Friendship is a treasure in most circumstances. Some friendships are draining; some friends always seem to take more than they give. But true mutual friendships are rare and valuable. Such is the one I share with this certain friend.
Sunday night I stayed at the hospital with my friend who is dying of cancer—ovarian, now liver, lungs, and who knows where else it has spread. Her body has changed immensely from when I first knew her thirty years ago, and her left leg is swollen to three times the size of mine. (And mine aren’t skinny!)
But, as usual, I left refreshed and encouraged because of spending time with her. We talked about important things; we shared trivial stories. All work together to form the patchwork of our special relationship.
We prayed together at “lights out.” We prayed together again before I left. It’s almost redundant, for I "pray without ceasing" for her—for a miraculous healing, but especially for comfort from pain and a peaceful spirit. True to form, after I prayed for her, she prayed for me in precious detail.
She knows God is in control, but she also is pragmatic enough to know that people have free will and God will let them mess up their lives if they choose. She worries about her family and what will happen to them when she is gone. Her concerns are valid; I cannot conscientiously dismiss them. Instead, I ask how I can help them after she is gone. She doesn’t know, but she’s thinking about it.
Her continued mental sharpness is amazing. She knows all her doctors, their specialties, their idiosyncrasies. She had some red spots on her shoulder and diagnosed it herself to the nurse, who agreed. When the doctor said it was probably that (of course I don’t recall the word), the nurse told him that my friend had diagnosed it immediately. The knowledge comes from fighting cancer and dealing with doctors for eleven years; the remembering it surely is a gift from God.
During the eleven years, her husband has had open heart surgery and knee replacement, among other illnesses, so their finances are depleted and beyond depleted. Friends have rallied to their cause, and I could assure her that we’ve collected the thousands needed for her funeral.
When I told other friends that we’ve reached our goal, they immediately said that they still wanted to contribute because her husband can surely use any surplus when she’s gone. When I told her that people were still wanting to give beyond what was needed, she immediately said, “Oh, getting more would be great, because there might be someone else who needs the money.” So typical that she’s always thinking of others and how she can ease their lives.
She told me about shopping for my birthday gift six weeks ago. She shared funny stories about her mother, also a beloved friend, who died six years ago. We talked about everything from getting rid of mattresses to grandchildren. I got the information to use for her obituary. There were no holds barred in our conversations.
We don’t know if she has hours, days, or weeks. I did note that she needs her pain meds long before time for the next dose. All I can do is keeping seeing her as often as possible and thinking of things to make her laugh. Laughter is one of God’s great gifts that she still enjoys to the fullest, so I’ll try to keep that in good supply.
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Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Does My Life Show My Values?
Today I added a funeral to my full calendar—the funeral of someone I never met. But he was my friend Dee’s father, and I wanted to see her and to pay my respects.
Bill Saelinger, age 90, had ten children who surrounded his casket at the beginning of the mass. His wife of 65 years was there, with 30 grandchildren and 20 greats. The tributes given to him were impressive. Because he had to leave school after only eight years in order to work on the family farm, he stressed to his children the value of education and thus fathered a doctor, a lawyer, a pharmacist, a physical therapist, and several registered nurses.
This is impressive to me because I’ve always taken education for granted. My father and his siblings and five of my mother’s siblings had college degrees, some advanced. We were a family of teachers, not from pressure but by choice.
My mother taught grade school with only a high school diploma. It was not the traditional “one-room schoolhouse,” but instead was a more “modern” version, having three classrooms plus a lunchroom. Of course the lunchroom was merely a room with tables where students could go to eat the lunches they’d brought from home. This was in the 1940s, and the superintendent felt she knew enough to teach the children math and how to read and write.
In 1984, my father’s Tuesday funeral was attended by high school students who had been in his biology and chemistry classes the previous Friday. Last year, my daughter taught her ESL high school classes on Tuesday and had a baby Wednesday morning. I taught elementary school 34 years; my husband is retiring after 42 years of college teaching. Our son is a college professor; his wife teaches elementary school. We don’t talk about how we value education; it’s just the way we live.
A generation that didn’t have an education values it and passes that value on to their children. The dedication to education may lessen through the years as each generation gets accustomed to the privileges of education. They are still educated, but they don’t talk about it. And we can look around at later generations who decry the need for a college degree.
I see the same effect with Christian families. When people who were not reared with Christ as the center of the home find Jesus, they are on fire for the Lord and work diligently to keep their children strong and faithful. But through the generations, some of that energy and enthusiasm wanes as the Christian life may appear to be simply a routine to go through. Children don’t always have the commitment to Christ and the Bible that their parents or grandparents had. Perhaps the older generation doesn’t talk about it enough; we just live it and hope the younger generation catches on.
Just as Bill Saelinger talked about the importance of an education, we need to talk to our children, both young and adult, about our commitment and why Jesus is important to us. Perhaps our parental theme verses should be Deuteronomy 6:6-7: “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”
From personal experience I’d add, “And as you ride in the car,” for those are times when parents and children often have the most significant conversations.
What do we talk about to our children? If your child or grandchild were asked what is most important in life to you, what would the answer be?
Bill Saelinger, age 90, had ten children who surrounded his casket at the beginning of the mass. His wife of 65 years was there, with 30 grandchildren and 20 greats. The tributes given to him were impressive. Because he had to leave school after only eight years in order to work on the family farm, he stressed to his children the value of education and thus fathered a doctor, a lawyer, a pharmacist, a physical therapist, and several registered nurses.
This is impressive to me because I’ve always taken education for granted. My father and his siblings and five of my mother’s siblings had college degrees, some advanced. We were a family of teachers, not from pressure but by choice.
My mother taught grade school with only a high school diploma. It was not the traditional “one-room schoolhouse,” but instead was a more “modern” version, having three classrooms plus a lunchroom. Of course the lunchroom was merely a room with tables where students could go to eat the lunches they’d brought from home. This was in the 1940s, and the superintendent felt she knew enough to teach the children math and how to read and write.
In 1984, my father’s Tuesday funeral was attended by high school students who had been in his biology and chemistry classes the previous Friday. Last year, my daughter taught her ESL high school classes on Tuesday and had a baby Wednesday morning. I taught elementary school 34 years; my husband is retiring after 42 years of college teaching. Our son is a college professor; his wife teaches elementary school. We don’t talk about how we value education; it’s just the way we live.
A generation that didn’t have an education values it and passes that value on to their children. The dedication to education may lessen through the years as each generation gets accustomed to the privileges of education. They are still educated, but they don’t talk about it. And we can look around at later generations who decry the need for a college degree.
I see the same effect with Christian families. When people who were not reared with Christ as the center of the home find Jesus, they are on fire for the Lord and work diligently to keep their children strong and faithful. But through the generations, some of that energy and enthusiasm wanes as the Christian life may appear to be simply a routine to go through. Children don’t always have the commitment to Christ and the Bible that their parents or grandparents had. Perhaps the older generation doesn’t talk about it enough; we just live it and hope the younger generation catches on.
Just as Bill Saelinger talked about the importance of an education, we need to talk to our children, both young and adult, about our commitment and why Jesus is important to us. Perhaps our parental theme verses should be Deuteronomy 6:6-7: “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”
From personal experience I’d add, “And as you ride in the car,” for those are times when parents and children often have the most significant conversations.
What do we talk about to our children? If your child or grandchild were asked what is most important in life to you, what would the answer be?
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
God's Mysterious Ways
Another friend is dying. I remember my dad telling me, “It seems like everyone I love is dying,” and he was younger than I am now. Linda is only 56 and that is too young. Her children and grandchildren still need her.
I first knew Linda as a relatively new mother, struggling to get two toddlers to church. At that time she had no spiritual support from her husband. Her mother was a gem, a true saint of our congregation, who died only five years ago. Linda’s father lived a couple more years, and it seems highly unfair that this daughter who cared for them so sweetly would not live at least as long as they did. But we all know life is not fair--nor is death.
Daryl, her husband, for many years has been her faithful companion—helping, listening, interpreting, running interference, giving moral and spiritual support. He isn’t in good health, either, having had open heart surgery and knee replacement during the eleven years Linda has fought ovarian cancer.
In 1998, Linda wrote in a journal passed among our sisters, “If anyone would have told me eight weeks ago what I would be doing tonight, I might have been as doubtful as Abraham’s Sarah. I probably would have laughed! When I finish this journal entry and my tea, I will be having a Bible study for the first time with my best friend and husband, and he suggested it! God really does work in mysterious ways!”
Linda called yesterday morning from her hospital room in tears over a doctor’s words. This woman reprimanded Linda for requesting blood transfusions and physical therapy, saying that Linda needed to decide if she wanted to waste time and resources in the hospital or go home to be with her family for her last days. She is not one of Linda’s regular doctors and obviously doesn’t know what a fighter Linda is. Then she offered to pray with Linda, and Linda thought things were looking up. But the woman addressed her prayer to Allah, and Linda, who has had many challenges with a Muslim son-in-law, was appalled.
Eleven years of doctors and chemo and complications have depleted their meager funds, but Christian friends have filled the gap. This time the contributions are for her “end of earthly life” arrangements, and she is immeasurably relieved that Daryl won’t have that burden. Friends from nearby to hundreds of miles away responded generously when they knew of the need.
More and more, I see that there is no discounting the power of prayer and Linda's determination. Another doctor later yesterday said Linda might still have months. Linda asked me, "Where is that luncheon on April 30?"
I had feared Linda had a reservation elsewhere, but perhaps not. I think I'd better get in those luncheon reservations.
I first knew Linda as a relatively new mother, struggling to get two toddlers to church. At that time she had no spiritual support from her husband. Her mother was a gem, a true saint of our congregation, who died only five years ago. Linda’s father lived a couple more years, and it seems highly unfair that this daughter who cared for them so sweetly would not live at least as long as they did. But we all know life is not fair--nor is death.
Daryl, her husband, for many years has been her faithful companion—helping, listening, interpreting, running interference, giving moral and spiritual support. He isn’t in good health, either, having had open heart surgery and knee replacement during the eleven years Linda has fought ovarian cancer.
In 1998, Linda wrote in a journal passed among our sisters, “If anyone would have told me eight weeks ago what I would be doing tonight, I might have been as doubtful as Abraham’s Sarah. I probably would have laughed! When I finish this journal entry and my tea, I will be having a Bible study for the first time with my best friend and husband, and he suggested it! God really does work in mysterious ways!”
Linda called yesterday morning from her hospital room in tears over a doctor’s words. This woman reprimanded Linda for requesting blood transfusions and physical therapy, saying that Linda needed to decide if she wanted to waste time and resources in the hospital or go home to be with her family for her last days. She is not one of Linda’s regular doctors and obviously doesn’t know what a fighter Linda is. Then she offered to pray with Linda, and Linda thought things were looking up. But the woman addressed her prayer to Allah, and Linda, who has had many challenges with a Muslim son-in-law, was appalled.
Eleven years of doctors and chemo and complications have depleted their meager funds, but Christian friends have filled the gap. This time the contributions are for her “end of earthly life” arrangements, and she is immeasurably relieved that Daryl won’t have that burden. Friends from nearby to hundreds of miles away responded generously when they knew of the need.
More and more, I see that there is no discounting the power of prayer and Linda's determination. Another doctor later yesterday said Linda might still have months. Linda asked me, "Where is that luncheon on April 30?"
I had feared Linda had a reservation elsewhere, but perhaps not. I think I'd better get in those luncheon reservations.
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Best-Laid Plans
Days simply do not always follow the plan I have in mind. I’m sure others have noticed the same problem.
My day was set: Zumba class at 9:30, facial at 10:30, write the rest of the day. But my daughter got conjunctivitis and needed to be driven to the doctor, along with baby Finn because his dad had a job interview—nothing to be trifled with.
Fortunately, her appointment was at 9, and even with stopping to pick up her prescription, I left her house at 10:05 and decided to go straight to my 10:30 appointment. I felt sure Elaine wouldn’t mind taking me early.
But, strangely enough, as I got to the street leading to my house, en route to Elaine’s, my car suddenly seemed to get a mind of its own and swerved in, heading for home. At first I was so aggravated, fuming to myself over the extra minutes it would take. And what could I do at home for 10 minutes? Nothing productive, I thought.
And then it hit me. Perhaps I was supposed to go home for a specific reason. I became excited with the anticipation of what I’d find at home.
Sure enough, there were three urgent calls. Two were for Steve—the car repair person and the president of a board he’s on. The other was my friend Linda, who could hardly talk for weeping, but making clear that she wanted to talk to me.
Hurriedly I jotted down the numbers Steve needed to call, checked to be sure I had Linda’s hospital phone number, and left. I was a bit stunned at finding three messages that all ended with, “…so if you can call me as soon as possible….”
In the car, I called Linda and learned of the thoughtless doctor who had upset her. At Elaine’s, I called Steve to leave a message and, almost miraculously to me, he was between classes and actually answered his phone!
After my facial, though not looking my best, I suppressed my pride and headed for the hospital to visit Linda. She had settled down somewhat, but still struggled—with pain, with alarm at the doctor’s harsh judgment, with concern that the doctor had said to her, “You are not the only one suffering through this. Your family and friends are, too.”
Linda said to me, “No! No one else is suffering for me. I have it all. How could she say that?”
I said, “Perhaps she means that your family is suffering at the thought of what they’ll do without you. That’s a different kind of suffering.” She hesitantly agreed.
Already there with Linda was our close friend Marcia. Marcia and I got to chat as the nurses worked with Linda, finally getting her into a chair for a while.
We eventually had a few minutes to talk, and I gave Linda a list of friends from out of town who had sent money to help with her “end of earthly life” expenses. She was overwhelmed at the names of people who long ago had left our congregation to move across the country or just to attend elsewhere. She’d touched all those lives and had no idea how much.
As one friend wrote to me, “She will never know (until she gets to heaven) how she has impacted so many families and lives. Here she is battling for her life and Dale and I get a card in the mail from her welcoming us to our new home last week. Always putting others in front of herself. What a testimony/example!”
So now I review the day and how it turned out. I got to help my precious daughter, to spend one-on-one time with grandson Finn, help Steve get his car fixed sooner, visit with friend Marcia, encourage Linda’s husband Daryl, and spend time with my dear Linda. All great and positive experiences—so it’s a good thing God planned my day and not me!
My day was set: Zumba class at 9:30, facial at 10:30, write the rest of the day. But my daughter got conjunctivitis and needed to be driven to the doctor, along with baby Finn because his dad had a job interview—nothing to be trifled with.
Fortunately, her appointment was at 9, and even with stopping to pick up her prescription, I left her house at 10:05 and decided to go straight to my 10:30 appointment. I felt sure Elaine wouldn’t mind taking me early.
But, strangely enough, as I got to the street leading to my house, en route to Elaine’s, my car suddenly seemed to get a mind of its own and swerved in, heading for home. At first I was so aggravated, fuming to myself over the extra minutes it would take. And what could I do at home for 10 minutes? Nothing productive, I thought.
And then it hit me. Perhaps I was supposed to go home for a specific reason. I became excited with the anticipation of what I’d find at home.
Sure enough, there were three urgent calls. Two were for Steve—the car repair person and the president of a board he’s on. The other was my friend Linda, who could hardly talk for weeping, but making clear that she wanted to talk to me.
Hurriedly I jotted down the numbers Steve needed to call, checked to be sure I had Linda’s hospital phone number, and left. I was a bit stunned at finding three messages that all ended with, “…so if you can call me as soon as possible….”
In the car, I called Linda and learned of the thoughtless doctor who had upset her. At Elaine’s, I called Steve to leave a message and, almost miraculously to me, he was between classes and actually answered his phone!
After my facial, though not looking my best, I suppressed my pride and headed for the hospital to visit Linda. She had settled down somewhat, but still struggled—with pain, with alarm at the doctor’s harsh judgment, with concern that the doctor had said to her, “You are not the only one suffering through this. Your family and friends are, too.”
Linda said to me, “No! No one else is suffering for me. I have it all. How could she say that?”
I said, “Perhaps she means that your family is suffering at the thought of what they’ll do without you. That’s a different kind of suffering.” She hesitantly agreed.
Already there with Linda was our close friend Marcia. Marcia and I got to chat as the nurses worked with Linda, finally getting her into a chair for a while.
We eventually had a few minutes to talk, and I gave Linda a list of friends from out of town who had sent money to help with her “end of earthly life” expenses. She was overwhelmed at the names of people who long ago had left our congregation to move across the country or just to attend elsewhere. She’d touched all those lives and had no idea how much.
As one friend wrote to me, “She will never know (until she gets to heaven) how she has impacted so many families and lives. Here she is battling for her life and Dale and I get a card in the mail from her welcoming us to our new home last week. Always putting others in front of herself. What a testimony/example!”
So now I review the day and how it turned out. I got to help my precious daughter, to spend one-on-one time with grandson Finn, help Steve get his car fixed sooner, visit with friend Marcia, encourage Linda’s husband Daryl, and spend time with my dear Linda. All great and positive experiences—so it’s a good thing God planned my day and not me!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Three Days in March
I am rarely around children for extended periods of time, especially without other adults present. But in the last two weeks, I spent three days with three different children.
First was Knox, age 4 years + 6 months, at his house. He is all boy—playing with cars and transformers, bouncing around on the jungle gym, wanting to ride his Big Wheel but legs not quite long enough to reach. A nap is not a consideration. We talk about his preschool. He loves to sound out simple words and to recite his newest Bible verse from the prophets. (If you haven't seen his video, do click here.) We read lots of books. Precious little boy.
Second was Victoria, age 4 months, at my house. She smiled a lot, cried only when hungry, and took a 3½ hour nap. I even took her with me to meet with my little in the Big Brothers, Big Sisters after-school program and to Kroger and she was well-behaved.
Precious baby girl.
Today is Brianna, age 3 years + 9 months, at my house. She’s all about the dolls left from 25 years ago, distressed at the missing arm of one, delicately dressing another. She delights in showing me how strong she is, taking the toys upstairs, and how smart she is, for she excels in counting and her ABCs. We talk about her preschool. We read lots of books and she loves the play jewelry box.
She is entranced by the little drawer in our kitchen table where we keep napkins, and goes through several, requiring additional withdrawals from the drawer. Loves watching our squirrels. Takes an hour nap. She said, "Since you are Finn's grandma, you could be my grandma, too." Absolutely! Precious little girl.
These experiences have helped me in various ways—to remember how time-consuming children can be for their parents, to see how children have a different view of things, to see how little effort it takes to bring a smile to a child’s face, and to recognize my own joy in the interactions.
I pray that God will give me opportunities to serve him through serving others, so I grudgingly take these opportunities as they arise. Then I am blessed by the giving far more than I bless.
But I do need to make clear that once every three or four months is all I’m available!
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
"Have you been to the new Target?"
“Have you been to the new Target?” seems to be the conversation-starter of the month. Our location in Campbell County, Kentucky, just across the river from downtown Cincinnati has always been an ideal location for access to downtown plays and athletic events. We, however, have always had to go several miles to big-box stores of any kind. With a population of 87,000, it’s surprising that stores have been more likely to close here than to open.
So I hear people talking about going to the new Target, which is only five minutes from our house at our usual interstate access point. The buzz about that exit started a little over a year ago when a super-Kroger opened there. The only thing that will exceed the excitement over these two will be if the Kroger gas station ever opens. That will truly transport us all to bliss.
So why does everyone get so excited about store openings? Novelty, of course, but also convenience. We get something we need. We all are so rushed about everything, always behind, never catching up on all we have to do. So saving time—and now, gas money—is appealing.
I’m reminded of the conversation on the road to Emmaus, when Jesus joined Cleopas and his friend.
“Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?” Cleopas asked Jesus. Obviously Jesus was the novelty of the day, and his teaching as well as his crucifixion were paramount in people’s minds. So why else were people so interested in Jesus—and so disappointed at his death?
Because people got something they needed. They needed hope. They needed the assurance of life eternally. They needed to be involved in something greater than themselves, and Jesus met that need.
And just as the disciples on the road to Emmaus did not at first recognize Jesus, we often do not initially recognize what we really need. We have the same needs today as those who were contemporaries of Jesus.
We need hope. We need the assurance that this is not all there is. We need to be involved in something greater than ourselves and our own limited interests.
Jesus finally revealed himself to the two disciples, and it’s time we reveal ourselves to our friends and family who do not know Jesus. More and more, I realize that others do not feel the peace and contentment that comes with knowing Jesus. I want to share “the joy of my salvation,” as David referred to it in Psalm 51. If you don’t know Jesus, Psalm 51 is a good prayer to start with.
As I consider my friends and acquaintances, I see certain people that I would approach to know more about Jesus if I were becoming interested in following him. Some that are regular church attenders would not necessarily be chosen, but those who glow with the love of Jesus and the joy of serving others stand out in my mind. So I want to live my life so that I am that person to others.
What question can I ask that will be as engaging as the one about Target, but that will get to the heart of knowing Jesus? I welcome your ideas.
So I hear people talking about going to the new Target, which is only five minutes from our house at our usual interstate access point. The buzz about that exit started a little over a year ago when a super-Kroger opened there. The only thing that will exceed the excitement over these two will be if the Kroger gas station ever opens. That will truly transport us all to bliss.
So why does everyone get so excited about store openings? Novelty, of course, but also convenience. We get something we need. We all are so rushed about everything, always behind, never catching up on all we have to do. So saving time—and now, gas money—is appealing.
I’m reminded of the conversation on the road to Emmaus, when Jesus joined Cleopas and his friend.
“Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?” Cleopas asked Jesus. Obviously Jesus was the novelty of the day, and his teaching as well as his crucifixion were paramount in people’s minds. So why else were people so interested in Jesus—and so disappointed at his death?
Because people got something they needed. They needed hope. They needed the assurance of life eternally. They needed to be involved in something greater than themselves, and Jesus met that need.
And just as the disciples on the road to Emmaus did not at first recognize Jesus, we often do not initially recognize what we really need. We have the same needs today as those who were contemporaries of Jesus.
We need hope. We need the assurance that this is not all there is. We need to be involved in something greater than ourselves and our own limited interests.
Jesus finally revealed himself to the two disciples, and it’s time we reveal ourselves to our friends and family who do not know Jesus. More and more, I realize that others do not feel the peace and contentment that comes with knowing Jesus. I want to share “the joy of my salvation,” as David referred to it in Psalm 51. If you don’t know Jesus, Psalm 51 is a good prayer to start with.
As I consider my friends and acquaintances, I see certain people that I would approach to know more about Jesus if I were becoming interested in following him. Some that are regular church attenders would not necessarily be chosen, but those who glow with the love of Jesus and the joy of serving others stand out in my mind. So I want to live my life so that I am that person to others.
What question can I ask that will be as engaging as the one about Target, but that will get to the heart of knowing Jesus? I welcome your ideas.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Aging Gracefully
The Ides of March! Unlike their foreboding implication, I welcome March 15 each year, because I know that spring is not far away. In spite of the present grayness and gloom, I know that sunny days are ahead.
The seasons are so unlike life. We always know it won’t be long until green newness arrives everywhere. But life isn’t like that. When we feel gray and old, we look forward only to getting older. Lately I’ve been thinking of the phrase “growing old gracefully.” On one hand, I’d like to be put in that category; on the other hand, I prefer to age kicking and screaming against the injustice of it all as I slowly lose abilities I always took for granted, such as a good memory.
I find myself analyzing people’s wrinkles—does she have more or fewer than I do? Which of us looks older? I wonder if she’s using face cream or if she’s just letting it go. Such pondering reminds me of a couple of conversations I had with my mother who still had lovely skin at age 85.
I stood by her bed, holding her hand as we waited for her to be picked up for surgery.
“Your skin feels so dry,” I said. “Do you want me to rub your face with my face cream?”
“Oh, yes! Please do,” she said.
As I gently stroked her face, I thought of the instructions she’d given me since I was a teenager about how to apply face cream. That’s beside the point now, I thought, but I was wrong.
She said, “Now be sure to rub in upward motions. An Elizabeth Arden clerk told me long ago to rub upward when applying face cream in order to avoid wrinkles.”
I looked at her in amazement that it would still matter to her at this point--and that she thought she was telling me something I didn't know. Smiling, I said, “Well, it’s obviously worked for you. Your skin is beautiful.” And it was. Though she was 22 when I was born, we had about the same amount of wrinkles.
She survived that surgery and months later was still in rehab. The bright sun came through the window and shone directly on me as I stood by her bed.
Peering at me, she said, “Honey, you need to use some cream on your face. You’ve got lots of wrinkles.”
Thanks, Mother! I thought.
But I said, “Oh, I do, Mother. But unfortunately I inherited the Bradley skin instead of your beautiful smooth skin.” All true. In fact, following her earlier advice, I probably spend more a year on face creams than she has in a lifetime.
She lived Psalm 73: 25-26: “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. “
Did she age gracefully? I guess she did, for she maintained a lively spirit no matter what her physical condition. If that’s what’s meant by aging gracefully, I’m all for it. I don’t want to be seen as one who is getting older and not wiser or one that focuses on aging rather than on life.
Last week I heard a woman about my age say, “I don’t look in the mirror any more. I don’t want to focus on wrinkles; I’m too busy for that.” I like that and am inspired to have the same philosophy.
There’s a great post on the HOPE blog that has excellent points about aging. Thanks, Ingrid, for great insights.
What are your thoughts on getting older?
The seasons are so unlike life. We always know it won’t be long until green newness arrives everywhere. But life isn’t like that. When we feel gray and old, we look forward only to getting older. Lately I’ve been thinking of the phrase “growing old gracefully.” On one hand, I’d like to be put in that category; on the other hand, I prefer to age kicking and screaming against the injustice of it all as I slowly lose abilities I always took for granted, such as a good memory.
I find myself analyzing people’s wrinkles—does she have more or fewer than I do? Which of us looks older? I wonder if she’s using face cream or if she’s just letting it go. Such pondering reminds me of a couple of conversations I had with my mother who still had lovely skin at age 85.
I stood by her bed, holding her hand as we waited for her to be picked up for surgery.
“Your skin feels so dry,” I said. “Do you want me to rub your face with my face cream?”
“Oh, yes! Please do,” she said.
As I gently stroked her face, I thought of the instructions she’d given me since I was a teenager about how to apply face cream. That’s beside the point now, I thought, but I was wrong.
She said, “Now be sure to rub in upward motions. An Elizabeth Arden clerk told me long ago to rub upward when applying face cream in order to avoid wrinkles.”
I looked at her in amazement that it would still matter to her at this point--and that she thought she was telling me something I didn't know. Smiling, I said, “Well, it’s obviously worked for you. Your skin is beautiful.” And it was. Though she was 22 when I was born, we had about the same amount of wrinkles.
She survived that surgery and months later was still in rehab. The bright sun came through the window and shone directly on me as I stood by her bed.
Peering at me, she said, “Honey, you need to use some cream on your face. You’ve got lots of wrinkles.”
Thanks, Mother! I thought.
But I said, “Oh, I do, Mother. But unfortunately I inherited the Bradley skin instead of your beautiful smooth skin.” All true. In fact, following her earlier advice, I probably spend more a year on face creams than she has in a lifetime.
She lived Psalm 73: 25-26: “Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. “
Did she age gracefully? I guess she did, for she maintained a lively spirit no matter what her physical condition. If that’s what’s meant by aging gracefully, I’m all for it. I don’t want to be seen as one who is getting older and not wiser or one that focuses on aging rather than on life.
Last week I heard a woman about my age say, “I don’t look in the mirror any more. I don’t want to focus on wrinkles; I’m too busy for that.” I like that and am inspired to have the same philosophy.
There’s a great post on the HOPE blog that has excellent points about aging. Thanks, Ingrid, for great insights.
What are your thoughts on getting older?
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Goldilocks Finds "Just Right"
I’ve walked for exercise for years, getting up early enough to walk before going to school each day. I enjoyed the solitude for my prayer time whether outside (preferrably) or on our treadmill (grudgingly).
When I took early retirement from teaching (notice I was not retirement age when I quit!), I started Pilates classes and loved it. The classes were 75 minutes long, twice a week, at 8:30, and gave a great start to my day. After about a year, the place closed for remodeling.
For a while, I used Pilates tapes, but that is not the same! No instructor to say, “Raise those hips higher!” or “Tighten those abs every time you breathe in or out!” Then when the exercise center reopened, the classes changed to once a week and a time that wasn’t convenient for my schedule.
Back to the Pilates tapes and DVDs, but not the same. I’d alternate Pilates and walking outside in good weather and the treadmill in bad.
My rheumatologist said I should be walking in water rather than on land—that it would pay off for my joints down the road. (But what road?) For over a year, I went to the YMCA twice a week to walk in the pool. Hated it. But at least I could get in my prayer time that way. I canceled my membership when I left town for the summer. I decided that was a road I’d accept when I came to it.
Then a new Pilates place opened nearby. Fabulous! Caring, capable instructor, classes that fit my schedule. I was back in gear. Pilates twice a week and walking at least three other days.
Then last summer’s mission trip to Malaysia interrupted my Pilates schedule, and by the time I returned and contacted my great Pilates place, one class had been dropped and the other was full.
Yikes! So I signed up for Pilates classes in Cincinnati with a great Groupon offer. Went five times and felt inadequate four of them. The first time was a snowy day and I was the only person there. Great! Essentially a private lesson. But the other times I was surrounded by beautiful young bodies who could lift and balance and raise and lower in ways that I could only dream about. Oh, I could do what they did 7 or 8 times, but not 30 or 50! They were kind to me, but I felt so inept that I didn’t sign up for more classes.
Then I read in our local paper about Curves/Zumba classes. Maybe that’s my answer, I thought. So I took their free week and learned the machines at Curves. As I’d feared, I was surrounded by dear, white-haired ladies who were very encouraging and sweet and saying things like, “That thirty seconds on that machine is a long time!” I wasn’t sure I wanted to associate myself with that age group.
But finally came the Zumba classes, and I think I’ve found my niche. There isn’t a gray hair in the class except for the instructor’s ponytail, obviously premature. Now I must admit that I think it’s because most of us use a little L’Oreal or Clairol help not to be gray, but that’s part of the point: these are women who haven’t given in to aging in any way they can fight. These women move and stimulate me to do the same.
I love the energy required to keep up with the Zumba moves in between time on the Curves machines. I feel like Goldilocks—it’s not too hard, not too easy, but “just right.” Finally!
When I took early retirement from teaching (notice I was not retirement age when I quit!), I started Pilates classes and loved it. The classes were 75 minutes long, twice a week, at 8:30, and gave a great start to my day. After about a year, the place closed for remodeling.
For a while, I used Pilates tapes, but that is not the same! No instructor to say, “Raise those hips higher!” or “Tighten those abs every time you breathe in or out!” Then when the exercise center reopened, the classes changed to once a week and a time that wasn’t convenient for my schedule.
Back to the Pilates tapes and DVDs, but not the same. I’d alternate Pilates and walking outside in good weather and the treadmill in bad.
My rheumatologist said I should be walking in water rather than on land—that it would pay off for my joints down the road. (But what road?) For over a year, I went to the YMCA twice a week to walk in the pool. Hated it. But at least I could get in my prayer time that way. I canceled my membership when I left town for the summer. I decided that was a road I’d accept when I came to it.
Then a new Pilates place opened nearby. Fabulous! Caring, capable instructor, classes that fit my schedule. I was back in gear. Pilates twice a week and walking at least three other days.
Then last summer’s mission trip to Malaysia interrupted my Pilates schedule, and by the time I returned and contacted my great Pilates place, one class had been dropped and the other was full.
Yikes! So I signed up for Pilates classes in Cincinnati with a great Groupon offer. Went five times and felt inadequate four of them. The first time was a snowy day and I was the only person there. Great! Essentially a private lesson. But the other times I was surrounded by beautiful young bodies who could lift and balance and raise and lower in ways that I could only dream about. Oh, I could do what they did 7 or 8 times, but not 30 or 50! They were kind to me, but I felt so inept that I didn’t sign up for more classes.
Then I read in our local paper about Curves/Zumba classes. Maybe that’s my answer, I thought. So I took their free week and learned the machines at Curves. As I’d feared, I was surrounded by dear, white-haired ladies who were very encouraging and sweet and saying things like, “That thirty seconds on that machine is a long time!” I wasn’t sure I wanted to associate myself with that age group.
But finally came the Zumba classes, and I think I’ve found my niche. There isn’t a gray hair in the class except for the instructor’s ponytail, obviously premature. Now I must admit that I think it’s because most of us use a little L’Oreal or Clairol help not to be gray, but that’s part of the point: these are women who haven’t given in to aging in any way they can fight. These women move and stimulate me to do the same.
I love the energy required to keep up with the Zumba moves in between time on the Curves machines. I feel like Goldilocks—it’s not too hard, not too easy, but “just right.” Finally!
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Writing About My Mother
Mary Onezima Ralph Bradley, my mother, was the quintessential hostess, graciously feeding groups from class reunions to business meetings to elderly illiterate cousins and lonely parolees. She didn’t just feed them, but incorporated their problems as her own. She was the Southern version of The Matchmaker, but she matched jobs to the jobless, income sources to the penniless, living water to the spiritually dry. Her home was a haven for the downtrodden, some for hours, others for years.
She was a woman of passion. She was passionate about everything that really counts—her faith, her husband, her children and later their families, her extended family of eight siblings, dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and her friends. She was passionate about education and constantly demonstrated the term “life-long learner.”
But she was passionate about trivia as well: setting the table, adding ingredients to a recipe in the correct order, addressing an envelope, weeding the garden, answering the phone, moving a chair from one place to another, placing a book on the coffee table. All were fodder for her particular passionate perspective.
Above all, she was passionate about Jesus Christ.
But she was also a human being and flawed. During the first 80 years of her life, she had a quick temper and a sharp tongue to go with it. Stories of her temperamental responses have become family legend, but she managed to live through them and grow by them. And her growth jump-started the development of the rest of us as well.
I have written a book telling of my mother’s exploits and how both she and we grew from them—socially, spiritually, emotionally. I continue to work on this book as events prompt additional memories. Each chapter ends with a recipe of one of her special food items that was mentioned in the chapter. Recipes include such Southern favorites as Fresh Coconut Cake, Fried Okra, Blackberry Cobbler, Pork Barbecue, and Fried Green Tomatoes. Can’t you feel your arteries clog, just reading the names of the foods she so beautifully prepared?
These days, a well-written book about an interesting person is not enough. Publishers want writers already to have a platform—meaning followers on a blog, speaking engagements, and other connections that will help to sell books. So before I can submit my book, I must work on my platform. Right now my platform is so small I must balance on one foot to stand on it.
People tell me they read my blog, but I need readers who will sign up on my blog as a follower. I need to speak to women’s groups or church groups or parent groups wherever they’ll have me. I’m working on updating my deplorably obsolete website.
My precious little Findlay is not even mentioned on it, and he’ll be a year old next month! Thus an excuse to post a picture of little Finn Byers with his doting cousin Knox. And to ask my readers to sign up as followers of my blog. Thanks, dear friends.
She was a woman of passion. She was passionate about everything that really counts—her faith, her husband, her children and later their families, her extended family of eight siblings, dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins, and her friends. She was passionate about education and constantly demonstrated the term “life-long learner.”
But she was passionate about trivia as well: setting the table, adding ingredients to a recipe in the correct order, addressing an envelope, weeding the garden, answering the phone, moving a chair from one place to another, placing a book on the coffee table. All were fodder for her particular passionate perspective.
Above all, she was passionate about Jesus Christ.
But she was also a human being and flawed. During the first 80 years of her life, she had a quick temper and a sharp tongue to go with it. Stories of her temperamental responses have become family legend, but she managed to live through them and grow by them. And her growth jump-started the development of the rest of us as well.
I have written a book telling of my mother’s exploits and how both she and we grew from them—socially, spiritually, emotionally. I continue to work on this book as events prompt additional memories. Each chapter ends with a recipe of one of her special food items that was mentioned in the chapter. Recipes include such Southern favorites as Fresh Coconut Cake, Fried Okra, Blackberry Cobbler, Pork Barbecue, and Fried Green Tomatoes. Can’t you feel your arteries clog, just reading the names of the foods she so beautifully prepared?
These days, a well-written book about an interesting person is not enough. Publishers want writers already to have a platform—meaning followers on a blog, speaking engagements, and other connections that will help to sell books. So before I can submit my book, I must work on my platform. Right now my platform is so small I must balance on one foot to stand on it.
People tell me they read my blog, but I need readers who will sign up on my blog as a follower. I need to speak to women’s groups or church groups or parent groups wherever they’ll have me. I’m working on updating my deplorably obsolete website.
My precious little Findlay is not even mentioned on it, and he’ll be a year old next month! Thus an excuse to post a picture of little Finn Byers with his doting cousin Knox. And to ask my readers to sign up as followers of my blog. Thanks, dear friends.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Ajalon Acres
In the summer of 1970, my parents and I walked their 50-acre farm, looking for a good building site for their dream house. We settled on building in a low-lying area rather than on a rise. They wanted cozy more than majestic, and it worked out well.
They finished building in the summer of 1972, the summer our first child, Joshua, was born. Mother had dithered quite a bit about a name for their place, and once she adjusted to Josh’s name (“Why would you give him an old man’s name?” was her quick response on hearing of the birth of her first grandchild), she knew what to name her home.
In Joshua 10, the story of Joshua’s commanding the sun to stand still so they could finish defeating the Amorites had always been one of Mother’s favorites. Mother’s paraphrase of her beloved King James Version sounded more like today’s NIV: “On the day the LORD gave the Amorites over to Israel, Joshua said to the LORD in the presence of Israel: ‘Sun, stand still over Gibeon, and you, moon, over the Valley of Ajalon.’ So the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, till the nation avenged itself on its enemies…. The sun stopped in the middle of the sky and delayed going down about a full day. There has never been a day like it before or since, a day when the LORD listened to a human being. Surely the LORD was fighting for Israel!”
So she named her home Ajalon Acres, and her father was quick to make the interpretation, in case anyone had missed it: “Since Joshua is her first grandchild, he will surely always be able to get his grandparents to stop whatever they are doing to accede to his wishes!”
So we were all grown and gone by then, but she constantly had new audiences, from relatives to paying B & B guests, to listen to the story of why her farm was named Ajalon Acres.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Reflections on Aunt Evelyne
OK. Enough about husbands.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my experiences with my Aunt Evelyne who died on February 1. She was an unusual person with an extremely strong personality. In retrospect, I see that in many ways she shaped my character.
My mother was the fourth child and Aunt Evelyne was the fifth of nine. I am very sad for her sisters, for I know they loved her and seemed to easily overlook her faults. They saw that her intentions were the best, no matter how people felt blasted by her strong personality and determined nature.
Frank Harmon came to preach at Old Beech Cumberland Presbyterian Church in 1943 and was sought by all the girls there as the most eligible bachelor around. Aunt Evelyne was the one he picked to marry, so he was a few years older than she.
My favorite Aunt Evelyne story took place during the Carter administration. She called Aunt Carleen around 2 am in high dudgeon. “I figured out the simplest way to balancing the budget and world peace, and I called the White House and they wouldn’t even let me speak to President Carter!” she complained. Aunt Carleen, ever the sane and level-headed oldest sister, was greatly irritated at being awakened for such an irrational tirade.
I visited her for a week every summer from the ages of 9 to 14. My parents would take me one way and I’d ride the Greyhound bus the other. Since Uncle Frank was a minister, they moved every few years. The first few years I visited her in Dyer, Tennessee; later I visited them in Cookeville, Tennessee.
She would plan special activities when I was there, such as picnics in the park or swimming somewhere—creek or public pool. Nothing was extravagant, for I’m sure they were on a tight budget, but the church manse was always nice and Aunt Evelyne had it well-furnished and decorated.
She treated me as one of her children, even to assigning me chores when I visited. I recall once when my dusting did not meet her expectations. She said, “Hasn’t your mother taught you how to dust?” I was very offended that she would blame my mother for my short-comings. I saw no reason to remove every object from a table in order to dust it, but for her I did. She made me responsible for her sons at times and I didn’t always meet her expectation. She’s the only person besides my parents who ever spanked me.
Sometimes we would go for rides and Uncle Frank would start as the driver. But she criticized his every move and speed, finally simply saying, “Just pull over, Frank. Just pull over and let me drive!” This happened so often that I wondered why she didn’t drive to start with.
She taught me how to sew. She bought me some green and white fabric for three yards for a dollar and a pattern. She supervised as I cut it out and stitched it on her machine. I was so proud of that dress! After that, I made many of my own clothes for years.
She had a reputation in the family for serving food in the smallest possible bowls. When we sat to eat at her table, serving bowls seemed actually to be cereal bowls but maybe they weren’t. Daddy always said he left her table hungry because there didn’t seem to be enough food to go around.
Her other memorable characteristic, also based on frugality, was the Christmas gifts she would give. My mother’s siblings and their spouses drew names each Christmas for next year’s gift to give. Then everyone lived in fear all year that Evelyne had drawn his or her name because Evelyne’s gifts were usually from some church bazaar or bargain basement. The one I recall the best was when she gave my dad two enormous paintings of “Blue Boy” and “Pinkie,” framed in gold and white papier-mâché. My mother insisted that they hang in our dining room for years, vowing that she treasured them because they were from Evelyne.
When one of her sisters and her husband invited her to their 50th wedding celebration, she refused to attend. “Why would anyone want to celebrate being married that long?” she asked. When she and Uncle Frank had been married 50 years, she forbade her children or siblings to honor it in any way.
At every age, she was still a force to be reckoned with. She told me once of going into the kitchen at her assisted living residence to show the cooks how to season their food correctly. Shortly after that I was given a change of address for her, and I wondered if there were a connection.
The last few years, she was in one assisted living home and Uncle Frank in another. She was going to remain married to him till death parted them, but they were parted quite a bit by living across town from each other.
She was buried in Dyer next to her stillborn baby girl. We were unable to go, but my cousin and brother gave me a complete report. The present Dyer preacher preached it, reading many of her favorite scriptures. Of course he didn’t know her. Everyone was very sad and told stories about how wonderful she was. As one of her sisters said, “Evelyne planned trips and made us go all kinds of places we’d never have been if not for her!” True—to visit distant cousins in Missouri or the covered bridges of Indiana, for example.
Uncle Frank did not go to her funeral. That’s understandable, I guess, since he’s 92 and it was 450 miles away. But I thought their children would not want him to preach her funeral, because he’d be sure to say, in his most sonorous tones, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” But not according to his children. In spite of everything, he maintained a strong love for her and is grieving her passing.
So I guess I got back to love and husbands after all.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my experiences with my Aunt Evelyne who died on February 1. She was an unusual person with an extremely strong personality. In retrospect, I see that in many ways she shaped my character.
My mother was the fourth child and Aunt Evelyne was the fifth of nine. I am very sad for her sisters, for I know they loved her and seemed to easily overlook her faults. They saw that her intentions were the best, no matter how people felt blasted by her strong personality and determined nature.
Frank Harmon came to preach at Old Beech Cumberland Presbyterian Church in 1943 and was sought by all the girls there as the most eligible bachelor around. Aunt Evelyne was the one he picked to marry, so he was a few years older than she.
My favorite Aunt Evelyne story took place during the Carter administration. She called Aunt Carleen around 2 am in high dudgeon. “I figured out the simplest way to balancing the budget and world peace, and I called the White House and they wouldn’t even let me speak to President Carter!” she complained. Aunt Carleen, ever the sane and level-headed oldest sister, was greatly irritated at being awakened for such an irrational tirade.
I visited her for a week every summer from the ages of 9 to 14. My parents would take me one way and I’d ride the Greyhound bus the other. Since Uncle Frank was a minister, they moved every few years. The first few years I visited her in Dyer, Tennessee; later I visited them in Cookeville, Tennessee.
She would plan special activities when I was there, such as picnics in the park or swimming somewhere—creek or public pool. Nothing was extravagant, for I’m sure they were on a tight budget, but the church manse was always nice and Aunt Evelyne had it well-furnished and decorated.
She treated me as one of her children, even to assigning me chores when I visited. I recall once when my dusting did not meet her expectations. She said, “Hasn’t your mother taught you how to dust?” I was very offended that she would blame my mother for my short-comings. I saw no reason to remove every object from a table in order to dust it, but for her I did. She made me responsible for her sons at times and I didn’t always meet her expectation. She’s the only person besides my parents who ever spanked me.
Sometimes we would go for rides and Uncle Frank would start as the driver. But she criticized his every move and speed, finally simply saying, “Just pull over, Frank. Just pull over and let me drive!” This happened so often that I wondered why she didn’t drive to start with.
She taught me how to sew. She bought me some green and white fabric for three yards for a dollar and a pattern. She supervised as I cut it out and stitched it on her machine. I was so proud of that dress! After that, I made many of my own clothes for years.
She had a reputation in the family for serving food in the smallest possible bowls. When we sat to eat at her table, serving bowls seemed actually to be cereal bowls but maybe they weren’t. Daddy always said he left her table hungry because there didn’t seem to be enough food to go around.
Her other memorable characteristic, also based on frugality, was the Christmas gifts she would give. My mother’s siblings and their spouses drew names each Christmas for next year’s gift to give. Then everyone lived in fear all year that Evelyne had drawn his or her name because Evelyne’s gifts were usually from some church bazaar or bargain basement. The one I recall the best was when she gave my dad two enormous paintings of “Blue Boy” and “Pinkie,” framed in gold and white papier-mâché. My mother insisted that they hang in our dining room for years, vowing that she treasured them because they were from Evelyne.
When one of her sisters and her husband invited her to their 50th wedding celebration, she refused to attend. “Why would anyone want to celebrate being married that long?” she asked. When she and Uncle Frank had been married 50 years, she forbade her children or siblings to honor it in any way.
At every age, she was still a force to be reckoned with. She told me once of going into the kitchen at her assisted living residence to show the cooks how to season their food correctly. Shortly after that I was given a change of address for her, and I wondered if there were a connection.
The last few years, she was in one assisted living home and Uncle Frank in another. She was going to remain married to him till death parted them, but they were parted quite a bit by living across town from each other.
She was buried in Dyer next to her stillborn baby girl. We were unable to go, but my cousin and brother gave me a complete report. The present Dyer preacher preached it, reading many of her favorite scriptures. Of course he didn’t know her. Everyone was very sad and told stories about how wonderful she was. As one of her sisters said, “Evelyne planned trips and made us go all kinds of places we’d never have been if not for her!” True—to visit distant cousins in Missouri or the covered bridges of Indiana, for example.
Uncle Frank did not go to her funeral. That’s understandable, I guess, since he’s 92 and it was 450 miles away. But I thought their children would not want him to preach her funeral, because he’d be sure to say, in his most sonorous tones, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” But not according to his children. In spite of everything, he maintained a strong love for her and is grieving her passing.
So I guess I got back to love and husbands after all.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Rescue
I wrote this poem for Steve over 25 years ago and it's truer now than ever.
I didn't want you to rescue me.
You didn't fit my plans for my life.
I wanted to climb my own mountains,
slay my own dragons,
break magic spells all by myself.
Then there you were--awkwardly fitting armor,
lacking in gentlemanly graces,
moody, even childish, in your demands on my life.
And I succumbed, yielding to your persuasive powers,
drawn by your presence,
intrigued by your demands.
How can I be so happy in
being what I never planned to be,
doing what I never intended to do,
in a place I never wanted to be?
Now you move gracefully in your armor--shining white,
your graces far exceeding my own,
your concern and sharing overwhelming me.
I would never have chosen this path on my own,
Would never have turned this direction
without God's guidance,
prodding me
drawing you to me,
guiding us, as we
Climb mountains,
slay dragons, and
break magic spells
Together.
I didn't want you to rescue me.
You didn't fit my plans for my life.
I wanted to climb my own mountains,
slay my own dragons,
break magic spells all by myself.
Then there you were--awkwardly fitting armor,
lacking in gentlemanly graces,
moody, even childish, in your demands on my life.
And I succumbed, yielding to your persuasive powers,
drawn by your presence,
intrigued by your demands.
How can I be so happy in
being what I never planned to be,
doing what I never intended to do,
in a place I never wanted to be?
Now you move gracefully in your armor--shining white,
your graces far exceeding my own,
your concern and sharing overwhelming me.
I would never have chosen this path on my own,
Would never have turned this direction
without God's guidance,
prodding me
drawing you to me,
guiding us, as we
Climb mountains,
slay dragons, and
break magic spells
Together.
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Proverbs 31 for Men: A Husband of Noble Character
Jon Acuff gave his take on a modern version of Proverbs 31, which reminded me of my own version for men, so here it is.
A husband of noble character, who can find? For his worth is far above diamonds.
His wife trusts him completely and is confident of his love.
He brings her good and not distress all the days of his life.
He looks for wood and tools and works with eager hands.
He is like transport planes, bringing his food from afar.
He rises while it is still night to provide food for his family and his workers.
He considers a business and begins it; from his earnings he reinvests his money.
He exercises regularly to keep himself in good physical condition.
He sees that his trading is profitable; he labors late to finish his business.
He works to keep the yard mowed and trimmed; he sees that the cars are maintained well.
He gives money to the poor; he takes food and clothing to the needy.
He is not afraid of bad weather, for his roof is secure and the storm windows are tight.
He buys good clothes for himself and his family so they always look appropriately dressed.
His wife is known in the city where she is respected in her own profession.
He does his job well and has the respect of his peers.
He is strong in following the Lord's will and he is always optimistic.
He spends time teaching his children and shows wisdom in dealing with his friends and extended family.
He gives attention to each child and his wife and does not spend too much time on selfish activities.
His children rise up and call him blessed, and his wife praises him, saying,
"Many women have good husbands, but you are the best of all."
Charisma is shallow and good looks don't last, but a man who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Let him prosper in what he does and let the church praise his good works.
A husband of noble character, who can find? For his worth is far above diamonds.
His wife trusts him completely and is confident of his love.
He brings her good and not distress all the days of his life.
He looks for wood and tools and works with eager hands.
He is like transport planes, bringing his food from afar.
He rises while it is still night to provide food for his family and his workers.
He considers a business and begins it; from his earnings he reinvests his money.
He exercises regularly to keep himself in good physical condition.
He sees that his trading is profitable; he labors late to finish his business.
He works to keep the yard mowed and trimmed; he sees that the cars are maintained well.
He gives money to the poor; he takes food and clothing to the needy.
He is not afraid of bad weather, for his roof is secure and the storm windows are tight.
He buys good clothes for himself and his family so they always look appropriately dressed.
His wife is known in the city where she is respected in her own profession.
He does his job well and has the respect of his peers.
He is strong in following the Lord's will and he is always optimistic.
He spends time teaching his children and shows wisdom in dealing with his friends and extended family.
He gives attention to each child and his wife and does not spend too much time on selfish activities.
His children rise up and call him blessed, and his wife praises him, saying,
"Many women have good husbands, but you are the best of all."
Charisma is shallow and good looks don't last, but a man who fears the Lord is to be praised.
Let him prosper in what he does and let the church praise his good works.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sacred Days
Wednesday mornings are sacred to me. That’s the day some of my youngest friends come to visit—moms and babies—from 9:30-11. The young mothers and I eat, laugh, talk, pray, and study the Bible. The toddlers play in the playroom under the volunteer supervision of my friend Fay. I’ve missed various events because I do not cancel this get-together unless the weather keeps them from coming or I’m out of town.
But this week we are double-booked. Steve is hosting his MasterMind group (all speakers) from 8:30-11:30. This is the group for which I usually serve a sumptuous breakfast and light lunch.
So we’re squeezing it in. When the day of the week registered with me, I was not gracious about it. “But you know the girls come on Wednesday mornings!” I said, though I probably should use the word wailed.
“There was no other day this month that we were all available,” he explained. I waited for an apology, but that seems to have been it.
The disgusting thing about Steve’s being so understanding when I do dumb things (burn the soup when we’re only having soup, forget to give him a message, total two cars in two years) is that then I feel compelled to do the same for him! I wanted to rant and rave, but I remembered all the times he showed compassion when I’d messed up. I couldn’t do it. All I could do was help figure out where to put each group so they would least disturb the other. Talk about frustrating! Living with a compassionate person can really limit my opportunities to explode.
So the additional day that is sacred to me—Tuesday, my writing day—is now complicated with preparations for the MasterMind group tomorrow. Steve’s getting the groceries, which helps tremendously, but there is still much preparation involved. How can I offer ordinary food to John, who is recently divorced and living on fast food? How can I offer mundane food to Joan, a terrific gourmet cook herself? So I’m preparing stuffed French toast tonight and fresh basil/mushroom frittata tomorrow morning, hoping they turn out well. But I also know that if they don’t, everyone involved will be gracious and forgiving.
That’s one of the many great things about having friends who are trying to live for and like Jesus. They just keep forgiving and loving—prompting me to do the same.
But this week we are double-booked. Steve is hosting his MasterMind group (all speakers) from 8:30-11:30. This is the group for which I usually serve a sumptuous breakfast and light lunch.
So we’re squeezing it in. When the day of the week registered with me, I was not gracious about it. “But you know the girls come on Wednesday mornings!” I said, though I probably should use the word wailed.
“There was no other day this month that we were all available,” he explained. I waited for an apology, but that seems to have been it.
The disgusting thing about Steve’s being so understanding when I do dumb things (burn the soup when we’re only having soup, forget to give him a message, total two cars in two years) is that then I feel compelled to do the same for him! I wanted to rant and rave, but I remembered all the times he showed compassion when I’d messed up. I couldn’t do it. All I could do was help figure out where to put each group so they would least disturb the other. Talk about frustrating! Living with a compassionate person can really limit my opportunities to explode.
So the additional day that is sacred to me—Tuesday, my writing day—is now complicated with preparations for the MasterMind group tomorrow. Steve’s getting the groceries, which helps tremendously, but there is still much preparation involved. How can I offer ordinary food to John, who is recently divorced and living on fast food? How can I offer mundane food to Joan, a terrific gourmet cook herself? So I’m preparing stuffed French toast tonight and fresh basil/mushroom frittata tomorrow morning, hoping they turn out well. But I also know that if they don’t, everyone involved will be gracious and forgiving.
That’s one of the many great things about having friends who are trying to live for and like Jesus. They just keep forgiving and loving—prompting me to do the same.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Short Rant About Emails
So I just have to complain about the tacky way people write emails! Perhaps texting has something to do with it, but that’s no excuse. Here is one I received yesterday from someone I only met once. I sent him some additional information about one of the people killed in Tucson. He wrote:
thanks for the infor
I heard on the new as well the he was a member vs. minister
but what a hero he was in saving the life of his wife as her shield
God bless all the families invovled
Now sometimes I get a short, uncapitalized, unpunctuated email from someone who is giving a quick answer to a question. I can handle that. I can even accept no spacing between paragraphs—or no paragraphing at all. One long paragraph does not offend me. But how much trouble is it to hold down the Shift key? Or to touch the period key?
When I was a child, my maternal grandmother wrote each of her children every week—at least the 7 or 8 (out of 9) who were away from home. I still can picture her handwriting sprawled across the lined paper. She only had a fourth-grade education, but her letters were easy to read because she used capitalization and punctuation. Her spelling left a bit to be desired, but sounding out her words made them perfectly understandable. I wish I had some of those precious letters to keep.
Meanwhile, I am trying to be more careful about my own emails—at least reading them over before I hit Send. I don’t want to be guilty of removing the speck from my friend’s eye while I have a plank in my own!
thanks for the infor
I heard on the new as well the he was a member vs. minister
but what a hero he was in saving the life of his wife as her shield
God bless all the families invovled
Now sometimes I get a short, uncapitalized, unpunctuated email from someone who is giving a quick answer to a question. I can handle that. I can even accept no spacing between paragraphs—or no paragraphing at all. One long paragraph does not offend me. But how much trouble is it to hold down the Shift key? Or to touch the period key?
When I was a child, my maternal grandmother wrote each of her children every week—at least the 7 or 8 (out of 9) who were away from home. I still can picture her handwriting sprawled across the lined paper. She only had a fourth-grade education, but her letters were easy to read because she used capitalization and punctuation. Her spelling left a bit to be desired, but sounding out her words made them perfectly understandable. I wish I had some of those precious letters to keep.
Meanwhile, I am trying to be more careful about my own emails—at least reading them over before I hit Send. I don’t want to be guilty of removing the speck from my friend’s eye while I have a plank in my own!
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Temptation and God
Today our Sunday school class topic was Job, the first two chapters. The whole scenario of Satan's taunting God and God's response has always been a puzzle to me. It says way more about heavenly and hellish beings than I'll ever understand.
And then the teacher connected the story to I Corinthians 10:13, where Paul says "God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it." He made the point that that scripture has been misinterpreted, such as using it to comfort a parent at the death of a child. He waxed quite eloquently on all the situations where it had been misinterpreted.
So, though I was a visitor and knew no one in the class except Steve, of course I had to speak up. It seems to me that such tragic circumstances are the times we are most likely to, as Job's wife prompted him, "curse God and die." These are the times we cannot pray; we cannot hold up under the weight of our grief, and who is there to blame but God? That is the temptation we need help to resist. I've noticed that Job did not curse God, but neither did he take his problems without protest. He complained and bitterly so! He questioned why God would do this to him, a righteous man.
And so can we. It's not as though God doesn't know we feel that way. He just wants us to talk to him about it. He yearns for us to confide in him, to talk to him until our trust in him is restored. As Mother Teresa said, "I know God won't give me anything I can't bear; I just wish he didn't trust me so much."
So trust is a mutual arrangement between God and man. That's where our closeness to God grows and develops so that we can withstand the storms that come our way. It's OK to complain, to doubt. Just don't give in to doubt. As the father said to Jesus when he wanted his son healed, "I do believe! Help me overcome my unbelief!"
When tough times come, God will help us to overcome our unbelief. That's my opinion of the meaning of I Corinthians 10:13.
And then the teacher connected the story to I Corinthians 10:13, where Paul says "God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it." He made the point that that scripture has been misinterpreted, such as using it to comfort a parent at the death of a child. He waxed quite eloquently on all the situations where it had been misinterpreted.
So, though I was a visitor and knew no one in the class except Steve, of course I had to speak up. It seems to me that such tragic circumstances are the times we are most likely to, as Job's wife prompted him, "curse God and die." These are the times we cannot pray; we cannot hold up under the weight of our grief, and who is there to blame but God? That is the temptation we need help to resist. I've noticed that Job did not curse God, but neither did he take his problems without protest. He complained and bitterly so! He questioned why God would do this to him, a righteous man.
And so can we. It's not as though God doesn't know we feel that way. He just wants us to talk to him about it. He yearns for us to confide in him, to talk to him until our trust in him is restored. As Mother Teresa said, "I know God won't give me anything I can't bear; I just wish he didn't trust me so much."
So trust is a mutual arrangement between God and man. That's where our closeness to God grows and develops so that we can withstand the storms that come our way. It's OK to complain, to doubt. Just don't give in to doubt. As the father said to Jesus when he wanted his son healed, "I do believe! Help me overcome my unbelief!"
When tough times come, God will help us to overcome our unbelief. That's my opinion of the meaning of I Corinthians 10:13.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Needing a Mediator
This morning in Job 9, I read “If only there were someone to mediate between us, someone to bring us together,” and I was reminded of a difficult situation when I was teaching fifth grade.
I was excited to move from third to fifth since I felt I got along better with older students. And I did. Even students (such as my daughter’s closest friend) who didn’t like me much in third grade enjoyed my fifth grade class.
I looked forward to teaching with the other fifth grade teacher, having heard so much about what a fantastic teacher she was. I couldn't wait to collaborate with her. We were about the same age and each of us had a son, a daughter, and a loving husband. I thought we'd really hit it off.
My relationship dream was quickly shattered because she soon made it clear she did not intend to share anything with me—ideas, equipment, space—nothing. We had to share students because the students changed classrooms for math, science, and social studies. I even tried to share what I'd read or done, hoping that if I shared ideas so would she.
I noticed that she did not come to the teachers' dining room but stayed in the lounge at lunchtime. To give us some time together, I started bringing my lunch and joining her two days a week. Soon she started staying in her classroom for the duration of every lunch period.
The more I got to know her, the more astonished I was at the high regard in which students and parents held her. In fact, her comments and questions in faculty meetings often brought sidelong glances and even snickers from the other teachers. Unfortunately, I, too, was guilty of being amused by her responses.
"I need to talk to you in the teacher's lounge," she said one afternoon, tightly.
Meekly, I followed. Closing the door, she turned to me, eyes blazing. "I cannot believe the way you treated me in the faculty meeting yesterday!" she began. "When I asked about the transparencies with that machine, you looked around and rolled your eyes! That was so hateful!
"I just can't take it anymore! You thrust yourself into this grade against my wishes and then are so pushy and arrogant about all your ideas. Always telling me something you've read or something you're doing—and wanting to copy my ideas as well. And you're always yelling at me!
"I can tell you I've had it! You constantly humiliate me in front of the students. Even when we weren't teaching the same grade, you would rarely speak to me in the hall. I'd be leading a class down the hall and we'd meet you and I'd say, 'Hello, Mrs. Boyd!' and you'd just give that little tight-lipped smirk and go on. One day a child even asked, 'Why didn't Mrs. Boyd speak to you?' and I didn't know what to say!"
At this point, I started to say that I usually speak to people the first time I see them for the day and after that just smile as we meet--that it seemed artificial to me to speak jovially at every hall encounter, as she did. I didn't know what she meant by "tight-lipped smirk," but decided I'd better use a mirror to analyze my smile. Fortunately, I sensed that it was not the time for rebuttal. I stood there in silence, trying to look humble and contrite.
Finally, I simply apologized. I explained that I bore her no ill will—had, in fact, looked forward to teaching with her. Trying to word it differently each time, I apologized again and again—for intruding, for being unfriendly, for being overbearing, for existing.
I prayed about the situation. My family was aware of it; friends outside of school were aware of it. I hesitated to mention it at school because I didn’t want to be guilty of gossiping or complaining. I tried being kind and interested—“heaping burning coals,” as Solomon (Proverbs 25:20-21) and then Paul (Romans 12:20) advised, but to no avail.
I didn’t know what to pray. That she would move to another grade? That she would change? That I could figure out how to placate her? That she’d fall down the three flights of stairs to our rooms? Surely not.
Instead, I simply prayed for God’s help, and he soon sent it in the form of a beautiful young woman as our co-worker and unofficial mediator. Cathy’s gracious and loving nature toward each of us bridged the gap and we actually, over the years, became friends. We were never close enough to joke about the earlier years, but we were close enough that when I left she wept and said how much she would miss me. Amazingly, I realized that I would miss her, too.
So when I read today that Job was wishing for a mediator, I immediately thought of sweet Cathy and what a blessing she had been to us. And Job’s words were prophetic, for today we all have the greatest mediator of all—Jesus Christ, mediating for us with God. I couldn’t help but wonder if there is a situation where God might expect me, too, to be a mediator. And then I remembered a time he did put me in that role. I’ll write about that another time.
I was excited to move from third to fifth since I felt I got along better with older students. And I did. Even students (such as my daughter’s closest friend) who didn’t like me much in third grade enjoyed my fifth grade class.
I looked forward to teaching with the other fifth grade teacher, having heard so much about what a fantastic teacher she was. I couldn't wait to collaborate with her. We were about the same age and each of us had a son, a daughter, and a loving husband. I thought we'd really hit it off.
My relationship dream was quickly shattered because she soon made it clear she did not intend to share anything with me—ideas, equipment, space—nothing. We had to share students because the students changed classrooms for math, science, and social studies. I even tried to share what I'd read or done, hoping that if I shared ideas so would she.
I noticed that she did not come to the teachers' dining room but stayed in the lounge at lunchtime. To give us some time together, I started bringing my lunch and joining her two days a week. Soon she started staying in her classroom for the duration of every lunch period.
The more I got to know her, the more astonished I was at the high regard in which students and parents held her. In fact, her comments and questions in faculty meetings often brought sidelong glances and even snickers from the other teachers. Unfortunately, I, too, was guilty of being amused by her responses.
"I need to talk to you in the teacher's lounge," she said one afternoon, tightly.
Meekly, I followed. Closing the door, she turned to me, eyes blazing. "I cannot believe the way you treated me in the faculty meeting yesterday!" she began. "When I asked about the transparencies with that machine, you looked around and rolled your eyes! That was so hateful!
"I just can't take it anymore! You thrust yourself into this grade against my wishes and then are so pushy and arrogant about all your ideas. Always telling me something you've read or something you're doing—and wanting to copy my ideas as well. And you're always yelling at me!
"I can tell you I've had it! You constantly humiliate me in front of the students. Even when we weren't teaching the same grade, you would rarely speak to me in the hall. I'd be leading a class down the hall and we'd meet you and I'd say, 'Hello, Mrs. Boyd!' and you'd just give that little tight-lipped smirk and go on. One day a child even asked, 'Why didn't Mrs. Boyd speak to you?' and I didn't know what to say!"
At this point, I started to say that I usually speak to people the first time I see them for the day and after that just smile as we meet--that it seemed artificial to me to speak jovially at every hall encounter, as she did. I didn't know what she meant by "tight-lipped smirk," but decided I'd better use a mirror to analyze my smile. Fortunately, I sensed that it was not the time for rebuttal. I stood there in silence, trying to look humble and contrite.
Finally, I simply apologized. I explained that I bore her no ill will—had, in fact, looked forward to teaching with her. Trying to word it differently each time, I apologized again and again—for intruding, for being unfriendly, for being overbearing, for existing.
I prayed about the situation. My family was aware of it; friends outside of school were aware of it. I hesitated to mention it at school because I didn’t want to be guilty of gossiping or complaining. I tried being kind and interested—“heaping burning coals,” as Solomon (Proverbs 25:20-21) and then Paul (Romans 12:20) advised, but to no avail.
I didn’t know what to pray. That she would move to another grade? That she would change? That I could figure out how to placate her? That she’d fall down the three flights of stairs to our rooms? Surely not.
Instead, I simply prayed for God’s help, and he soon sent it in the form of a beautiful young woman as our co-worker and unofficial mediator. Cathy’s gracious and loving nature toward each of us bridged the gap and we actually, over the years, became friends. We were never close enough to joke about the earlier years, but we were close enough that when I left she wept and said how much she would miss me. Amazingly, I realized that I would miss her, too.
So when I read today that Job was wishing for a mediator, I immediately thought of sweet Cathy and what a blessing she had been to us. And Job’s words were prophetic, for today we all have the greatest mediator of all—Jesus Christ, mediating for us with God. I couldn’t help but wonder if there is a situation where God might expect me, too, to be a mediator. And then I remembered a time he did put me in that role. I’ll write about that another time.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Christian Perspective: To Santa or Not to Santa
I love talking to young parents, hearing their issues, and feeling a little superior that I've been through it all and survived. I'm honored when they ask my advice on anything, and most recently the Santa question came up. "We don't know what we want to do about the Santa thing," one said. "We don't want to lie to our kids, but do we deprive them of the fun of Santa?" Good question. I remember that issue as a parent, 37 and 38 years ago. (Parents do have the first two Christmases to decide.) Then suddenly our son Josh was caught up in the season, with people asking him what he wanted from Santa and all the pictures and books and stories and then we didn't actually decide. We just went with it.
When our daughter Kelsey was five, she asked her dad directly, "Tell me the truth. Is there really a Santa or is it you and Mom?"
Being a painfully honest (painful to others, at times) person, Steve said, "Your mother and I put out the toys."
She was crushed. She cried and stormed around and acted as though her world had ended. And a part of her world of make-believe had, indeed, met a sudden death.
In a Wall Street Journal article, Tony Woodlief gives the best explanation I've ever heard for a Christian parent to support belief in Santa. He titles it "OK, Virginia, There's no Santa Claus. There Is God." It's a worthwhile read for parents of young children and for parents whose children are grown and they are wondering if they did the right thing about Santa. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122963990662019887.html
Yesterday's excellent post by Jon Acuff on the same topic, though from his usual comedic perspective, is at http://stuffchristianslike.net/2010/12/the-santa-problem/#more-4154 . One point that I really like is that you never hear anyone say they don't believe in God because Santa wasn't real. As to the "I don't want to lie to my kids" angle, he says "we also have to be careful that we don’t miss out on the word 'pretend.'” I agree.
I am grateful that God gave us imagination and creativity from which can pour droplets of delight for young and old. Santa Claus is part of that--and in no way takes away from honoring the Christ Child at this time of year. We have many avenues for enjoying and celebrating, and Santa Claus is one that adds to the fun for us all.
When our daughter Kelsey was five, she asked her dad directly, "Tell me the truth. Is there really a Santa or is it you and Mom?"
Being a painfully honest (painful to others, at times) person, Steve said, "Your mother and I put out the toys."
She was crushed. She cried and stormed around and acted as though her world had ended. And a part of her world of make-believe had, indeed, met a sudden death.
In a Wall Street Journal article, Tony Woodlief gives the best explanation I've ever heard for a Christian parent to support belief in Santa. He titles it "OK, Virginia, There's no Santa Claus. There Is God." It's a worthwhile read for parents of young children and for parents whose children are grown and they are wondering if they did the right thing about Santa. http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122963990662019887.html
Yesterday's excellent post by Jon Acuff on the same topic, though from his usual comedic perspective, is at http://stuffchristianslike.net/2010/12/the-santa-problem/#more-4154 . One point that I really like is that you never hear anyone say they don't believe in God because Santa wasn't real. As to the "I don't want to lie to my kids" angle, he says "we also have to be careful that we don’t miss out on the word 'pretend.'” I agree.
I am grateful that God gave us imagination and creativity from which can pour droplets of delight for young and old. Santa Claus is part of that--and in no way takes away from honoring the Christ Child at this time of year. We have many avenues for enjoying and celebrating, and Santa Claus is one that adds to the fun for us all.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Ol' Tennessee and a Colorado Christmas
My grandfather, Luther David Ralph, was quite a storyteller. Between chewing his tobacco and spitting it into the spittoon when Grandmama was watching and into the fireplace when she was not, this is a story he’d tell.
In the year I became old enough to vote, I took off for points west. I ended up in the mining town of Pueblo, Colorado.
One of the first people I met was a jovial old gentleman who headed a big operation in there in Pueblo. He asked me where I was from, and when I told him Tennessee, he said, “No one out here will ever bother you if you tell them where you’re from, because people from your state have a reputation of shooting anyone who crosses their path.” I thought he was kidding, but found out later he wasn’t.
I went to work in probably the biggest store in the state, with a force of 200 clerks and a concern selling practically any item you could imagine. The owners not only owned a whole town up in the mountains, but also the railroad that ran through it. Soon after I started working, the president of the company told me he wanted to send me to his store up in that little town.
“Luther, I want you to help the manager up there,” he said. “I’ve watched you work and I know you’ll be a valuable asset to him.”
Two friends from Shackle Island who were department managers in the big store told me not to go. “It is impossible to get along with the manager there. He’s a Yankee from Maine!” they said.
I paid them no attention because I had always gotten along with everyone I had ever worked with. I knew I could do so with this man as long as I minded my own business.
I took the job. In about a month the manager, my new boss, said to me, “Ralph, you wait on the Mexicans when they come in. I’ve been here six months and can’t understand a word they say. I’ve noticed that you can understand them and speak their language fluently, so they’re all yours.”
I didn’t speak the language that well, of course, but he didn’t know the difference. He had probably watched me weigh five pounds of beans and hand it to them, saying, “Dora alice.” And then he had seen them hand me a quarter, and I’d said, “Mucha gracias,” instead of “Thank you.”
I did have a sort of advantage, however. The day I arrived at the store Ralph Gonzales, a red-headed Mexican, twice my age and a U. S. citizen, shook my hand and became my best friend. As he put it, and correctly so, we had the same name—my last name and his first. He was a bachelor and stayed in the store nearly every night long after the manager had gone home and until I closed it. He taught me with great enthusiasm what everything in the store was called in Spanish. It was great fun to me, and the Mexicans, too, who would always laugh and say, “Si, si,” meaning I had spoken it correctly.
Then came Christmas Eve, 1912. The weather had been down to 20 degrees below zero and nobody could work in the open pit quarries and mines. They were all buying on credit at the store. Headquarters in Pueblo sent us word to let them have only the necessities to live on, which made it hard on the kids at Christmas time.
The store that evening was full of people, and I was over behind a side counter waiting on the Mexicans. Suddenly through the front door burst a little sawed-off fellow that I knew to be originally from Missouri, and right behind him came his tall, hawk-nosed wife. With her urging, he came in mad as a hornet and cursing my boss for not selling his wife a $15 toy wagon for his four-year-old son that morning. Of course she had wanted to buy it on credit. Everyone in the store froze when he declared he was going to beat the manager up. All the while the manager was trying to explain why he couldn’t let the woman have the wagon.
As for me, I was scared plumb out of my wits. I remembered that the president of the big store in Pueblo, when sending me out there, said that he was sending me to help the manager. But did he send me there to help him fight? I pondered it, but stood there unable to decide.
The angry man advanced closer, declaring he was coming over the counter to beat the daylights out of my boss. Then something—I don’t know what it was—prompted me to move. I didn’t really want to get into the fight, but I must have thought that moving closer to my boss would be a show of support.
I walked about 30 feet around behind the counters, stopped about a yard behind my boss, laid my right hand upon the shelf behind me, and leaned there. I knew I looked calm, but inside I was wildly wondering what I should do if the man came over the counter.
The fellow didn’t come over the counter. Instead, in a flash he whirled and bolted for the door, his wife right behind him.
Someone in the crowd asked, “What in the world made him stop so sudden and run out the door?”
The head superintendent of all work crews in the town happened to be there, and he said, “Why—didn’t you see ol’ Tennessee walk all the way around the counters and lay his hand beside that .44 on the shelf behind him?”
To my astonishment, I looked—and my hand was almost touching the gun! I had, unknown even to me, shown the man from the “Show Me” state that if you scare a Tennessean enough he might shoot you, just like the old gentleman had said about the reputations of Tennesseans.
A couple of years in Colorado was all Luther, my maternal grandfather, needed to get the wanderlust out of his system. He went back home to Tennessee, married his waiting sweetheart Hester, and built a home just down the road from the one where he was born. As I visit the old home place where he and Hester raised their nine children, fruits, vegetables, chickens, and cows, I recall with tenderness the many times I sat at his feet in front of the fireplace and heard him tell of his Colorado adventures. Of all his stories, this was always my favorite.
In the year I became old enough to vote, I took off for points west. I ended up in the mining town of Pueblo, Colorado.
One of the first people I met was a jovial old gentleman who headed a big operation in there in Pueblo. He asked me where I was from, and when I told him Tennessee, he said, “No one out here will ever bother you if you tell them where you’re from, because people from your state have a reputation of shooting anyone who crosses their path.” I thought he was kidding, but found out later he wasn’t.
I went to work in probably the biggest store in the state, with a force of 200 clerks and a concern selling practically any item you could imagine. The owners not only owned a whole town up in the mountains, but also the railroad that ran through it. Soon after I started working, the president of the company told me he wanted to send me to his store up in that little town.
“Luther, I want you to help the manager up there,” he said. “I’ve watched you work and I know you’ll be a valuable asset to him.”
Two friends from Shackle Island who were department managers in the big store told me not to go. “It is impossible to get along with the manager there. He’s a Yankee from Maine!” they said.
I paid them no attention because I had always gotten along with everyone I had ever worked with. I knew I could do so with this man as long as I minded my own business.
I took the job. In about a month the manager, my new boss, said to me, “Ralph, you wait on the Mexicans when they come in. I’ve been here six months and can’t understand a word they say. I’ve noticed that you can understand them and speak their language fluently, so they’re all yours.”
I didn’t speak the language that well, of course, but he didn’t know the difference. He had probably watched me weigh five pounds of beans and hand it to them, saying, “Dora alice.” And then he had seen them hand me a quarter, and I’d said, “Mucha gracias,” instead of “Thank you.”
I did have a sort of advantage, however. The day I arrived at the store Ralph Gonzales, a red-headed Mexican, twice my age and a U. S. citizen, shook my hand and became my best friend. As he put it, and correctly so, we had the same name—my last name and his first. He was a bachelor and stayed in the store nearly every night long after the manager had gone home and until I closed it. He taught me with great enthusiasm what everything in the store was called in Spanish. It was great fun to me, and the Mexicans, too, who would always laugh and say, “Si, si,” meaning I had spoken it correctly.
Then came Christmas Eve, 1912. The weather had been down to 20 degrees below zero and nobody could work in the open pit quarries and mines. They were all buying on credit at the store. Headquarters in Pueblo sent us word to let them have only the necessities to live on, which made it hard on the kids at Christmas time.
The store that evening was full of people, and I was over behind a side counter waiting on the Mexicans. Suddenly through the front door burst a little sawed-off fellow that I knew to be originally from Missouri, and right behind him came his tall, hawk-nosed wife. With her urging, he came in mad as a hornet and cursing my boss for not selling his wife a $15 toy wagon for his four-year-old son that morning. Of course she had wanted to buy it on credit. Everyone in the store froze when he declared he was going to beat the manager up. All the while the manager was trying to explain why he couldn’t let the woman have the wagon.
As for me, I was scared plumb out of my wits. I remembered that the president of the big store in Pueblo, when sending me out there, said that he was sending me to help the manager. But did he send me there to help him fight? I pondered it, but stood there unable to decide.
The angry man advanced closer, declaring he was coming over the counter to beat the daylights out of my boss. Then something—I don’t know what it was—prompted me to move. I didn’t really want to get into the fight, but I must have thought that moving closer to my boss would be a show of support.
I walked about 30 feet around behind the counters, stopped about a yard behind my boss, laid my right hand upon the shelf behind me, and leaned there. I knew I looked calm, but inside I was wildly wondering what I should do if the man came over the counter.
The fellow didn’t come over the counter. Instead, in a flash he whirled and bolted for the door, his wife right behind him.
Someone in the crowd asked, “What in the world made him stop so sudden and run out the door?”
The head superintendent of all work crews in the town happened to be there, and he said, “Why—didn’t you see ol’ Tennessee walk all the way around the counters and lay his hand beside that .44 on the shelf behind him?”
To my astonishment, I looked—and my hand was almost touching the gun! I had, unknown even to me, shown the man from the “Show Me” state that if you scare a Tennessean enough he might shoot you, just like the old gentleman had said about the reputations of Tennesseans.
A couple of years in Colorado was all Luther, my maternal grandfather, needed to get the wanderlust out of his system. He went back home to Tennessee, married his waiting sweetheart Hester, and built a home just down the road from the one where he was born. As I visit the old home place where he and Hester raised their nine children, fruits, vegetables, chickens, and cows, I recall with tenderness the many times I sat at his feet in front of the fireplace and heard him tell of his Colorado adventures. Of all his stories, this was always my favorite.
Monday, December 06, 2010
A Delicious But Inedible Gift
As we all contemplate gifts to give and receive, think about an instance when you received the gift of time. How priceless is this gift! A changed appointment, a canceled event, a child who unexpectedly takes a long nap, all the family out of the house for various reasons—moments that you can seize as your own.
What a delicious feeling—time to do as I please, accountable to no one because no one knew this little drop of heaven was coming my way. How did you use that unexpected time you were given?
Depending on the situation, I’ve reacted in a variety of ways, none of which ever included scrubbing the toilet. Lounging with a good book is at the top of my list, but writing one is a close second. When so many other things called to me, getting uninterrupted writing time was a rare event when my children were home.
Sometimes I’m in the mood to go out with a friend, lingering over a tasty meal or an indulgent dessert with steaming cups of coffee, always laughing and sometimes crying together.
I’ve rented a movie I knew Steve wouldn’t care for and had the popcorn all to myself as I watched and cried over the plight of the heroine.
I’ve called a far-away friend and chatted for an hour, just catching up without interruptions or feeling guilty.
And there are other activities that I want to yearn for but do not—longer time for prayer, delight at having more time to study scriptures, helping a less lovable person in some way. I do these things regularly, but they are not how I use a surprising gift of time. I believe those little gifts of time are from God to refresh my spirit so I can then refresh others.
I’d like to have your comments. How do you use an unexpected gift of time?
What a delicious feeling—time to do as I please, accountable to no one because no one knew this little drop of heaven was coming my way. How did you use that unexpected time you were given?
Depending on the situation, I’ve reacted in a variety of ways, none of which ever included scrubbing the toilet. Lounging with a good book is at the top of my list, but writing one is a close second. When so many other things called to me, getting uninterrupted writing time was a rare event when my children were home.
Sometimes I’m in the mood to go out with a friend, lingering over a tasty meal or an indulgent dessert with steaming cups of coffee, always laughing and sometimes crying together.
I’ve rented a movie I knew Steve wouldn’t care for and had the popcorn all to myself as I watched and cried over the plight of the heroine.
I’ve called a far-away friend and chatted for an hour, just catching up without interruptions or feeling guilty.
And there are other activities that I want to yearn for but do not—longer time for prayer, delight at having more time to study scriptures, helping a less lovable person in some way. I do these things regularly, but they are not how I use a surprising gift of time. I believe those little gifts of time are from God to refresh my spirit so I can then refresh others.
I’d like to have your comments. How do you use an unexpected gift of time?
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