The family Bible

The Bible that was in Grandma Huey's house

      
“In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them.” – Joshua 4:6–7 (NIV)
      
      
Searching for pictures to use for Facebook’s “Throwback Thursday,” I’ve been rooting through the boxes of photos—all unorganized, of course—scattered throughout the house. I’ve found some great pictures—color family portraits, sepia-toned photographs of my husband’s forebears, black-and-white snapshots of our families. Few were labeled with who was in the photograph, where it was taken and when.
      
So I decided to make it a winter project to sort, label, and catalog the family pictures, including the ones that look like they date from the 1800s.
      
All this, of course, got me thinking about genealogy.
      
Back in Old Testament times, very little was written. But long lists of family lines are painstakingly included in the Bible (you know, the “begats” or “so-and-so was the son of so-and-so, who was the son of . . .”). Did you ever wonder how they remembered the names and places for thousands of years? Children were required to memorize their ancestral line.
      
Compare that to this: I know only as far back as my grandmother, who arrived in this country on May 4, 1910, from the town of Lenarts in what was then Hungary. I have her obituary, which provides the names of her husband, children, siblings, and parents.
      
But, shame on me, I don’t have the obituaries of my own parents!
      
Time to do some digging.
      
I called my brother, Pete—the only living relative from my past besides my cousins—this past week and asked him what he knew. I was especially interested in my father’s military service records. Two years ago, I wrote to the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, requesting my father’s service records, only to learn they’d been destroyed in a fire. 
      
Pete had a copy of my father’s obituary, which he photographed and emailed to me (isn’t modern technology wonderful?), but not my mother’s. While we were talking, he found the Maddock family Bible stored in a closet. I’d forgotten all about it.
      
The thick volume used to sit on the first shelf of a built-in bookcase in the living room when I was growing up. I loved to read all the information Mom and Dad wrote in the front, where pages were provided to record births, marriages, deaths, special events—and military records!

      
Recorded in Dad’s careful printing was everything I’d wanted to know—duty stations, years of  service, injuries, awards—he’d been awarded a Bronze Star! Pete took a picture of the page and emailed it to me.
      
I opened a new file on my desktop and labeled it: “Family History Project.”
      
Looks like I’m going to be digging for my roots.
      
I wish I had done that over the years. But it’s not too late to start making a record of family history for my children and grandchildren.
      
Roots are, I’m learning, as important as wings.

      
Guide me and direct me, Father God, as I begin this journey into the past—a journey that will add meaning and purpose to the future and help me to understand myself better. Amen.

Hacked!

The LORD is my light and my salvation? whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life?of whom shall I be afraid? – Psalm 27:1 (NIV)
     
I knew something was up when I logged into my HughesNet account Tuesday morning and read an email from Yahoo that I’d reset my password. I thought for a moment, trying to recall anything I may have done that would have inadvertently changed it. No, nothing. “If you didn’t authorize this change,” Yahoo wrote, “click here.” I clicked.
     
Not only had my password been reset, but 200-plus emails that had been in my Inbox were gone, as were all the emails that had been in the Sent box. Not good. Then someone forwarded me an email that I supposedly sent, asking me, “What’s up?” The subject line read, “SAD NEWS from MICHELE HUEY.” The next thing I knew, emails were flowing in, all wondering the same thing, all with the same forwarded message: I’d been robbed at gunpoint in Spain and needed money to get home. 
     
Now, the fact that the email I supposedly sent was one long, run-on sentence; the grammar, punctuation and other mechanics were horrendous; and the syntax atrocious, should have been a dead giveaway. Surely I’m a better writer than that. Which is why I received no less than a dozen phone calls and at least two dozen emails about it.
     
Nosing around further, I discovered that another email account had been set up, supposedly mine, but misspelling my name. My profile had been changed (I am now a 22-year-old New York City gal), and my address book was empty.
     
I’d been hacked. Everyone whose email address had been in that address book received the same damsel-in-distress email.
     
There went my plans for the day, as I spent it changing passwords, answering phone calls and emails, and ignoring a demanding, intimidating do-list. At one point, I felt desperation and frustration sinking their claws into my spirit. I’d had emails regarding financial matters in there. What if the hacker had gotten sensitive information and my accounts were now compromised?
     
Now, I’m not one to see the devil behind every tree, but when things start flying in left and right, I know ol’ Beelzebub is cranking up the heat. There had been several crisis points over the past few months, but this one was a real doozy. I must be doing something right.
     
As my panic mushroomed, a Scripture verse popped into my mind. I grabbed my Bible and opened it to Psalm 46 and read—prayed—nice and loud so the enemy would know where I stood: “God is my refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore I will NOT fear . . .”
     
The panic abated. It would be all right. I knew Who was in control.
   
Folks who know me know that had I really been robbed at gunpoint—in Spain or elsewhere—I wouldn’t ask for money. I’d ask for prayer. It is, after all, along with the Holy Spirit and the Word of God, the strongest power on earth, in cyberspace—and everywhere else.
   
Dear God, when things come flying in left and right, and the panic begins to rise, remind me to be still and know that You are God. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Psalm 46

Waypoint

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path. – Psalm 119:105 (NIV)

Last Christmas, my husband received an extraordinary gift from our eldest son—a hunting trip to Colorado. My gift to Dean was a handheld GPS unit to take along with him.

We ordered the GPS in March and received it a couple of weeks later. We should have ordered it right after Christmas. Talk about teaching an old dog new tricks!

Now, Dean is a fantastic fix-it man—mechanically minded and skilled in figuring out how things work—things like motors and engines and toasters and hair dryers—you get the idea. He’s even learned to browse the Internet (mostly looking for car or tractor parts) and even took an online course to prepare for his hunter’s safety test, which he needed to pass in order to get a Colorado hunting license. (He missed the birthdate cutoff by four months. But that’s neither here nor there.)

Since he does so well on the computer, we figured learning to use the GPS wouldn’t be too complicated. Not! The learning curve is as big as St. Louis’s Gateway Arch, a.k.a. “The Gateway to the West.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked him one Sunday as he fiddled with the GPS, manual spread open on the table in front of him. I could tell he was upset.

“I can’t find the arrow,” he said, clearly disgusted. “I had it. Now it’s gone.”

I looked at the screen, where what appeared to be a compass without a needle was displayed.

“Did you do anything?” I asked.

“Yeah—I hit the wrong button!”

I spent the next half hour pushing buttons, trying to get the arrow back. I learned new meanings for familiar terms, like “rocker” and “proximity” and “waypoint.” I figured out how to change the time setting back to Eastern Time from Central Time and showed Dean how to do it should he push the wrong button at the wrong time again. I hit every button and visited every page on the thing I could find, but no arrow.

Finally I handed the unit back to Dean. “Go ask Todd. He’ll know what to do.”

About an hour later Dean came into my writing room, where I was answering emails.

“Look!” he said, shoving the GPS in front of my face. “I got the arrow back!”

“What did you do?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

I’m sure glad the way to our eternal destination is clearly marked. In God’s Word we’ll find how to recognize our waypoints, where the proximity boundaries are, and what buttons not to push. The Bible is not at all that complicated. All you have to do is read it.

I sure hope my husband learns how to use his GPS before he goes to Colorado in October. But just in case, I think I’ll get him a topo map and a good compass for Father’s Day.

Thank you, Lord, that the way Home is clearly marked in Your Word. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 119