.

Over the next six years, I found out a lot about Janet Hart. One thing I discovered was that this kid could write! I mean really write! I was asked to teach at Noblesville High School in 1970, in the unusual position of being with Janet’s class for all the years of their junior high and high school education. It was my privilege to watch Janet’s talent grow and become increasingly refined. I had sensed from the beginning that she possessed a keen intelligence, a seemingly innate awareness and appreciation for the life around her, and a warm, kindly disposition toward others. It was a joy to watch her express these gifts in her writing.

Years later, I discovered Janet’s newspaper column, and I was immediately struck by what she had done with her God-given talent for writing. Her column always makes me smile. Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud. Always it makes me stop and reflect upon the insight which seems so natural to her. Always she inspires me.

Whether she is discussing what a gift her parents were to her or remembering the joys of working with the good people of Don Hinds Ford dealership or whether she is appreciating the wonderful dialectical patterns of the Kentucky hills from whence her parents emerged or agonizing over just why it is that our political leaders often fail to act in the best interests of the people, she always deeply moves me.

It is her warmth, I think, which always gets me. It is her sincerity, her belief in the better angels of our nature, as Lincoln put it, which always stops me and makes me think, Yes! That is it exactly!

And now Janet has written a book, the book you hold in your hands. It is the fullness of her creative ability. It is her gift to you.

In my old age, I have come to realize the importance of laughter and inspiration. That is why I so strongly recommend that you read a chapter of Janet’s book every morning as the sun is rising, or as the snow is falling, or as the rain runs in rivulets down your windowpane, especially on those mornings when it has just been so hard to leave the warmth of your bed and face another day of wrestling with whatever life has given you.

David Purvis,

Retired teacher

English Department chair,

Noblesville High School

Introduction

God, I know you are writing my story, but it’s not supposed to be this way. Could you have mistaken me for someone else?

As you read my book, you will read my story. You will read my thoughts. The characters are real. No one’s name has been changed. I, on the other hand, have changed over the years as the events of my life have and will continue to refine me.

Stories of my failures and stories of my successes continue to make me look back and see how far I’ve come. Some chapters were difficult to write because of the wounds that remain. Other chapters remind me that I am tougher than I ever imagined. I learned to face my fears with shaking knees and an anxious heart. Sometimes, I had no choice but to do the hard things, with fear and trembling.

More than once, I have asked myself, Janet, what are you thinking?

There is one certain constant in my life. God has a plan. He is never going to allow me to walk alone. I believe His plan will be for my greater good and my life will have a purpose…even when I don’t like the chapters being written.

Have you ever questioned if God has forgotten about you?

Have you ever told God that life is unfair?

Have you been betrayed by people who you thought cared about you?

Have you found divine appointments that could not have been mere chance meetings?

Has love arrived in your life so unexpectedly?

I’ve had all those things written into my story.

Welcome to my life. Welcome to my Little House on the Alley, where I write and tell my stories. Stories told…When the Hart Speaks.

I will tell you that I found who God is in my life…and He is good.

I heard the stories about God when I was a child, sitting in the pews of my little church at the corner of Tenth and Grant Streets; but it was in the muck and mire of my life that I truly got to know Him, and I found out how much He loved me…and still does.

Grab a cup of coffee or tea or the beverage of your choice and sit a spell as I tell you an incredible love story that God has written—as He held my pen.

Artwork by Alecksa Baker, Janet’s granddaughter.

Voice…to express one’s thoughts

She had a voice. She prayed every morning before her feet found their way out from underneath the covers.

Please, Lord, let my words make a difference.

She knew that people read her words and took them to heart.

She knew how those people felt. Those who had the worst of the what ifs happen to them. Those whose midlife crisis was not of their choosing. Those who knew, all too well, that life was not always fair.

Many times, she had wondered if she should dare share her journey.

Having struggled with being made to feel less than.

Having picked the last petal of a flower and it told her, he loves you...not.

Hearing that bets were made, bets that she would fail in a man’s world, she became a determined woman who quickly learned the rules and expectations in order for her to succeed.

Her niceness was recognized by the guys who began to teach her the game. Slowly the deck that was stacked against her began to lean in her favor. Not only was she given a seat at the men’s table but was given the deck to shuffle. Eventually, she would teach others the game.

She was the one who ended up winning the bet. The payout was far more valuable than money.

For years, hers was the odd chair at dinner parties. She knew the loneliness of asking for a table for one while sitting amongst a room full of couples.

Looking into the face of fear, taking a deep breath, she told fear to get out of her way. She had a life to live and to live it abundantly.

Love came gently knocking. Would she take another chance? What if her heart was shattered...again? What if love could be found in this chapter? Did she dare take the risk?

Hearing the gentle voices encouraging her to not give up on love, she opened up her heart. Those voices sounded like a choir that would eventually sing the Hallelujah Chorus. It would be Pachelbel’s Canon In D Major that would escort her down the aisle at her wedding.

Continuing to write and share her thoughts and her heart with her community, she was always surprised when people recognized her as that lady who wrote for the newspaper.

Notes were tucked away that people sent to her. They reminded her that she took a crazy dare and was making a difference.

She never wanted to be found judging others as she would never know the rest of their story. She knew how important it was to listen with her heart before voicing her opinion. She also knew that just because she had an opinion did not mean she had to voice it.

She sifted her words with kindness. She knew that harsh words would never be heard in the same way as those uttered or written with kindness and gentleness. She knew all too well what harsh words sounded like and how they hurt.

She knew that the wrong words voiced at the wrong time, in the wrong way, could do more harm than any weapon of mass destruction. The effects are long-lasting. She learned to be silent when she wanted so badly to speak.

One of the great truths is that you cannot erase a word once it is written. She knew what it felt like to read hurtful words. She had been the victim of them and has their scars engraved on her heart, scars that will never completely heal.

She wrote with passion. She felt the need to write. That need came from deep down in her soul.

Her journals told her story. The good. The bad. And yes, the ugly.

Would anyone ever want to read her thoughts, her story in a book? She doesn’t know, but...she begins to write it.

Please, Lord, let my words make a difference.

Daniel Grose Culture Photographer

One

Do you trust me?

Desperate times call for desperate measures but what if those desperate measures take you completely out of your comfort zone?

My heart held so many questions on that Sunday morning in June of 2004. As I drove my Chevy Astro Van with the odometer reading over 175,000 miles to the parking lot of Potters Bridge, near my home in Noblesville, Indiana, little did I know that it would become one of many marker moments of my life.

That wooden covered bridge and I shared lots of history. Even as a child I’d spent time there. After church, Sunday dinner, and our Nazarene nap, my parents and I would head out to find the nooks and crannies of the Hamilton County countryside. It seemed we always ended up crossing that one-lane bridge.

This routine had become a spiritual ritual for our little family of three. Every week, I looked forward to hearing the clackity clack of the wooden boards as we drove over the bridge before we headed back home.

This place had become a sacred ground for pondering many of my life’s decisions. I felt closer to God there than I did in the sanctuary of my church. I prayed for guidance and wisdom. Somehow, I knew this sacred ground could hold my fears and tears and even some secrets.

On that particular day, I felt waves of worry, desperation and exhaustion. I was drowning in a sea of fear.

Walking across the wooden planks of the bridge I heard the ominous sound of the boards echoing. I looked out the window to see the White River. Seeing the sharp bend in the river got me thinking. Dense overgrowth hid my view of what might lie beyond the bend. My mind saw the same for my future.

For twenty-six years I had built a successful home-décor business. Being a director with Home Interiors and making homes look beautiful was my passion but the economy had sabotaged my income to the point that my checkbook was telling me I needed to change career paths…and do it soon.

My steps were slow as I walked back to my van. I bowed my head and prayed, Lord, show me what to do.

Inside my van, turning the pages of the classified ads of The Indianapolis Star, I felt so inadequate and unqualified.

One semester of college credits did not look good on a resume. So many job openings; most requiring a college degree.

The newspaper fell to the floor, between the seats, and opened to a position at Don Hinds Ford for a salesperson. The help-wanted ad seemed to fill all my needs. Commission salary. 401k. Insurance. Demo vehicle. No experience is required. On-site training.

I remember looking up and in a not so prayerful voice asking, Really God, wouldn’t Africa be an easier place for you to send me?

Opening my Bible, I needed to find hope. The scripture I read was in Habakkuk. Who reads Habakkuk? It’s an obscure book of the Old Testament tucked in between Nahum and Zephaniah. There were many a prophet more significant and well-known than Habakkuk. Yet, God had a plan for him. Habakkuk’s story mattered.

Habakkuk saw life as unfair. He questioned God’s silence. He told God He needed to do something. The words he heard back echoed in my heart that day.

For I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told (Habakkuk 1:5).

The words in Habakkuk told me that not all questions have answers that are easy or tied with pretty ribbons.

I drove home and the arguing with God began. Who argues with God?

Look, God, I am too old. I know nothing about cars and trucks. I have never worked with men.

That night, as I tucked myself into bed, I wrestled with my thoughts as well as the covers on the bed. I tossed and turned. I kept hearing the words in my mind, Do you trust Me?

The next morning, I made the call to set up an interview with the sales manager.

I told no one of my decision. I knew what they would say. I was even saying it to myself: Have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind, Janet?

I remember walking into the dealership showroom, wearing a black pantsuit trimmed in fuchsia. I was the only one in the showroom wearing hot pink. My heart raced as I tried to calm my nerves and swallow my fears. It felt like all eyes in the showroom were on this terrified middle-aged lady.

It took every ounce of courage I could muster to just show up.

I walked out of the dealership thinking, What have I done?

Two

An unlikely friendship

How do you find your way in a world where you feel totally lost?

At 48, my expertise with cars involved scheduling an oil change and regular tire rotation. Now I stood among seasoned car guys in my fashionable black patent-leather pumps.

You never know what an encounter as a divine appointment might just look like.

Jay Snider was one of the first salespeople I met. I wondered right away if he would be a friend or foe. I asked too many questions. I took up too much of his time. I talked too much. Oh, and I was a female trying to find my way in a man’s world. I guess you could say I was butting into his business.

Jay knew his stuff. Towing capacities. Axle ratios. FWD vs RWD vs 4x4. Diesel engines. CVT transmissions. It all sounded like a foreign language to me, a language I never wanted to learn.

I avoided Jay’s office. The truth is…he scared the bejeebers out of me.