Sunday, March 31, 2019
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Let me set the stage: I am exhausted. I have been at my daughter's house all day. I arrived at eight something in the morning and it is now getting on toward four-thirty. Most Fridays I arrive a little before ten which is when my daughter, Anna, needs to be to work. I usually leave sometime between two-thirty and three. Unlike other Friday's, today has included a third grandchild to care for; my son's little boy, Mason.
As I pull my coat around my shoulders and sling my bag across my arm, I look down and see Heidi, the youngest of the three grandchildren. Just a fifteen months old, she is more laid back, and quieter than the two older kids. She is standing looking up at me with big eyes. Just next to her she has a box in which she has collected a few treasures. As soon as we make eye contact, she solemnly begins to take the items out of the box one at a time: a small ball, a piece of chalk, something I am not quite sure what it is, etc. With each item I respond with a couple encouraging words. She smiles.
AsI holler good-bye to the other household members, kiss Heidi on the cheek and turn to go, I wonder how long she had to wait to catch my full attention, unshared with the other children. The whole exchange has been wordless and lasted only for a minute or two, three at the most. The memory of it stays for hours, days; the shy manner in which she presents each item, the growing excitement of shared experience as I exclaim over each one. A mere moment in time, it could so easily have been missed or passed over, but instead leaves me filled with joy to the point of pain.
As I pull my coat around my shoulders and sling my bag across my arm, I look down and see Heidi, the youngest of the three grandchildren. Just a fifteen months old, she is more laid back, and quieter than the two older kids. She is standing looking up at me with big eyes. Just next to her she has a box in which she has collected a few treasures. As soon as we make eye contact, she solemnly begins to take the items out of the box one at a time: a small ball, a piece of chalk, something I am not quite sure what it is, etc. With each item I respond with a couple encouraging words. She smiles.
AsI holler good-bye to the other household members, kiss Heidi on the cheek and turn to go, I wonder how long she had to wait to catch my full attention, unshared with the other children. The whole exchange has been wordless and lasted only for a minute or two, three at the most. The memory of it stays for hours, days; the shy manner in which she presents each item, the growing excitement of shared experience as I exclaim over each one. A mere moment in time, it could so easily have been missed or passed over, but instead leaves me filled with joy to the point of pain.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Friday, August 26, 2011
Not That Interesting
My mom was really good at being a Mommy. She fixed our toys and our hurts. Rocked us when we were sad. She made us feel needed and involved in the running of the household. I remember standing on a chair by the kitchen counter when I was about two along with my three older sisters. We were "helping" my mom make cookies. Each of us got a job to do, then we all helped roll the cookies into balls. When they were done - probably about two hours later than if she had just done it herself- they tasted yummy.
My mom sang us songs - "Oh my darlin', Clementine", "Oh Susanna", "Lazy Mary will you get up..."- and many more. She also read us stories. Many, many stories. When I was around five years old, she read us Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books. I remember being so interested and excited about them. I could hardly wait from one evening to the next to see what would happen next. One Saturday afternoon when I was taking a bath, we lived in the house in Vancouver, WA then, I decided that when I grew up I wanted to write stories too. At this point in my life I had not yet learned to read or write, nevertheless, the desire to be a writer persisted far beyond my learning of those skills.
These memories came to my mind last weekend. It had been a hard week. It was the first week back in the classroom, so there was some major shifting of my mental gears and physical habits going on. In addition, we had only a few hours earlier received news that a young man in our church - only 20 years old - had died suddenly of a heart attack. Because of these things, I may have been predisposed to be feeling a little bit down, but it took me by surprise anyway to find that after remembering about being a little girl who wanted to be a writer I was sitting there with tears running down my face. The surprise comes into play because crying is not one of the ways I usually display my emotions. I think that in the last five years, my dad's funeral and one other time were the only times I cried.
As I sat there trying to figure out why I was crying, I told myself lies. I thought things such as, "What is the point in even trying to write, I have nothing worthwhile to offer anybody." "My writing is not very good.", and "My life is just not that interesting, nobody wants to hear about it." Even now, as I reflect on it, I am having trouble seeing what it is that I have to offer to anybody, but, whether when writing, or just in living I know that because God made me in his own image, I have some hope that somewhere in my seemingly mediocre make-up, there is something worthwhile.
My mom sang us songs - "Oh my darlin', Clementine", "Oh Susanna", "Lazy Mary will you get up..."- and many more. She also read us stories. Many, many stories. When I was around five years old, she read us Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books. I remember being so interested and excited about them. I could hardly wait from one evening to the next to see what would happen next. One Saturday afternoon when I was taking a bath, we lived in the house in Vancouver, WA then, I decided that when I grew up I wanted to write stories too. At this point in my life I had not yet learned to read or write, nevertheless, the desire to be a writer persisted far beyond my learning of those skills.
These memories came to my mind last weekend. It had been a hard week. It was the first week back in the classroom, so there was some major shifting of my mental gears and physical habits going on. In addition, we had only a few hours earlier received news that a young man in our church - only 20 years old - had died suddenly of a heart attack. Because of these things, I may have been predisposed to be feeling a little bit down, but it took me by surprise anyway to find that after remembering about being a little girl who wanted to be a writer I was sitting there with tears running down my face. The surprise comes into play because crying is not one of the ways I usually display my emotions. I think that in the last five years, my dad's funeral and one other time were the only times I cried.
As I sat there trying to figure out why I was crying, I told myself lies. I thought things such as, "What is the point in even trying to write, I have nothing worthwhile to offer anybody." "My writing is not very good.", and "My life is just not that interesting, nobody wants to hear about it." Even now, as I reflect on it, I am having trouble seeing what it is that I have to offer to anybody, but, whether when writing, or just in living I know that because God made me in his own image, I have some hope that somewhere in my seemingly mediocre make-up, there is something worthwhile.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Study in Contrasts
One fine spring evening about a month ago I was working in my garden. The weather was just right; not too hot and not too cold. There was a soft breeze blowing. Birds were chirping their "good-evening" songs. The ambiance, coupled with the task of gardening created an atmosphere of peace.
From our back yard, I can see through our neighbor's yard to the street his house faces. On the opposite side of the street is the large paved play area of what was once an elementary school. As I enjoyed my tranquil evening, gunshots rang out on the street behind our house and to the west of us. I heard shouts and then cries soon followed by the sound of sirens. I glanced up and saw the silhouette of a teenage boy sprinting east across the old school lot. Moments later I heard shouts of laughter and the smack of high-five congratulations coming from the park to the east of us.
All in all, the events were a disturbing study in contrasts. First was the contrast between the peaceful evening sounds and the sounds of gunfire. Second was the wailing cries coming from the west juxtaposed with the laughter coming from the east. Third was the fact that though the train of events registered in my mind, other than mentally noting that the sirens meant that help was already on the way, I neither flinched nor stopped what I was doing. It only occurred to me belatedly that maybe I should have ducked in case of random stray bullets. It only occurred to me belatedly that in contrast to the safety of my relatively sheltered childhood, I have become a woman who is indifferent to the sound of gunshots.
In retrospect, I find myself clinging to one final contrast. There is someone whose light penetrates even to the dark places in this world, whose love overcomes the hate, whose existence causes hope to overcome the hopelessness. Please pray for us as we strive to be His hands and feet in this neighborhood.
From our back yard, I can see through our neighbor's yard to the street his house faces. On the opposite side of the street is the large paved play area of what was once an elementary school. As I enjoyed my tranquil evening, gunshots rang out on the street behind our house and to the west of us. I heard shouts and then cries soon followed by the sound of sirens. I glanced up and saw the silhouette of a teenage boy sprinting east across the old school lot. Moments later I heard shouts of laughter and the smack of high-five congratulations coming from the park to the east of us.
All in all, the events were a disturbing study in contrasts. First was the contrast between the peaceful evening sounds and the sounds of gunfire. Second was the wailing cries coming from the west juxtaposed with the laughter coming from the east. Third was the fact that though the train of events registered in my mind, other than mentally noting that the sirens meant that help was already on the way, I neither flinched nor stopped what I was doing. It only occurred to me belatedly that maybe I should have ducked in case of random stray bullets. It only occurred to me belatedly that in contrast to the safety of my relatively sheltered childhood, I have become a woman who is indifferent to the sound of gunshots.
In retrospect, I find myself clinging to one final contrast. There is someone whose light penetrates even to the dark places in this world, whose love overcomes the hate, whose existence causes hope to overcome the hopelessness. Please pray for us as we strive to be His hands and feet in this neighborhood.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Strange Day Indeed
Several years ago, my brother, Clark, told me that after turning thirty-nine, he reversed downhill to avoid going over the hill. In other words, Clark will celebrate his 33rd birthday again later this year (you do the math - if you are a Jones, I don't care if I did the math wrong, it is close enough.). Yesterday I turned 49. I am wondering if maybe I should switch into reverse as well. I don't feel like I am quite ready to go over-the-hill. On second thought, my husband is already over-the-hill, so I might as well join him.
As far as birthdays go, yesterday's was kind-of weird. I slept in until almost nine in the morning. When I came downstairs, no one else was awake, so I sat down in a comfortable chair and began to read an entertaining book. Around eleven, people began to trickle down the stairs. Lester pulled-out various ingredients to begin making a special breakfast, and then left to give the dogs their morning walk. When he got back he asked if I had noticed anything strange about Maisy, our boxer, lately. I hadn't, I replied, but why did he want to know. He told me that she had fallen over twice while he was walking her, and seemed to have trouble getting up.
I was not overly concerned. She had been normal all morning. I thought she might be play-acting, because she is lazy and didn't want to walk. Sadly, within a few minutes of this conversation, she suffered a major seizure. After it was over, but before we had finished discussing what our best course of action was, she had another, and then another, and then another one. We ended up having to put her down.
Our other dog is half Labrador Retriever. His favorite thing is his ball, which he guards jealously. When Maisy had her first seizure, he went into the other room and rummaged around under the couch until he found his ball. He brought it in and dropped it on the floor near Maisy's head. He nudged it with his nose until it lay right up next to her.
Now, I am not of the ilk who attribute human emotions to animals, but it was very touching to see his behavior. In addition, he has been in obvious depressed spirits since she died. It makes me wonder what differences there might have been in how animals interacted with each other and with humans before sin bent the world. Why is it that we become so attached to our pets? Are animals capable of love?
I know that these are ultimately unanswerable questions, at least in the world as it exists right now. But, I also know that Maisy used to come and lean up against me in a companionable way, and she used to clean my feet with her tongue. I know that she was sometimes a reassuring balm to my soul, and that I loved her, in a doggy sort of way.
As far as birthdays go, yesterday's was kind-of weird. I slept in until almost nine in the morning. When I came downstairs, no one else was awake, so I sat down in a comfortable chair and began to read an entertaining book. Around eleven, people began to trickle down the stairs. Lester pulled-out various ingredients to begin making a special breakfast, and then left to give the dogs their morning walk. When he got back he asked if I had noticed anything strange about Maisy, our boxer, lately. I hadn't, I replied, but why did he want to know. He told me that she had fallen over twice while he was walking her, and seemed to have trouble getting up.
I was not overly concerned. She had been normal all morning. I thought she might be play-acting, because she is lazy and didn't want to walk. Sadly, within a few minutes of this conversation, she suffered a major seizure. After it was over, but before we had finished discussing what our best course of action was, she had another, and then another, and then another one. We ended up having to put her down.
Our other dog is half Labrador Retriever. His favorite thing is his ball, which he guards jealously. When Maisy had her first seizure, he went into the other room and rummaged around under the couch until he found his ball. He brought it in and dropped it on the floor near Maisy's head. He nudged it with his nose until it lay right up next to her.
Now, I am not of the ilk who attribute human emotions to animals, but it was very touching to see his behavior. In addition, he has been in obvious depressed spirits since she died. It makes me wonder what differences there might have been in how animals interacted with each other and with humans before sin bent the world. Why is it that we become so attached to our pets? Are animals capable of love?
I know that these are ultimately unanswerable questions, at least in the world as it exists right now. But, I also know that Maisy used to come and lean up against me in a companionable way, and she used to clean my feet with her tongue. I know that she was sometimes a reassuring balm to my soul, and that I loved her, in a doggy sort of way.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
When I was a girl I was very dramatic about my emotions. I yelled loudly, I laughed loudly, I cried loudly. Everybody in the vicinity could tell how I was feeling at any given moment. As a teenager, I would fight with my mom and then go to my room to loudly weep copious tears, sometimes for hours. It is to my mom's credit that though she was busy, and often still exasperated with me that she would come and hold me on her lap and rock me. "Shhh, its okay, I love you even though I don't agree with you," she would say. It was comforting.
Oddly, as an adult, I seem to have lost my ability to express most of my emotions. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember crying real tears in the past 30 years. Oh, I can still yell loudly, though I don't even do that quite as often as I used to. I still laugh loudly sometimes. It seems that I can express anger or happiness well enough; hopefully I am able to communicate love, but most of my deep emotions remain, well, deep.
I was surprised therefore, this morning, when I found myself crying real tears. I am getting over a bout of the stomach flu, so I decided not to go to church today. I sat down with my crocheting and a glass of something warm to drink and turned on an online sermon preached by Randy Nabors, the pastor of the church we were a part of in Chattanooga. The sermon covered alot of ideas, but one of the statements which was especially poignant to me was about how when we do good works they should be motivated by Christ's love, not by a sense of obligation or guilt. To expand, they should come from the overflow of Jesus' love in our hearts, not form any sense that we need to work harder to gain acceptance or approval from God.
I am not really sure if it was this statement, or if it was just hearing Randy's voice, but I suddenly had a vivid memory of standing and talking with him in our back yard in Chattanooga. Then, as now, our weaknesses seemed to be right out there on public view. Our yard was messy, our house needed work, we were poor, and didn't seem to handle our money very wisely, we committed to help with more things than could actually be done in a 24 hour day, and to top it off, we kept having more and more babies. I kept hearing these things, but they were never juxtaposed with the things we were doing right. I am not sure if we were doing anything right. And, I was overwhelmed and helpless to change most of the situation - including the new babies, which we tried not to keep having. I really did love God, and I don't think that I ever felt like I needed or even could win His approval. I was so totally convinced of my own inabilities that I KNEW that it was all up to Jesus' work on my behalf.
To summarize, even though I was confident of God's promises for the future, I was pretty discouraged with the NOW of my situation. One day Randy came by and picked up little Lester and took him to ride bikes with his son, Gyven while he ran. When they came back, Randy lifted Lester's bike out of the back of his truck and said something like, " Little Lester is a nice kid. He is polite, kind and well-behaved. He is an obvious reflection that you and your husband Love the Lord and are doing something right."
That is the memory that brought tears to my eyes this morning. I still struggle with the same doubts that I can't seem to get things right even though I love God and attempt to faithfully serve Him. All of our weaknesses, messy house, messy yard etc. still exist. I still care that we seem to be more often defined by our failings than by our strengths. I find myself repenting for defining others by their weaknesses as well. I often wonder if pouring the love God put into my heart, and pouring a lot of myself along with it, into other people is really making any difference. I am grateful for this morning's reminder that regardless of whether or not we see it, when we love, we are getting it right.
Oddly, as an adult, I seem to have lost my ability to express most of my emotions. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember crying real tears in the past 30 years. Oh, I can still yell loudly, though I don't even do that quite as often as I used to. I still laugh loudly sometimes. It seems that I can express anger or happiness well enough; hopefully I am able to communicate love, but most of my deep emotions remain, well, deep.
I was surprised therefore, this morning, when I found myself crying real tears. I am getting over a bout of the stomach flu, so I decided not to go to church today. I sat down with my crocheting and a glass of something warm to drink and turned on an online sermon preached by Randy Nabors, the pastor of the church we were a part of in Chattanooga. The sermon covered alot of ideas, but one of the statements which was especially poignant to me was about how when we do good works they should be motivated by Christ's love, not by a sense of obligation or guilt. To expand, they should come from the overflow of Jesus' love in our hearts, not form any sense that we need to work harder to gain acceptance or approval from God.
I am not really sure if it was this statement, or if it was just hearing Randy's voice, but I suddenly had a vivid memory of standing and talking with him in our back yard in Chattanooga. Then, as now, our weaknesses seemed to be right out there on public view. Our yard was messy, our house needed work, we were poor, and didn't seem to handle our money very wisely, we committed to help with more things than could actually be done in a 24 hour day, and to top it off, we kept having more and more babies. I kept hearing these things, but they were never juxtaposed with the things we were doing right. I am not sure if we were doing anything right. And, I was overwhelmed and helpless to change most of the situation - including the new babies, which we tried not to keep having. I really did love God, and I don't think that I ever felt like I needed or even could win His approval. I was so totally convinced of my own inabilities that I KNEW that it was all up to Jesus' work on my behalf.
To summarize, even though I was confident of God's promises for the future, I was pretty discouraged with the NOW of my situation. One day Randy came by and picked up little Lester and took him to ride bikes with his son, Gyven while he ran. When they came back, Randy lifted Lester's bike out of the back of his truck and said something like, " Little Lester is a nice kid. He is polite, kind and well-behaved. He is an obvious reflection that you and your husband Love the Lord and are doing something right."
That is the memory that brought tears to my eyes this morning. I still struggle with the same doubts that I can't seem to get things right even though I love God and attempt to faithfully serve Him. All of our weaknesses, messy house, messy yard etc. still exist. I still care that we seem to be more often defined by our failings than by our strengths. I find myself repenting for defining others by their weaknesses as well. I often wonder if pouring the love God put into my heart, and pouring a lot of myself along with it, into other people is really making any difference. I am grateful for this morning's reminder that regardless of whether or not we see it, when we love, we are getting it right.
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