Memorial Day

© 2013 Gary Coots Photography

It was Memorial Day weekend, and I was at church. The pastor invited us to pay homage to those who have given their lives in the fight to protect our freedom. I struggled to think of someone close to me, connected to me in some way, who had died while serving our country in a time of war.

Then it hit me: My sister's father lost his life in the latter years of World War II. William L. Barnett, Jr.—Bill—was born on November 9, 1915, the only son of a humble north Texas couple. I don't know much about him, but at least one surviving veteran remembers him as a good man who was kind and respectful, loved by those above and below him in rank. On June 17, 1944, after 12 days of battle, the jeep he was in drove over a land mine in Velletri, Italy, and he died at the age of 28.

My sister was only one year old when she lost her dad. She never knew him. He left behind his baby daughter, a grief-stricken widow—our mom—and a sorrowful mother and father who became childless. Over the years, his parents passed away and his widow remarried. Life went on, and Bill became a distant memory.

I thought of Bill only as my sister's late dad until last weekend. For the first time in my life, I imagined his life, his youth, and his sacrifice. With his death came the end of many future stories, many dearly held plans and dreams.

Had it not been for Bill's death, I would never have lived. And had it not been for his service to our country and the service of many others, I would not be free today. Thank you, God, for the life and sacrifice of Bill Barnett.

From Self-Made to Spirit-Led: My Journey out of Workaholism

For as long as I can remember, I have been a highly motivated individual. In first grade, I fell in love with letters, words, and books, but I also discovered that I craved approval. I quickly learned how to get it from my teachers, and I had the cleverness to excel in school while appearing humble.

My first grade teacher told my mother, “That little girl is going to be a journalist!” However, I don’t remember my mother sharing that with me until well into my adulthood. By the time I reached seventh grade, my English teachers were encouraging me to write and submit stories and poems for publication. But because my family valued money and worldly success more than creativity, I learned to focus on measurable achievement. I worked hard at whatever was put before me, often earning straight A’s, getting plenty of attention, and in later years, raises and promotions.

Looking back, I can see that I sought to fulfill the American Dream by becoming a self-made woman. I put aside the talents God had given me because I felt they were marginally valued, but I lived in frustration. I sought opportunities to volunteer my writing and editing abilities, although as a young mother I had little time to offer.

I always found favor easily with those in authority. God continued giving me enough humility and respect for others to win favor among my peers, but in some cases, I found myself playing the role of the proverbial teacher’s pet, giving rise to jealousy among coworkers.

© Gary Coots Photography

The day finally came when I faced my first full-blown rival, and I learned the meaning of the word “defenseless.” My obsessive search for approval was continually unsatisfied, and I became physically ill from the daily stress. One of my dearest colleagues had the wisdom to point out that I was involved in a spiritual battle, and another found scripture references to bolster my courage. Only then did I realize that although I could “get by” in the world by following my humanistic tendencies, the path would lead to constant craving and heartbreaking conflict.

In the mid-90s I finally landed my first paid editorial job, and I enjoyed a successful career as a writer and editor that culminated a decade or so later in a very lucrative and challenging professional position. As others around me lost their jobs and the economy tanked, I recognized the security I had. However, I was once again in a spiritual struggle, complete with physical and psychological symptoms. After some soul-searching and counseling, I decided to give up the job I had worked so hard to get. This self-made woman didn’t like what she had made of her life.

The Lord blessed me with enough freelance work to keep me afloat financially, and I determined to trust Him to show me the next step. And the next. . . and the next. At one time I had prayed, “Lord, please give me a job that pays well and isn’t 40 miles from my house.” Now, I hold in my heart the promise of Isaiah 64:8: "Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand." Beautiful words!

No longer must I strive and work for the approval of men and women. I may lapse into old behaviors, but I'm learning the ways of freedom day by day. And no longer will I turn a blind eye to who is truly at work. Finally I fully understand that "Unless the LORD builds the house, its builders labor in vain." (Psalm 127:1)