Colonel Blair, pioneer

My Kentucky born grandfather, Colonel Harlan Blair, was not famous for his chicken. He deserved to be called "Colonel",  however, for coming to Kansas as a widower,  teaching in a country school, homesteading 160 acres, and beginning a Methodist mission. I have not met him yet. ...but I will in Heaven. My grandfather had only one child with his first wife who died in childbirth.  He met my grandmother, a student of his in Kansas,  twenty years his junior. They married and had but one child: my mother. When Jesus made Himself real to me at nineteen, the first one I told was my mother. I thought she would be thrilled. She wasn't. Many years later,  the reason for her reaction was revealed to me. She had turned away from the church when an evangelist tried to force her to the altar and "repent of her sins".  Who could blame her for fleeing?

My mother's life on the farm where she was forced to live after my grandfather died, leaving her  mother a widow, was so hard.  Dad was not a farmer when she married him and suddenly,  he was getting up at 4 in the morning, harnessing four horses and heading for the gumbo fields. There were no luxuries; not even hot water or a bathroom. Kansas winds were relentless, blowing dust through the cracks in the aging farmhouse, making life miserable for a meticulous housekeeper like my mother. Everybody's days began before sunup. Wash day was particularly hard, for water was pumped from the well by hand, poured by the bucketful into round tubs on the woodburning stove and brought to a boiling hot temperature. The wringer washing machine and homemade lye soap were ready to do their work on dirt that can only be described as "filth".  A twelve hour back-breaking day was on its way.  My mother's linens as they hung on the lines were sparkling white from the lye soap, bluing in the rinse water and the blistering Kansas sun. ...in the summertime.  In the winter, everything froze on the line, had to be brought into the house and hung on lines strung from wall to wall next to the "central heat" which was one huge wood and coal-burning stove in the "center" of the dining room. The rest of the week was somewhat less grueling, but never easy.

I believe that my timid grandmother, who died when I was fourteen,  was a Christian.  Harlan, I have learned from his obituary and other evidence, was the bold one. When my grandmother's parents would not give Grandfather permission to marry her because of their age difference, he put her in his buggy and they eloped! When he died, Grandmother was destined to live in a household with my parents where God was never mentioned. How hard it must have been for her. I believe it was my grandmother who prayed for my parents, my brothers and me to come to Christ. When I was fourteen, after her death, it was as if someone reached up and turned the light switch off and darkness set in.  My brothers were long gone into their own worlds and I was left,  a lonely teenager, on a farm with emotionally separated parents. Five years after my grandmother's death, I heard the Gospel clearly, and responded to the love of Jesus. I had little credibility as the youngest by ten years in the family. As my mother had fled from the church years before, I fled from the darkness in my home.

I felt so guilty for leaving my parents on that old farm.  My Ted came to Christ, we married, schooling took us to Minneapolis and Dallas and then into ministry in Palo Alto, California, with our beloved mentor, Ray Stedman. Always beneath everything that was going on for the Kingdom of God was His quiet Voice saying to me: "You must get your parents off that farm and to Jesus".  ...and so we did. My dear, kind Ted and I moved my parents from a primitive farm in Kansas to Palo Alto, California, where the Silicone Valley was on the cusp of becoming world famous.  In the midst of the exciting, worldly activity were beautiful Christians who swept my parents into their arms and into Heaven. One of the many joys of my life was watching my Mother and my Dad fall in love with Jesus. ... and California. My dad, though seasick every time, fished  'way out in the ocean for striped bass. He fished from the rocks of Santa Cruz, the waves crashing at his feet.  For fifteen years, my parents' lives were dramatically changed. We showed them every nook and cranny of our wondrous California. They were like "kids in a candy store".  How they would love where we have lived for nearly thirty years in Bear Valley. Yesterday, as I sat in their granddaughter Dee's jacuzzi, looking out over Bear Valley far below, I thought of how good their worn out bodies would have felt with the jets and hot water bringing release from the physical pain they both suffered. 

 I long to see Jesus.  ...but I also long to see my precious Ted and my son, Doug, my mother and dad, my brothers, their wives, one of their children, my grandmother Etta who prayed for me and my Grandfather Harlan who was the beckoning voice of Christ to me, even though I have yet to meet him.  I am still working, because my parents built that into me, but the Spirit of God is reminding me daily:  "Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, mind your own business and work with your hands". Oh, there is "quiet".  Plenty of it! Deciding "what is my business and what is not" is a challenge. "Working with my hands"? That's what I am doing now, as I write.

...back to the farm.  I spent the lonely evenings stalking rabbits and squirrels. A whistle brought my shepherd dog running, I reached for my rifle and we hunted until dark. This morning, as I singed the backend of a bobcat who was salivating for a morning snack named Pussn'Boots,  I chuckled. Some things haven't changed. As I trek with my walking cat, Bootsie, down my long dirt driveway in the evenings, I think: "I've been here before". ...but when I come back through my garage and into my lovely home, a hot shower awaits me. I never forget to praise Him for a bathroom,  hot water, two furnaces for the cold winters and lovely pleasant summers that require no air conditioning, a gleaming washer and dryer that do all the work for me. ...and then I praise Him that for the last semester of my parents' lives they had a bathroom, hot water, a pleasant climate and no back-breaking work.

For some years every once in awhile I throw a singin' party for the community. I need to do that again this summer. One night, probably five years ago,  when son Doug was in attendance, He requested this one: "Peace in the Valley".  This is for you, my dear son, Doug, on Mother's Day.

I am tired and weary but I must roll on 'til the Lord comes to call me away
Where the morning is bright and the Lamb is the Light
And the night is as fair as the day

THERE'LL BE PEACE IN THE VALLEY FOR ME SOME DAY
THERE'LL BE PEACE IN THE VALLEY FOR ME, I PRAY
NO MORE SORROW AND SADNESS OR TROUBLE WILL BE
THERE'LL BE PEACE IN THE VALLEY FOR ME

All the words you requested that night have come true for you. You have met your Lord, your great-grandparents, and knowing you, you have met thousands of others.

Love,

(Mom) Jo