He Pulled Me Up by Barbara Waters Scott

Even though I received a scholarship and achieved the Dean's list with all A's, I dropped out of college on the first day of Easter vacation. It was also my twenty-first birthday and the middle of my junior year. My parents gave me a surprise birthday party, trying to cheer me up, but I was crying inside. Outwardly I had reached the point of no emotion. My condition especially upset my mother, who said when I told her about wanting to end my life, "The good Lord won't let you do a thing like that. He gave you life. It is His right to take it away."

My mother suffered a lot because of me. I often told her that I felt like the "living dead", that there was no meaning to life, that within a few months I would either be in a mental institution or a grave. But Mother kept saying, "I know everything will work out for the best. The Lord is letting this happen for a purpose."

Even though I was deeply depressed, I knew I was a Christian. The summer before I dropped out of school, my steady boyfriend rejected me for another girl. Hate and bitterness consumed me. It was then that I read the paperback Peace With God by Billy Graham. Not long afterward, I watched a televised crusade, which ended in my accepting Christ as Savior.

But I didn't make Jesus my Lord. When I returned to college, I returned to my old life—seeking pleasure and recognition. This lifestyle clashed with my newfound spiritual insight and resulted in a deep depression. I could not concentrate on my studies and withdrew from all relationships. It was then I decided to leave school until I could resolve my conflicts.

My mother had a friend who knew the supervisor of the psychiatric ward at the county hospital. Since the doctors were residents who charged a minimal fee, many people were on the waiting list. I was told that the fastest way for me to get help was to enter the hospital and later be put on outpatient care. Me? In a psychiatric ward? The very thought was humiliating. But I was desperate—I hadn't stopped thinking about taking my life, even though I hadn't actually harmed myself. I was so afraid of myself that I consented to admission. The doctor assured me the ward was not a "funny farm" and the patients were no different in outward appearance than anyone who might be seen in a department store crowd.

After the ward door was locked behind me, I realized that he had failed to tell me how emotionally disturbed the patients really were. One pretty sixteen-year-old girl, who felt her parents had given her everything but love, had tried to leap out a window. An older woman, who bore the scars of deep razor cuts on her throat and wrists, told me that her children had found her just in time. She had been recently divorced by a man whom she loved very much and who left her for another woman after thirty years of marriage. The worst case I saw while I was there was a former school teacher who had shot herself in the arm while attempting suicide. She entered in a catatonic state, not realizing who or where she was. She sat immobile and never spoke a word.

These were the kind of people that I had heard existed, but they never seemed real. Now I realized that this situation could happen to anyone. I was thankful that I had walked in instead of being carried. I also understood that my suffering was not as severe in comparison, as I had thought it was.

My doctor confessed that he could not work any miracles, that I was the one who had to do the changing if anything was to change, that I had a "right to my feelings". After I confided in him, I felt some relief, but I knew that I should never become dependent upon him.

When he told me the last week in July that he was taking a vacation for a month, my heart sank. I still hadn't stopped contemplating suicide. Although I had been seeing the doctor on an outpatient basis for several weeks and attending the last six weeks of summer school, I wasn't sure I wanted to return to school in the fall, because of the fear I might have to drop out again.

Then I received a phone call from Dan, a friend from college. He asked me for a date. I accepted. I had always enjoyed Dan's company. He never seemed to worry about anything and was consistently in a happy mood.

I felt I could trust Dan, so I confided in him. He told me that he had undergone a similar experience. He said that like many freshmen he came to college for fun. After his sophomore year, he began wondering what the future held for him. He realized he was unhappy as a business major, but he didn't want to "change horses in the middle of the stream." He went through a period of depression, also. Finally, a friend took an interest in him, and they talked a lot about the Christian life. Dan had considered himself a Christian, but he had never comprehended what completely surrendering one's life to Christ could do. This friend told him about a "quiet time", an early morning period of Bible study and prayer. Dan said that just fifteen minutes a day were valuable enough to give him the personal inspiration he needed. He said that the Bible, "God's inspired word," was actually the revelation of God Himself. Then Dan suggested that I try reading it on a regular basis.

So I started waking up fifteen minutes earlier each day. Often I had to force myself to get up, because I began making up excuses why that extra fifteen minutes sleep was necessary. Arising early and spending the time in fellowship with God was worthwhile. My mind gradually began to clear. "Principles in this book actually make sense. They can apply to me here and now," I thought.

One verse in particular was meaningful. I read Proverbs 3:5-6: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." I realized I had never completely trusted the Lord enough to turn all areas of my life, including my problems, over to Him. I recalled as analogous occurrence. After trying to rise on water skis for two summers, I finally succeeded. I understood at last that the boat must pull me up and that I had been trying to pull up by my own power. As I remembered, I prayed, "Lord, You are like that boat. All the time I've been resisting You and trying to make it on my own. Please "pull me out of the water!" Suddenly I experienced a tremendous sense of relief.

Truly surrendering myself to the Lord's will made all the difference in my life. I could actually live life for the first time. I found pleasure in simple things—a quiet sunrise, a glorious sunset. My perception of my surroundings deepened and enabled me to write poetry. I could share Christ in a natural, relaxed way. Christ's Spirit caused me to care more about others and their needs. I found a "spiritual family" in a local church. My life took on new meaning and purpose.

Although I will never completely understand why this experience happened, to me, it definitely made me depend upon the Lord. The psychiatrist could only enable me to see that I needed to change. I had to do the changing, and I did it in God's power. I know now that I needed Him to pull me up, to bring me to my feet so that I could ride the waves. With this knowledge, I can face whatever obstacles may be ahead, whatever course is laid for me.

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February 29, 1980

Mr. Roger C. Palms, Editor
Decision Magazine
1300 Harmon Place
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55403

Dear Sir,

The enclosed manuscript is the result of many hours of revising and rewriting* Hopefully, the work spent on my English degree at Texas Christian University has contributed to a well-written copy.

The story itself has been ten years in the offing. During that time period I represented my city in the state final of the Miss America Pageant, taught high school, married, and had two children. My husband Lyndell and I are presently members of MacArthur Blvd. Baptist Church in Irving, where he is a deacon.

My goal in submitting this testimony is that the Lord Jesus be glorified. He is the one who delivered me and who is blessing my life.

Yours in Christ,

Barbara Scott

Heart Surgery: A Mother's Reflections by Barbara Waters Scott

When our family doctor explained that my ten-month-old son Daniel would have to undergo cardiac tests at the Children's Medical Center, I was stunned. For once I had not expected the worst. The first two years of his older sister's life found me envisioning every cold as pneumonia, every sore muscle as polio, every high fever as spinal meningitis. Most mothers harbor fears for their children's health. Mine were extreme.

But this time, my anticipation was positive. I was certain that my son's x-rays would show that nothing was abnormal and that only allergies were causing his rattly breathing. However, the results revealed that my baby's trachea was being pressed by a swollen blood vessel. He must be hospitalized for three days of tests.

Following the examinations, my husband Lyndell and I consulted the pediatric cardiologist. "The operation involves removing the narrow area and then sewing both ends of the aorta back together," stated Dr. Johnson, as he informed us that Daniel had a fairly rare birth defect—a co-arctation of the aorta, a condition in which the main artery leaving the heart is "pinched-in". The defect causes the child's blood pressure to be higher in his upper extremities (thus the swollen vessel) and lesser in the lower parts of his body. Daniel would require heart surgery when he was four; otherwise, he could die of cardiac arrest.

Needless to say, at first I felt guilty, wondering whether anything I did during my pregnancy could have caused my child's condition. Also, anger overwhelmed me that this precious child should have to suffer through surgery; finally self-pity expressed itself in my crying a lot. These painful emotions had to be acknowledged and accepted as normal. With the help of Dan's specialist, an understanding and patient husband, and a sometimes wavering faith in God, I was able to resolve my feelings.

The next few years literally zoomed by. I was so busy caring for two small children, keeping house, and getting involved in outside interests that these years were relatively free from concern about Daniel's heart condition. After all, he looked and acted normal—except that he tired easily. Wearily he would remark, "Mommy, I'm soggy." ("Soggy" was his word for "tired".) His dad and I were grateful, however, that he had no withered limbs.

Too soon, at the end of a summer, our son's fourth birthday was imminent. A decision had to be made. Since we were planning to move into a new home, Lyndell and I decided that surgery would add an unnecessary stress factor. So we postponed the inevitable until March.

Prior to the operation I discovered a magazine article entitled "Questions to Ask Before Surgery". I copied a multitude of questions with which I later bombarded the surgeon in his office. Afterwards Dr. Adam grinned and said, "I'll be glad to meet you at the operating room door for inspection, if you like."

The day we checked Daniel into the hospital found us filling out more forms than we knew existed and meeting two other doctors: the anesthesiologist and the surgeon who was to assist. The latter was a young man, a Dr. Lowell, who repeated once again the main risk in this type of surgery— total paralysis from the neck down.

When I had first learned this risk from Dr. Adam, I could visualize myself caring for a quadraplegic for the rest of his life. It almost devastated me.

But this time I was prepared to sign the release forms. That very morning as I was reading chapter forty-one of Psalms, two verses literally leaped from the pages: the first part of verse two, "The Lord will protect him, and keep him alive," and verse three, "The Lord will sustain him upon his sickbed; in his illness, Thou dost restore him to health." Someone could have accused me of taking those verses out of context, yet it seemed as though God Himself were speaking directly to me. And so I had the strength to face this one last hurdle.

After completing all the paper work, I escorted my son, who had had his final x-rays and blood tests, to his bed in a ward. Other parents were trying to make themselves comfortable in the recliner chairs which were to serve as their beds for the night. Although a light sleeper, I was determined to stay with Daniel. He became sleepy after several stories and coloring. Since he had not yet had surgery, he did not complain when I climbed into bed beside him.

We slept, and morning came too soon. I bathed and prepped Dan for surgery. He cried because he was not allowed to eat. After Lyndell arrived, we accompanied our son to the operating room. Daniel admitted softly, "Mommy, I'm scared." I told him once again, "Even though you cannot see Him, Jesus will be in there with you." Our brave little boy, without another word, was wheeled away.

I could not pray for Dan any longer. So in the intensive care waiting room, my prayers were for the other parents. One mother said she did not know whether her child would live after stomach surgery. A father paced the floor. His son was having brain surgery.

My family and several close friends waited with us. Surprisingly, the three hours slipped by. Then Dr. Adam entered the room. He paused. "Everything wiggles."

I wanted to hug him. My sister tearfully squeezed me, and my father dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. The tension others had felt was released. Other parents were congratulating us. I now am amazed at how calm and relaxed I was during and after the ordeal. It was totally unlike me. God's sustaining grace, which answered our prayers, is the only explanation I have.

This same grace got me through the next few days. I was definitely unprepared for the intensive care unit. My four-year-old was the oldest one there. The sights and sounds of the monitoring equipment, the constant activity of the personnel, the crying of the infants as nurses pounded their backs to dislodge phlegm and encourage the coughing which would prevent pneumonia—all of these impressions are vivid even now.

My son had a drainage tube sticking out of his side. He was breathing oxygen through a plastic mask. They told me his incision was on his back. Then it was Daniel's turn to be pounded. I hurt for him. His weak attempts at coughing made me his sideline coach. "Come on, Daniel, you have to cough. Come on, you can do it."

Then he needed sleep. We visited him one other time that day. My husband stayed overnight, while I went home to rest.

The next evening, Daniel was moved to a semi-private room. His roommate was a two-year-old boy who was hospitalized for cystic fibrosis tests. The child's mother finally quieted him for the night. Daniel slept. Exhausted, I tried very hard to get comfortable in that recliner. Just as I would doze, on would come the lights, off and on for two hours—a nurse to check Dan's glucose, one for his temperature, then the pounding again. I could not take it. I phoned my husband at one in the morning; he arrived to take me home thirty minutes later.

The next few nights we allowed the nursing staff to watch our son. They did a beautiful job. At first I felt like a failure, because I really wanted to be with Daniel. But then I realized my goal deep down was to play the role of martyr mother. Daniel needed me, but not at the expense of my own well-being.

Our "baby" thrilled us with his rapid recovery. The second morning after surgery, Lyndell walked into Dan's room to find him coming out of the bathroom. "I needed to go" was his matter-of-fact explanation. The third morning Daniel's grandad witnessed a tricycle race between Daniel and a new found friend. From that point on, we were sure of a complete recuperation.

Thank God for the moments of humor thrown into a serious situation. Like the time Daniel observed a little girl loudly protesting a shot and the nurse commanding, "Take this like a little lady." Dan then declared, "I'm not going to cry. I'm going to be a little lady." Also, my son reacted with distaste for his surgeon who visited him the day after surgery. Only the day before surgery, Daniel had liked him. And when we were leaving after a week, Dan begged to go back sometime, "because they give me goodies Mommy won't".

The day we brought Daniel home, I reflected on his stay: the quiet, wide-eyed way a small child erectly sat on the bed being wheeled into surgery as if expecting to see a circus, the weakness of this very active little four-year-old in intensive care, the amazing idea of his racing a tricycle in the hospital halls only three days after surgery, his sweet response to the nurses and the many friends who visited, his eagerness to return. These many memories set into relief my own tensions, worries, and inconsistent faith. I prayed, "Lord, give me the trusting attitude of a little child."

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March 20, 1979

Mr. Arthur Gordon
Guideposts Magazine 
747 Third Avenue
New York, N. Y. 10017

Dear Sir:

As a homemaker, mother of two, and former English and biology teacher, I have had no more profound an impact upon my life than the situation which the attached manuscript relates. I hope that my struggle of faith might touch and encourage another person. Surely parents can identify with my anxieties and doubts. Perhaps there is someone who has yet to experience a crisis such as mine, but who would benefit by knowing there is a personal God who can comfort, strengthen, and even cushion by His presence a personal trial.

I humbly request that you read and accept this article.

Sincerely yours,

Barbara Waters Scott

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Did y'all know that mom and I had a couple of pretty big things in common? We both had one child born with life threatening conditions. We both had one child who experienced surgeries at an early age. We both felt the fear and discomfort of extended hospital stays with that child. We both felt compelled to write about it eventually.

It's amazing that we still managed to miss the boat connecting on a deeper level. Or maybe we did, but neither of us knew how to manifest that connection in our daily lives.

Daniel's prayer request post on Facebook reminded me that I was going to publish my mom's story that she wrote and submitted to Guideposts Magazine back in 1979. Although, it was rejected and went unpublished into a home file, I feel like her intent was to put her story out there. So I'd like to fulfill that intent for her.

Born To Be With You: A Eulogy For My Wife by Lyndell Scott

Our marriage was so improbable that God had to engineer circumstances to get a beauty queen together with a shy introverted nerd who drove a pickup with a camper on the back. That is a story for another time, and I don’t have time to tell now. Let’s just say it had its share of twists and turns.

She told me her family at first questioned her choice as she could have chosen from a number of suitors. However, it wasn’t long before I was fully accepted, and I think they came to agree with her choice.

She used to say she chose me because I already owned a home. Never knew if she was serious or not. BTW, that camper came in handy on our honeymoon.

When I said beauty queen, I literally mean it, as she was the reigning Miss Irving and had already competed in the Miss Texas pageant when I met her. The portrait of her you see on display was her official Miss Irving photo taken in 1969. The portrait was used as promotional by the photography studio and was sent to us out of the blue in 1977.

I have to admit that being a guy, I was first attracted to her by her physical beauty, but I soon learned she had inward beauty that matched her outward beauty as she loved Lord with all her heart.

It is no secret that Barbara suffered with episodes of depression before and after our marriage. However, she was able to overcome each episode and live a full and rich life except for this last episode. It lasted for several years that many of you were witnesses to which finally ended with her passing.

She was able to serve the Lord despite her on and off struggles with depression throughout her life. Remember, Elijah struggled with depression, but there was no doubt he loved the Lord and continued to serve Him. Charles Haddon Spurgeon had severe bouts of depression, but he is recognized as one of the greatest preachers of all time. Ron Dunn, who was our pastor in Texas and officiated our wedding, experienced severe depression, yet was still used of God as he was one of the greatest expository Bible teachers of our time. He wrote a book called “When Heaven is Silent” where he tells the story of his experience with depression. Barbara and I found it helpful, as did Daniel recently. If you are struggling with depression or have family members struggling, I recommend this book.

We had a good life together and were able to raise two wonderful children. Barbara was a stay at home mom so most of the credit from a human perspective for how our kids turned out goes to her as you are witnesses to. She taught and trained them well.

I could talk about Barbara’s various ministries, but you can read about those in the excellent obituary Rachel wrote. What I want to talk about is more personal. And that is how fully committed Barbara was to our marriage and to me. She lived out the biblical imperative that wives were to lovingly submit to and respect their husbands. It is only now that I have fully come to realize how well she did that.

This included changes in our finances, several moves, changing churches, and her being totally faithful to me. There is a popular country and western song titled “Stand by your Man”. The lyrics may not fit, but the title certainly does.

I was making good money when I was downsized by the company I worked for. I decided to start a business from scratch which required us moving from her dream home to the country with enough land for a workshop and having our income cut by 2/3rds. Throughout that process, she never complained nor berated me and continued to be very supportive and encouraging.

That also meant she had less contact with her friends, so she had to make new friends at our new church home. Again, she did not complain.

She would accompany me to antique stores, auctions and flea markets. I would look for furniture pieces I could restore and sell, and she would look for vintage glassware and figurines she could sell. We made a good partnership during that time.

A few years later when I decided we should change churches to a church that was located in another town, she was very supportive even though it meant giving up the ministries she was involved in at our former church.

When I became physically ill in 2001, and the doctors could not diagnose my problem, she was a tower of strength. She eventually had to do everything for me as I became worse and could do nothing for myself except lay on the sofa. She saved my life by forcing me to go to the hospital when I was within days of not making it. That’s when they finally diagnosed my problem. Our doctor confirmed how serious it was by immediately having me transported to Baylor Hospital in Dallas. You can see why it was easy and a privilege for me to be her full time caregiver during the final months of her life. She had already set the standard.

She was fully supportive when we decided to move to Arizona away from much of her family and friends. OK, this time she also had something to gain by being close to her grand kids. Again, she was a tower of strength through the drama of selling our house and buying one in Arizona. Stuff happened that caused a lot of stress on my part such that I became physically ill. She had much more faith that things would work out than I did, which they did and even better than we expected.

And finally, I would like to briefly mention her faithfulness to me and the Lord. Because she was physically attractive, she attracted a lot of male attention at parties and get togethers. Yet, I never felt any jealousy as I knew she was totally faithful and committed to me and the Lord. I guess I got a perverse enjoyment out of knowing the nerd would get to take home the beauty queen. This truth is expressed in another country/western song titled “She’s Going Home with Me”. Not all the lyrics fit, but much of them do. The song ends with these lines:

I don't have to get jealous
Just wait around and see
She made her choice, forget it boys
She's going home with me.

I would like to end with reading the lyrics of a song that expresses how I felt about Barbara. When I acquired radios and radio phonographs to restore and sell, they sometimes included record albums. One such album was by Sonny James which had a song titled “Born to be With You”. I shared it with Barbara and told her, “this is how I feel about you”. You can hear it by searching “Born to be With You” on YouTube. There are several renditions, but I much prefer the one done by Sonny James. Here are the lyrics to that song:

"Born to be With You” by Don Robertson 

By your side, satisfied
Through and through
Cause I was born to be with you 

Wondrously, love can see
So I knew that I was
Born to be with you 

Do I find peace of mind
Yes, I do, cause I was
Born to be with you 

All life through, yes
I was born to be with you

Thank You

-Lyndell Scott

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Dad gave me permission to post the eulogy he wrote and read at mom's memorial service. I asked to share because it gives a broader perspective of who she was and the impressions she left behind besides just what I experienced as a daughter. I love how my dad remembers her. I love that it is reminding me to see her and remember her the way he saw her. ❤️

At the beginning of this year, mom was hospitalized on the psych floor for not eating. She stayed a month. Dad visited her almost every day there. The hospital finally ended up discharging her and docs said there was nothing more they could do especially since she had directives for no feeding tubes, etc. They told us all we could do is take her home or put her in a group home, and that she would need 24 hour care. Dad considered a group home, but he decided against it bc he couldn’t abandon her to strangers. He felt mom would prefer to be home. And he wanted her to be home.

He proceeded to cancel all of his woodworking projects and church commitments so he would be available to her 24 hours a day. The only time he left home for the most part was to get groceries or run an errand, and only when Daniel or I was available to come sit with her during those hours.

A Hero's Tale by Michael P. HagEstad

A Hero’s Tale

Before I lay my head to sleep
Before I pray my soul to keep
     Tell me a Hero’s Tale

Tell me a story I may recall well
So I may my grandchildren tell
Speak of a man daring and true
Doing great deeds for me and you
Who does not need great powers or luck
Who relies on his skill in the times he is stuck
Sing of a warrior who lives by his creed
Who has great honor and takes care of his steed
Hold him up for the generations to see
How they should live and what they should be
Do this now as the sun sets low
As the campfire crackles and the embers glow
The time for heroes may have come and gone
But there is time yet for a ballad or song

     So tell me a Hero’s Tale
For this time is brief and we must regale
Our values and virtues through a Hero’s Tale


-Michael Patrick HagEstad

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Three days after Michael left for his second semester as a freshman college student, I found this hand written poem on a piece of yellow tablet paper sitting on top of papers that were scattered on our work desk, no heads up, no "hey, I wrote something, did you read it?" 

So after I noticed it, I asked him when he wrote it, and he said he couldn't sleep the night before leaving, and since he'd been mulling these words around for a while, he decided at 3:00 am to just write them down. So of course, I asked him if I can publish it on my blog, and he, of course, says "do what you have to do, mom".