Category Archives: Being a Daughter

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His Legacy Endures

My father, Clayton Barker, would have been 102 last month. He has joined that “great cloud of witnesses” cheering us on and I often sense his presence doing just that. What a legacy of love he has left! A few months ago I received a package in the mail. It had a return address I didn’t recognize, but gradually a recent email came to my mind that asked me for my address. This message was from someone who was going through their parents’ things and came across two wooden bowls my father had turned. He always signed his name with a wood burning tool and also wrote the type of wood the bowl was made of.

The following note was enclosed when the package arrived –

“Clayton Barker was a special man. I knew him as one of my high school teachers and the operator of Holly Cove (Campground). I spent many summer vacations at Holly Cove with my parents in our pop up trailer. Some of my best memories are from Holly Cove. That was a special time – Sunday morning breakfast and church service, the pool, the little pond, nature hikes with Mr. Barker, catching snakes, lizards, turtles and frogs, hiking, buying hot dogs and marshmallows at the camp store. As a biology teacher, he taught me about the “miracle of creation”. To this day I credit him with much of my enjoyment of nature. He had the ability to describe the intricacies of God’s creation in a way that came alive.

This former student of my father’s had come across the bowls my father had given her parents and thought I would like to have them. Since we have grandchildren I can pass the bowls on to them and the bowls are greatly appreciated!

The lovely expression in the note of the impact my father had on her life made me reflect on the legacy my father left on so many others, not just on me and my brothers. He LOVED to teach. He taught high school biology for 40 years. The first 33 years were at Wheaton Central High School, the last 7 at a mission school in Taiwan. He was a seasonal naturalist in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park for several summers and conducted nature hikes and evening talks about the plants and animals of the Great Smokies. He began turning wooden bowls in his 70’s and taught many others how to turn wood. He was even teaching woodturning at age 91 just before he died.

The above picture is taken with one of his great grandsons. My father is “teaching” Caleb something about the worm he just brought “Great Grandpa Barker” to see.

The greatest legacy my father left was his deep love for God and His creation his desire to walk with the Lord his entire life.

As Dad was fading away the final 3 weeks of his life here on earth (he had been teaching woodturning and was weeding the flower garden until those last weeks) he went through various tests to determine his waning strength. It was finally determined he had a fast moving lymphoma. I was with my older brother and mother at his bedside when the oncologist told him about the lymphoma. “We don’t usually recommend chemotherapy for someone at 91 years of age. Yet if you want us to pursue treatment, that is your decision. If you choose not to, do you understand what that means”

“Yes”, my Father replied, “It means I will go be with my Heavenly Father who I have walked with all these years.”

My father lived a life of faith and he died peacefully that week expressing his faith. What a gift to my Mother, my brothers, and I!

Paul wrote to Timothy in II Timothy 4: 6-8 NLT –


6 As for me, my life has already been poured out as an offering to God. The time of my death is near. 7 I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful. 8 And now the prize awaits me—the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me on the day of his return. And the prize is not just for me but for all who eagerly look forward to his appearing.

The legacy my father left endures – the greatest Father’s Day gift of all.

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Silent Night, Holy Night, Again

Adahlyn Wood Ledford, Caleb Ledford, and Alice Caroline Ledford

Silent Night
By Abigail Hardy
It was December 5th, 1992.  As I rushed with my parents into the emergency room entrance late that night, a gurney sped past us.  Like a snapshot, I can remember, the sight of a leg, knee up in the air covered with a white sheet and below the knee, unnaturally, something large and black was bisecting the bloody leg.  Is that really what I saw?  I was too unsure to ask my parents.  I could tell they were more scared than they were willing to admit to me.
I sat in the waiting room of the ER.  I felt lost and unsteady as my parents went back to talk with the doctors.  Words like “accident” “coma” “racing” “head-on” were punctuating the air of the waiting room as people from our small church slowly filled it. 

Things like this do not happen to us.  Not to kids coming back from a church youth group trip.  Surely not, God. 

The van, driven by our church’s youth group leader and my Dad’s closest friend, had been hit head-on by a man in a Corvette.  He had been racing 120 mph down the curving road, some pieces of his car left hanging high in the trees. 
My oldest sister Hannah had been in the back of the van with four other junior high students from our church youth group, and two adult leaders in the front.  Kirsten, the energetic college student from WCU who helped with the youth group, died instantly.  Hannah was in a coma.  Mr. Brown, the driver, was the victim we had seen as we rushed into the ER with the brake pedal stuck through his lower leg and a broken pelvis and ribs.  He had been pinned in the car and had prayed with the kids and kept them calm until the emergency services arrived and were able to cut him out.  Another student had a serious head injury and the other three had escaped with broken bones or scrapes and bruises.

My sister had been airlifted to Memorial Mission in Asheville soon after my parents and I had arrived at the local ER.  When I got to visit her in the hospital the next day, I remember the sight of my mother, holding her hand, singing hymns and Christmas carols to her unresponsive body. 

On the third day, as my mother sang Silent Night to her daughter, she heard my sister’s voice join with hers.  Hannah had woken up.

This is the meaning of Christmas, lived out by the people I lived with. 
Mr. Brown, speaking peace to panicked kids as his own pain loomed like a giant wave above him. 
Kirsten, losing her life in the middle of obedience to Christ’s call on her to minister to kids.
My mom, singing Silent Night over my sister in total faith that God is our healer and restorer.
My sister, given back life through no merit or effort of her own, and, oh, so thankful for that gift.

And, yes, the tears fall when I sing Silent Night at Christmas.  Because this is a beautiful, broken world that our Almighty God was born to save.

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You Are Mine

Four Generations 1979

Gayle, Hannah, Svea, and Esther

My Grandmother, an amazing woman who emigrated to the United States from Sweden in 1920, lived the “American Dream”. She left the poverty of northern Europe between the two World Wars and worked as a maid, then a cook for a wealthy Chicago family. She met my grandfather through a friend, married, had three daughters, raised two grandsons, and began oil painting at age 52 when she had an empty nest.

Yet those facts don’t tell the whole story. Svea was a force. She had a deep love for her Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and shared that love whenever she could. She quoted Bible verses to all of us – sometimes out of context to get her point across – yet she truly loved God’s Word.

She fiercely loved her family, and made holidays, especially Thanksgiving, a feast of food, love, and laughter. I have two brothers and 5 male cousins and we all had the “privilege” of sitting at the “piggy table” (in the kitchen) while the adults ate in peace in the dinning room with china and crystal. I smile thinking about those meals. We laughed so hard that our stomachs ached as those boys jockeyed for attention as the most hilarious. “Pass the rolls” meant a literal “pass” and missing the catch sent the boys into hoots of derision. To this day I am petrified about catching anything. (thanks Tommy)

Every once in a while, my Grandmother would stick her head in the kitchen and admonish us to “keep it down” and then retreat back to the dining room and the civilized conversation. We wouldn’t have traded the dining room for the piggy table any day! Oh, by the way, the food was DELICIOUS!! Svea was an exceptional cook.

After my grandfather passed away and Grandma lived alone for several years, she had a stroke and then moved in with my parents who were then living near us in North Carolina. Grandma suffered another stroke and then went to live in a care center for rehabilitation. She thrived in that environment, enjoying the social interaction and bingo sessions all the while continuing to paint. She had a solo exhibit of her paintings for her 90th birthday!

As she turned 95, Svea began to fail, yet her spirit was strong! Our daughter, Salem, became a CNA through her high school health occupations classes and did a rotation at the care center where Grandma lived. Grandma was forgetting names but recognized Salem. She would walk through the center pushing her wheelchair and when she saw Salem, she would say – “You are mine”. Then she would let everyone know around her that Salem “was hers”. Svea was so proud to have family there and wanted everyone to know.

Recalling Svea’s love for all of us in her family, it reminds me that our Heavenly Father loves us fiercely with His perfect love. He has called us by name. He never forgets who we are – He says “You are Mine”.

Isaiah 43:1-3 says –

43 But now, O Jacob, listen to the Lord who created you.
O Israel, the one who formed you says,
“Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you.
I have called you by name; you are mine.
2 When you go through deep waters,
I will be with you.
When you go through rivers of difficulty,
you will not drown.
When you walk through the fire of oppression,
you will not be burned up;
the flames will not consume you.
3 For I am the Lord, your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

This Thanksgiving I am so thankful for the legacy of my grandmother – Svea Elise Anderson Rohner. Her prayers for me and example of love for Jesus have impacted my life eternally. I pass that on now to my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchild.

Remember – we are called by His name – we are His.