Stretchmarks

Waste Management

It’s the season to purge, organize, prioritize—also known as waste management of time, resources and relationships.  Resolutions?  Nah---I procrastinate too much to get around to those.  But there’s something about a clean slate—a new calendar, a new year and a fresh start that gives one hope. 

Purging requires one to throw out stuff--a painful task when one is a keeper--a source of stretch marks, if you will.  However, there are exceptions.

I opened my refrigerator door one recent Monday morning only to be reminded that I really am learning disabled.  Wouldn’t you think that a
Golden Buckeye Card carrier should have learned by now that everything under the sun has an expiration date?  It’s not that I don’t know, but my procrastination makes allowances for crud to grow in my life.

Crud—also known as mold, mildew and toxins contaminate food and people.  Why would an intelligent person allow such things?  Too busy?  Too lazy?  In denial?  I pondered this malady as I cleaned and detoxified the refrigerator. 

Wait a minute.  Waste not, want not, right?  I could just scrape off the mold and use what is left in the jar.  What’s the worst that could happen?  What if I just poured fresh milk into the clabbered milk?  Maybe that principle in Luke 5:37 applies: And no one puts new wine into old wineskins.  For the new wine would burst the wineskins, spilling the wine and ruining the skins.  The glass won’t burst but…oh, never mind. 

I muttered, "Dear Lord, what if I died and someone discovered this disgusting mess?"  What would they think?  That poor widow…she just gave up on life.  Maybe she didn't know that cleanliness is next to Godliness.  Maybe just one resolution...

I thought of relationships I have had in the past that grew toxic.  How did I let that happen?  Simply put--I ignored some of the basics of a healthy relationship.  There are needy folks that pretty much suck the life out of you.  Others are dumpsters looking for a convenient and safe environment to dump their garbage.  Only problem is, they ignore the NO DUMPING sign.  The inner voice yells, "Clean up needed in Land of Denial!"

Food and medicines have expiration dates that should not be ignored. Rancorous relationships should have expiration dates as well. King Solomon's Waste Management 101 is found in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.  Verses 1 & 6 relate to this subject: There is a right time to do things, a right time for everything on the earth… A right time to search and another to count your losses; a right time to hold on and another to let go.  (The Message)  

The beginning of this New Year is a great time to examine ourselves for toxicity and purge where needed. There is something quite appealing about clean vessels ready to be filled with good things and healthy relationships!

What Does it Take to Feed a Family of Five?

It’s a simple question with a complex answer. 

Isaiah, almost five years old, was eating chicken strips with salsa, sour cream and shredded cheese.  “Is this chicken from a real chicken?” he asked.  “Yes it is!” I answered.  He looked surprised.  “And we can thank a cow for the sour cream and cheese you’re having too!” I announced.  That information was almost too much for him to handle.  His brain was processing as we began a discussion about how we get our food.  

The next week we were seated at his home with his sister, Elizabeth and parents, Jonathan and Emma.  He volunteered to ask God to bless the food prepared for us.  “Dear Jesus, thank you for this food.  Bless it to our bodies.  Amen.”

The food source dialogue began again.  “We have the rice farmer to thank for the brown rice.” I said.  He had helped me prepare honey baked chicken and corn bread muffins so he chimed in “And the chicken farmer!”  Then we really got down to basics and listed many people involved in this meal.

Someone grew spices—curry and mustard.

A beekeeper collected honey from the bees. 

A farmer grew chickens, providing meat and eggs.

Some grain farmers grew corn & wheat in our muffins.

A dairy farmer milked cows to provide milk and butter.

Vineyard growers provided grapes.

What about transportation?  Farmers and delivery trucks took the goods to market for us to buy.

Farm workers and migrant workers picked crops.

Someone designed and made packages for the food.

People designed advertising so that we could see what was available.

Daddy had to work at a job to make money to buy the food.

Someone printed the money for Mommy to use to buy groceries.

Daddy added, “What about the dishes and tableware?  A silversmith made tableware to use and potters made the dishes!”

Our list was getting really long and involved.  Should we begin the blessing again?  I looked down at the table.  “Oh, my!  This is the best one of all.  Your Daddy made this walnut table from wood grown on my grandpa’s farm.  Your Great Grandpa Smith and Papa Joe cut the wood so that Daddy could make the table.  Isn’t that amazing?”

Jonathan told him that he made the table at his Uncle Charlie’s house, using his tools and workroom.  The table is a family table in the truest sense of the word.

So what does it take to feed a family of five?  It takes a multitude of people with vision, skills and persistence in doing their jobs. 

During our sweet communion around the family table, we discovered how dependent we are on each other for our daily needs.  Asking God our Provider to bless our meal took on new meaning.  This was not just a simple weekday meal—it was a meal of Thanksgiving for all those involved in providing our food.

 

 

 

 We took this photo on a recent trip to a farm.

 

 

 

 

 Jonathan picking grapes as a young boy.

 

 

 

 

 

  We are grateful for farmers and gardeners who grow our food!

  

 

 

 

The family table

 

 

 

 

 

 Happy Thanksgiving to all...

and may you enjoy sweet communion as you gather around your family table!

 

 

 

The Meeting of the Minds

"A student is not better than the teacher.  But the student who has been fully trained will be like the teacher."  Luke 6:40 (NCV)

The Meeting of the Minds is now in session. New books, new clothes, new routines, fresh anxieties and extra-curricular schedules are part of the frenzied preparation for school.   

But thoughts of school evoke strong emotions in most folks.  Anxious parents google teachers; teachers google students.  Everyone is googly-eyed these days.  Each anticipates a good or bad outcome dependent on the findings.  Prayer still happens in this educational process.

Computers,  Iphones, Ipads etc. have changed the way we access information, but one-on-one teaching and mentoring remain timeless.  A student must learn how to learn—how to research and process information and make application.  I admire the ninety-year olds who have discovered lifelong learning and still thirst for knowledge.

Education is a meeting of the minds between teachers and students.  It can be a real test as Inside and Outside thinking collide: Use your Inside voice!  Your Outside voice is for the playground or elsewhere.

Color INSIDE the lines.  The brave and less coordinated color OUTSIDE the lines.  Think INSIDE the box—what is the standard answer?  Those with active minds think OUTSIDE the box and challenge the norm.

The big concern when I chose to educate my children at home was How will they learn to socialize?  Seriously?  How long does it take to learn to stand in line--to conform--to look to peers for approval?  Kids learn to negotiate relationships pretty quickly, no matter the setting. 

Communication has become a dilemma as students of all ages text and talk at the speed of light.  Meaningful face-to-face conversation seems to be a lost art.  My nephew, Mark, brought another issue to my attention.  He teaches on the collegiate level and is frustrated by the lack of attention due to texting and surfing the web during class time.  Gazing out the window in a daydream seems a minor offense compared to current issues.

I held a workshop in four different after-school programs last year and I was shocked by the emotional shutdown of so many kids.  They are faced with serious personal and family issues. Some are lonely; some are bullied.  Many are abused in every sense of the word.  Some act out because no one has given them skills to cope with strong and scary emotions.  Teachers cannot address all of this nor should they be expected to do so. 

I’ve observed fully-loaded vans and SUVs lined up to retrieve kids.  Yes, they were fully-loaded with impatient, explosive greetings and ridicule that made me wince.  That makes life harder for everyone.

I've watched a Mr. Mom walk his girls to school and return at the end of the day.  He scooped them in the air and whirled them around wildly as the girls giggled.  “How was your day?” he asked.  They laughed as they recounted the best parts of the day.  What blessed girls!

Amidst the organized chaos of any school day, some things never change.  Teachers want to do what they do best—teach and inspire.  Students want to learn their lessons so they can progress and complete their education.  It is a daunting task but God bless teachers who leave their positive mark on a child’s world.  God bless students who apply themselves to learn, to think critically and who emerge as thoughtful, capable adults...and may God give grace to the late-bloomers until they come into full bloom.

 

 

The Reverend

The very mention of a high school class reunion can make one’s stomach knot.  Why are so many held back in school?  Literally—held back in the defining portion of our young lives called “school”?

Some hold these truths to be self-evident—all those nicknames and labels put on us in our youth.  You don’t think so?  Just open up your yearbook and begin to reminisce—or wince.  We still define one another by what’s written and photographed as records of our young lives.

Oh my goodness!  I forgot about so-and-so.  Don’t you remember when he picked his nose…and ate the boogers?  Yeah, it was in the fifth grade...or was it the tenth?  Now that girl was fast—everybody knew it.  What a nerd!  All he ever did was read books.  Yes, he was quite the jock back in the day.  Et cetera, et cetera and so forth…

But what is the rest of the story?

What about those who were late bloomers—the ones no one thought would succeed at anything?  Did those cute little cheerleaders keep their figures?  Are the jocks now walking with artificial knees?  And the wall-flowers?  Wow!  Some of them turned into beauties.

Name tags help at these functions, but somehow the Spirit of Pinocchio shows up in a grandiose way.  WOW, you haven’t changed a bit!  Really?  And you still know how to spin a tale…

Okay, I confess.  I feel a little smug when I see the cutesy girl from high school that is now full-figured.  But payday came to me as well.  I hated you in Spanish III.  You always were the teacher’s pet…  Get over it!  Peer pressure can last a lifetime.

Class reunions provide an opportunity to see how lives have changed—for better or for worse—in sickness and in health—till death do us part.  I have had my share of emotional stretch marks at a reunion.  Thankfully these occasions seem to grow sweeter with time and everyone is grateful to be alive and well. 

Joe never attended a high school reunion; actually he never was formally invited, but he would not have gone.  He didn’t want to face some of his painful memories or the still open wound caused by something written in his yearbook; but he graciously accompanied me to several of mine.  I wanted his classmates to see the amazing transformation in his life--but he declined.

On a hot summer day in 1979, he had a "Godwink" reunion that made up for missing the official events.  We walked the grounds of Ha Ha Tonka State Park in Camdenton, Missouri,  just prior to the official dedication of this land. 

Joe was given his official name tag as a participant in the ceremony.  He never liked to be called “Reverend” and lo and behold, this name tag read: The Reverend Joe Blevins.  Oh, my! 

We met a couple on the path he knew from high school and they all immediately recognized one another.  The woman’s eyes darted from his name tag: The Reverend Joe Blevins back to his face.  Her stunned expression told the full story.  How could this be?  Is this the Joey that I knew back in Vandalia?  The Reverend?  Well, I’ll be damned, uh, I mean-- darned!

They knew him as a party boy and one who never applied himself in academics.  He was about to take center stage, seated with Governor Joe Teasdale and Chief of the Osage Indian Nation, Sylvester J. Tinker, and several other local participants.  I reveled in that moment.

As I watched this scenario, a scripture came to mind: "Here it is again, the Great Reversal: many of the first ending up last, and the last first."  Matthew 20:16 (Message Bible) How sweet it is!

Are you stuck with an image from your school days?  There is hope for all those held back in school.  Transformation is a good thing!

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For more information about Ha Ha Tonka State Park go to www.mostateparks.com It's a beautiful and historic place to visit!

 

My Daddy's Job

As a young girl I didn’t think too much about my Daddy’s job.  He was a preacher and that meant he was gone a lot ministering to a needy world.  He loved his work.  I rarely considered the positive outcome of his time away from the family.

He was 78 years old when we traveled to Lima, Peru on a mission trip.  It was his fifth trip there and my first.  I had no idea the insight and impact that trip would provide.

As one of six children I never had time alone with him, so 17 days with my Daddy as a grown woman was a treat to be savored.  He was not in good health but he was determined to go one last time to visit the saints in Lima.  My assignment was to keep him from over-extending himself.  That proved to be a full-time task.

We visited several churches where he taught classes and the responses were always similar.  Someone would excitedly share, “Raquel, your father—he teach me the book of Ruth.  I never forget!”  Or, “Raquel, your father is a good bible teacher.  I love him!”  Over and over I heard these comments and I began to see the fruit of his labor.

I don’t recall my father ever reading to me as a child but he did on this trip.  We were on our beds resting and hoped to have some dinner one night, but the maid took the night off.  So…we read.  He read quotes to me he had written in the back of his bible including some gems from folks I knew.  It was a sweet time for just the two of us.

He turned 80 years old in 1995 and we enjoyed a trip back to Grand Cayman to celebrate.  “Aunt” Olga hosted an impromptu birthday party at the Cracked Conch Restaurant where about thirty people gathered.   After the meal, Olga asked if anyone wanted to share something about my father—funny stories or ways he had influenced their lives.  What a night of celebration!

One by one they shared bits and pieces of ways he changed lives.  Simple things like “You taught me to pray out loud with sentence prayers.  I was so scared but you showed me how to start…”  George recalled, “Bro. Paul saw leadership qualities in me that I never knew I had.  He taught me how to lead and now I work in Government House and I lead a bible study.”

Others spoke of his influence as a father figure, his impact on agriculture on the island, his church construction ability and how respected and loved he was.  He blossomed as a minister among those precious saints.

This week I attended a women’s bible study at a church my father pastored for years.  As I walked in the door Cathy greeted me with a hug. “I love your family SO much.  Your dad…”  She sang his praises.   Another woman got teary when she spoke of how he was her spiritual Daddy beginning thirty years ago.  It happens everywhere I go!

Hundreds of people in several nations looked to Paul Smith as their spiritual Daddy and dozens called him “Grandpa”.  I confess I wasn’t always excited to share him with so many but age and maturity have helped me grasp the impact of this extraordinary man’s life.

I miss his sage advice and the endless stories he told.  However, I see glimpses of him in my siblings—in the grandchildren—and in so many folks he mentored.  I hear his wisdom through many voices.  It reminds me of Proverbs 10:7  “We have happy memories of the godly, but the name of a wicked person rots away.”

I am among the blessed to have had a terrific father…not perfect, but he definitely enjoyed a lifetime of achievement in his "job". 

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We shared a meal and fun with several former students.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mary translates Daddy's teaching.

If Cars Could Talk

I was born in Detroit, Michigan but I am told that it took more than a village to put me together.  I’ve heard the phrase: If walls could talk…  I’m thinking: If cars could talk… I'm just sayin'! 

I belong to the elite group of Chrysler Town & Country Limited vans and I had all the bells and whistles available when new—back in 2000.  I joined my siblings in a small fleet owned by a local funeral home.  Yes, I transported the living and the dead.  Some folks found that fact a little unsettling but I was proud to be part of the final journey of someone’s life.

My lease was up after a couple years; a pastor bought me and I served his family well.  But, oh the stories I could tell.

 Mostly I traveled in the Midwest and a few southern states in the USA to rack up  200,436 miles.  Mr. & Mrs. B took good care of me all these years.

I made thousands of routine trips for shopping, ballgames, band concerts, weekly church services, doctors’ appointments and hospital visits.  It was fun to go to birthday parties, family reunions, weddings, graduations, county fairs and airports; I dutifully went to funerals as well.  Mr. & Mrs. B seemed happiest when we drove to the lake or the ocean; I think it was my favorite too.

Perhaps the most fun I had was transporting Montana & Mycah to school or after school to McDonalds.  Mrs. B liked to crank up the music and sing loudly…and then she turned the music down to pray for the girls just before arrival at the elementary school.  She gave them many life lessons in those brief trips and stressed the differences between wise and foolish behavior. 

I thought it was the end of me one day when “Papa” was driving.  He decided to test the girls’ understanding of wise and foolish behavior.  Oh, my! He noticed a Road Closed sign on a country road and began to speed up.  M & M knew how to read and they screamed: “NO, Papa!  The road is closed!” 

Papa answered, “I’ll just go really fast and go through the sign and jump the creek.”  “NO-O-O-O-O, Papa.  Stop now!  That’s FOOLISH!”  Papa stopped short of the sign.  “Now I know for sure that you know the difference between wise and foolish behavior!”  I thought I was a goner.  Give me a brake, man!

I’ve heard giggles, laughter, “honking” laughter and lots of chatter.  I’ve listened to whimpers, cries and wailing.  On rare occasions there was some “stupid idiot” road rage talk.  Sometimes Mr. & Mrs. B drove in silence…sweet silence.  Sometimes it was awkward silence, especially after those awful visits with the oncologist.   I heard my share of “sweet nothings” on their date nights.  I didn’t know people their age talked like that.

I do believe I’m saved and sanctified!  I have heard more sermons and worship music than some countries.  They prayed a lot on our trips together.  I felt good when they asked the angels to watch over us on every adventure.

Life was good until I had a close encounter with a deer.  Things were never quite the same after that.  I developed some age spots on the hood due to a poor repair job.  That irked Mr. B something awful.  I was side-swiped once; my left mirror was knocked loose and I got a wrinkle on the side.  Duct tape is a marvelous invention, especially in an emergency, but not very classy.

Recently I had what was to be my last oil change.  Mrs. B knew I was getting worn out but it still hurt to hear the mechanic say: “Uh, this is really serious!”  It was kinda like hearing bad news from the doctor. 

She had been praying I would hold together a little longer but on Mother’s Day I couldn’t take it anymore.  My tires were worn and the air conditioner didn’t work plus she was in danger of having an accident…so I just shut down.  She cried a little.  After all, we’ve been together for many years.  Sweet, sweet memories...

 I have no regrets.  I’ve been as faithful as I could.  There were only two or three times I quit working and I had to be rescued.  I always went where I was towed to.

Arrangements for my final resting place are still pending. 

Flour Children

Do you want to sell your home?  Realtors advise that you have smells of “home” in the house like bread baking—something that will connect the buyer’s memory with pleasant things and times spent with family.  

When I was ten years old we lived with my grandparents for eight months while on furlough from mission work in Grand Cayman.  Grandma Burson let me help her in the kitchen and sparked my love of baking.  She was a phenomenal baker; the individual loaves of bread she baked in tin cans were so special to the grandchildren.

I am fortunate to be part of a family of great bakers and cooks.  Now I am passing this passion on to my grandchildren in hopes that these family recipes will be treasured for future generations.  Chef Scott Peck states: “An heirloom recipe is an edible legacy to be savored.” 

During their spring breaks I have had three granddaughters here to explore the wonders of combining King Arthur flour, leavening and shortening to make flaky crusts filled with savory fillings.  We had great fun practicing new skills and presenting our finished products to loved ones.

 

 

 

Audri made individual Quiches Lorraine with Julia Child’s pie pastry recipe.  She showed amazing skill for a ten-year old.  Conversations come easier when working side by side—a great bonus to kitchen duty.  We enjoyed a wonderful lunch together; she shared the remaining quiches with her Mom and baby sisters and Great Aunt Lois.  Hugs and quiches, Audri!

 



 My M & Ms, Montana (12) and Mycah (10), came this week.  We tackled Caribbean-style hot patties—savory meat filling wrapped in pastry.   “Great” Grandma Smith came for lunch and enjoyed the hot patties and Red Velvet cupcakes the girls made.  Such a proud moment!  They also shared some with their Daddy, Great Aunt Lois and my friend Louise. 

My Grandma Smith died one year before I was born.  I wondered what she was like and rely on stories her children told about her.  Aunt Gerry gave me three spiral notebooks that belonged to grandma which contained poems, quotes and other items she copied.  This gave me insight into what piqued her curiosity in life.  This poem by Grace Noll Crowell touched my heart and gave new meaning to simple food preparation.

Flour

I sift this flour on my board; it is so clean and good,

And handling it, I am a part of all earth’s womanhood.

For women’s hands have kneaded flour to loaves since time began

Each toiling for her own small brood, her own beloved man.

I see the dark-skinned women kneel beside their foot-worn sills

To grind their grain beneath flat stones;

I see today’s great mills:

Tall shafts of light across the land that nations may be fed.

And flour becomes a sacrament, my loaves, much more than bread.

When I read this I realize I am not just teaching my granddaughters how to make pastry dough but I am connecting them to all of “earth’s womanhood”.   I pray they learn as the poet wrote: And flour becomes a sacrament; my loaves (or pastries) much more than bread.

                             

                        

                                                                

                                  I love my flour children!

 




 

For Crying Out Loud!

“What makes someone cry?” I asked my husband years ago when I was preparing to write a journal entry on the subject.  He began a comedic spiel to explain what makes me cry and asked, “Is this going to be an encyclopedia version?”  Why, the nerve of that man!  If I didn’t consistently laugh as much as I cry, I might be known as the Grim Weeper.

Scientific studies have been published which tell us why we cry and the biological reason our lachrymal system functions as it does.  William Frey had subjects keep “tear diaries” during a study at the Dry Eye and Tear Research Center which offered these results:

• Tears of sadness—49%
• Tears of happiness—21%
• Tears of anger—10%
• Tears of sympathy—7%
• Tears of anxiety—5%
• Tears of fear—4%

Scientists agree that emotional tears are chemically different from tears that result from eye irritations, containing more beta-endorphins which are the body’s natural pain relievers.  No wonder I feel better after a good cry!

Dr. Kevin Heough’s article, “Possible Health Benefits of Crying” states that it is believed that human beings are the only creatures that shed tears.  Some factors that affect our crying include genetic influences, dietary factors, hormone levels and circadian rhythms. 

I am more prone to tears if I am excessively tired or have gorged on too much chocolate or pasta.  I am part of a family of criers—the genetic factor.  Every household with females knows about the hormonal factor, right? 

 

 Granddaughter Isabella had a meltdown at breakfast--the genetics are alive and well; she also has a hearty laugh like her great grandmother, Wanza.

Some things that make me cry defy explanation…like hearing a high school marching band play.  I have a couple of friends who admit to this weakness for band music.

• Honor guards and Taps being played at a military funeral prompt a Kleenex moment.  I’ve watched as a soldier knelt before a grieving family and began his recitation: “On behalf of the United States of America and the citizens of this country…” and sobbed even if I didn’t personally know the deceased.
• Chicken Soup for the Soul type stories—these are hard for sappy souls.
• Hallmark commercials, especially the ones involving children start the flow.
• Music, movies, great literature, photographs, scriptures all evoke tears at my house—either joyful or sorrowful tears.
• Births, weddings, graduations and celebrations bring on the happy tears.

• Homesickness—that gnawing craving to be with loved ones or to see the places you long for…there is no cure but to go home.
• Children and grandchildren: watching them grow, compete, make mistakes and finally succeed in their efforts makes me boohoo.  The first time Tadd called home from college and said out loud: “I love you!” I began to believe in miracles...and cried for joy.
  
• Relocating: changing houses, schools, doctors, churches and all that’s familiar has made me blubber out of control.
• News—good or bad may make me weepy.  Pitiful, isn’t it?
• Hellos and Goodbyes: catching a glimpse of someone I haven’t seen in a long time brings tears of joy.  The dreaded goodbyes bring on the “ugly” cry.

Psalm 56:8 says “You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book.”  It’s comforting to know that my tears are precious to God. 

I am in good company with King David and Job of the Old Testament and Jesus in the New Testament--manly men who cried.  There are other biblical accounts of large groups of people who wailed together.  Isn’t it good to know that there is no gender bias here—men and women alike are free to cry, weep, lament, howl, boohoo, sob, bawl, blubber or however you describe your “moments”.

Sometimes if I tear up in the presence of someone I don’t know well, they offer me one tissue.  Optimistic souls...who can stop with just one?  If tears help to reduce tensions, remove toxins and increase my body’s ability to heal itself—why do I hesitate?  I don’t! 

 

 

 

 

 

Are You Sure You Want to Permanently Delete This Item?

We were on our way to Wendy’s for lunch and my granddaughters noticed some road kill.  Montana and Mycah were ages five and three when I noted their very different reactions to the death of an animal on the roadside.

Montana saw the dead squirrel and lamented, “Oh, Grammer.  Did you see that?  There’s a dead squirrel by the ditch.”  (She had just completed Safety Town to prepare for kindergarten.)  She continued, “I guess its Mommy didn’t teach it to look both ways!”  She sighed…”That’s so sad.” 

Mycah took one glance and matter-of-factly said, “It’s dead!”  Her sister wasn’t amused.  “Mycah!  That’s not nice!”  She repeated the facts: “It’s dead.”  Mycah has developed more compassion and she might state the facts a little differently now.

How the news of a death is received makes a difference in the response.  I talked to some high school students in a school setting after the death of a fellow student.  I asked how they heard the news.  One girl said, “Oh, we heard it in the announcements at the beginning of the day.  They said it like it was no big deal.  You see, our friend was not very popular.  She was an unwed mother—not an athlete or top student.  So it was like it was no big deal.”  Their perception of “no big deal” added to their sorrow.

This morning I read an obituary in a local paper which made me very sad.  I knew Peggy for a few years when we were Mentor Moms in a Mothers of Pre-Schoolers program in our area.  We had several things in common: wives of pastors, missions, mothers of sons and a passion to mentor young women.  She was always cheerful and optimistic about life—a real asset to any program in which she participated.  Fifty-two years didn't seem long enough for her to be with us.

I had a flashback of some of the little things that one has to process after the death of a loved one.  Computers have a DELETE button which is very useful.  However, it takes on a different meaning when one needs to delete an address, an email or some other connection to this person.  The computer politely asks, “Are you sure you want to permanently delete this?”  NO, we don’t want to… but it eventually becomes necessary to do so.  We incur more scars from the emotional stretch marks of loss that cannot be erased by the simple click of a button.

Removal of names on legal documents, credit cards, AAA memberships, insurance accounts etc. can be gut-wrenching.   I removed our landline phone months ago and I cried.  No big deal, you say.  It was a big deal.  Joe and I had that phone number almost thirty years and it was like removing another part of him in my life.  Peggy’s husband will face this stuff too. 

Simply filling out forms can evoke intense emotion.  Do I check single or widowed?  I don’t like either choice.  The whole social world now seems awkward.  In bereavement counseling these kinds of scenarios are sometimes referred to as “hangnails and slivers”…small things that annoy and hurt.

 

 

 

"Closure" is expedited much like this Farcus cartoon portrays.  Patient files are closed and archived.  Names are crossed off lists and deleted from computers and phones.  Obituaries reduce the account of one’s life to a snippet.  Wills are read and finalized.  It all seems so impersonal and final.  But it isn’t so.

 

 

“A good and honest life is a blessed memorial; a wicked life leaves a rotten stench.”  Proverbs 10:7

For those like Peggy who touched thousands of lives, her spirit lives on as a blessed memorial and her legacy continues.  It cannot be deleted! 

Some live wicked lives and their stench remains.   I have known a few of these wretched souls.

What kind of legacy will you leave?  Will it be easy for someone to delete your name and memory or will someone be inspired to make a difference in this world because of your example?

 

Are We There Yet?

Are we there yet? It’s a dreaded question when traveling with youngsters.  My youngest son always asked, “How many more towns?”  “Probably six hundred” I answered.  For winter-weary folks it takes on a different meaning.  Our resources and our resolve have been stretched to the max.

I often used this cartoon when I worked with grieving families.  It’s a different sort of angst that begs for answers and relief.

In light of current events in the Middle East, toughing out a few more weeks of winter isn’t so daunting.  But how quickly we are bored and lose heart! 

Forget the fact that each mounded shovel of snow probably contains millions of individually designed snowflakes—a miracle.  Do we remember that when the big meltdown does happen, there will be plenty of water to nourish the earth?  Many things happen in creation during the dormant winter season—really good things.  Do we care?  Yes…but, get on with spring!

We wondered if Punxsutawney Phil would see his shadow on Groundhog Day?  He didn’t this year.  Hooray!   Spring is near.

The packets of garden seeds are on shelves—YES!  Hope can literally be packaged.

I heard a red robin singing my song in the trees beside the house—rock on, robin!

We’re gaining a couple minutes of daylight everyday now—O, yeah!

The extended forecast indicates our temperatures will be in the high forties next week, possibly fifties.  That is serious cause for celebration!

Bitterly cold temperatures are supposed to kill off unwanted bugs etc. making for a healthier summer.  I’m not sure what happened this year but the flu and cold bugs have lingered longer than usual.  Snow and snot be gone--it’s time to get some fresh air

We know what is at our disposal with a click of a button—tickets to tropical lands or exotic foods available from around the globe.  We can access almost anything…but we still have to wait for the season to change.   Are we there yet? 

I am among those anxious for spring temperatures—green grass and fresh flowers blooming in the yard.  No more heavy winter coats and thermal underwear…a seasonal end to high heating bills.

But in the meantime…how shall we rejoice in another day of life?  Make up a celebration if you need to.  Love on those in your life for Valentine’s Day.  Or just bring out the bubbly and celebrate.  Sping is almost here!

The Write Stuff

Fifty years from now...would someone delight in reading what you've written in a note, an email, on Facebook or a text message?  I can only imagine what avenues of communication will be available even a decade from now.  But will our words offer wisdom?  Counsel?  Humor?  Comfort?  Disgust?

I have one precious Christmas gift from my childhood--an autograph book.  It's a miracle I have it since our family moved out of the country and back again.  My mother is not sentimental and so none of us have much from our childhood.

Autograph books were popular for young girls in 1959.  I talked with a friend today and she has two from that era.  Mine contains an amazing compilation of entries from people living in Ohio, Kentucky and Grand Cayman Island.  I brought this leather book with me to the states when we were on furlough in 1960.  Several pastors, missionaries, teachers, friends and family wrote popular rhymes of the day; the contents range from silly to sublime.

There are multiple entries of the most popular rhyme of the day: I love you little, I love you big, I love you like a little pig.  My sister, Becky, wrote one in cursive and one in printing. The grown-ups wrote more profound verses.  The beautiful handwriting of some entries is a treasure, especially those of family members.

We lived opposite Sea View Hotel in Grand Cayman and we met interesting people from the USA.  Dr. Garry Myers, founder of Highlights for Children, vacationed there and we got to play with his children.  His daughter Patsy made a cute entry.  A few months after that her parents were killed in an airplane crash over New York City.

 
My Grandpa Burson wrote: Dare to be right, dare to be true, success will be yours whatever you do.

My father's advice:

There will be a lot of foolishness, there will be a lot of fun

There will be some seriousness, there will be some goodly puns

But the thing you'll value most of all in this little book of rhymes

Is the thought of those you've loved with whom you've had good times.

Mom wrote: When this life is over and on earth no more you trod; may your name in gold be written on the autograph of God.

Two friends wrote: I wish you much, I wish you plenty, I wish you a husband before you're twenty.  Their wish came true because I married at age eighteen.

My brother's entries would embarrass him; hormones rage at age 16.

Teachers from Cayman High School quoted inspiring verses by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Shakespeare.

"Aunt" Olga Adams inscribed a prayer for me: Dear Father, help me to choose my friends wisely so that I may be with others who love you as I do, and help me to be a good friend, too.  Amen.  She added this: Ecclesiastes 12:1  Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth.

"Uncle" Harvey wrote: It was real good to be in Cayman with you and your family again; hope to see you again sometime--when the boat comes.  May God bless you, and we look forward to the day that you become a Christian too.

I am certain that those who autographed my little book never dreamed I would blog about their offerings fifty years later.  Many of these dear ones are deceased yet their words remain.  What we speak and write has an effect, sometimes decades later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A loving note from spiritual grandparents--Grandpa & Grandma Taylor...

 

 

What kinds of "write stuff" will remain fifty years from now?  How will it be kept?  I pray that folks will still hand-write notes that encourage and inspire others--the write stuff.

Do you own an autograph book or treasure some special notes?  Take some time to read them again and savor the investment someone made in your life.

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Click on each photo to enlarge and read more entries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As Opposite as Shoes and Socks

 “We are as opposite as shoes and socks!” Mom announced.  Wanza is comical, casual and outgoing—Lois is hardworking, regimented and on schedule.  These two women have had a great influence on my life as mother and second mother/aunt.

My mother, Wanza, is 89 years of age today; Aunt Lois celebrated 87 years in September.   That is cause for great celebration!  The tales of their childhood amuse and surprise me.

Years ago, their three older brothers, Paul, Vaughn and Frank, were going mushroom hunting and the girls wanted to tag along.  Grandma gave them permission but the boys were furious.

Near the mushroom spot in the woods was a nest of black snakes.  Uncle Vaughn picked up a couple and told the girls to run or he would put the snakes around their necks.  Aunt Lois took off like a gazelle and Mom froze in her tracks.  He hung two snakes around her neck and made her walk to the road with the snakes dangling against her ankles.  When she reached the road, he took the snakes from her, threw them in the ditch and told her to “git going”.

She “got going” home to tattle and declared, “He needs the electric chair for punishment!”  She swears this terrorizing incident is why she never grew past 4’11”.  She decided that the moral of this story is: Never butt in where you’re not wanted!

Mom did her share of mischief as well.  She was mad at Aunt Lois so she got her down and stabbed her with a lead pencil.  The lead broke off…and as far as we know, it’s still embedded in her head.

The youngest daughter Marjorie and younger brother Neil, completed this farm family of seven kids.  Grandpa never allowed the girls to witness the birthing of lambs in the barn which left some questions in their inquiring minds.  After the birth of Neil, Mom was very curious and sneaked a peak during a diaper change when Grandma wasn’t looking.  She was aghast at her discovery and quickly called a meeting in the well-house to tell her sisters. 

Lois and Marjorie were shocked when Mom told them he was deformed.  They cried, certain that he might not live because of this deformity.  Ignorance is not always bliss but innocence is precious!

 

Every day after their older brothers left for school, Wanza and Lois would “borrow” their bib overalls.  Aunt Lois said, “We liked them because of all the pockets.  When we saw our brothers walking home from school, we scurried to get the bibs off, the pockets emptied and the cuffs turned down, and then put back where we found them.”  Only God knows what punishment they would have chosen for these ornery girls.

Aunt Lois has lived in Knox County her entire life.  Mom has lived in three states plus Grand Cayman Island.  They have been widowed many years; Lois lives independently and Wanza lives in a retirement home.  They are still as different as shoes and socks—but they have left distinctive imprints on many lives. 

 

This photo was taken in the late 1920s and was published in Reminisce Magazine several years ago.  Lois and Wanza pose in their brothers' beloved bib overalls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lois and Wanza today--still full of life, love and loads of fun!

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Father's Connection to Fame

My father’s connection to fame continues as a legacy across the nation. 

Paul H. Smith was born on 10-10-1915 in an agricultural community—a natural fit for him since he loved the soil and animals, especially sheep.

The story began in the 1930s in Fredericktown, Ohio.  He was part of the 52-member Future Farmers of America chapter in his high school, a national organization founded in 1928.  The FFA advisor, J.H. Lintner, thought they should have a jacket with an emblem that gave details of agricultural—something to distinguish them.

This group of young farm boys designed the corn-gold emblem sewn on blue corduroy jackets.  They were ready to submit the design to the manufacturing company in Van Wert, Ohio, when Daddy noticed the wrong number of rows of corn—it should be an even number, not odd. This important detail was corrected.

Symbols in the emblem are an eagle (freedom), owl (wisdom), rising sun (promise of a new day), plow (labor and tillage of the soil) and cross section of corn (foundation crop of America’s agriculture).

The original FFA jackets cost about $7.50 but my grandparents could not afford to buy Daddy his own.  When he was chosen to travel to special events, he had to borrow a jacket.  He wore my uncle Paul Burson’s jacket to Kansas City.  That jacket is on display in the local high school as part of the agricultural history of our nation and this exceptional group of young men and their advisor, “Gus” Lintner.

In 1931, this FFA chapter won the state General Livestock contest in Columbus.  They had to judge and place four horses, four beef cattle, four hogs and four dairy cows.  They competed with close to 100 FFA chapters in the state.  The prize was a free trip to the national convention in Kansas City, Missouri, a perfect place to showcase their newly designed jackets. 

In 1933 they won the state Dairy Judging contest in Columbus and won a free trip to Worcester, MA.  My father was one of three chosen to attend the Eastern States Exposition National Dairy Judging contest in Worcester where he placed third.  Yes, he borrowed a classmate’s FFA jacket to wear.

This multi-talented group formed a marching band as well.  This 32-piece band was selected as the official band at the national convention in 1933.  My dad played French horn wearing a borrowed jacket.

That same year the official business meeting of the national convention of officers accepted the use of this jacket designed at Fredericktown High School as part of the official uniform, now worn by thousands in all 50 states, Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.

Sometimes he told the tale of his FFA chapter and its little piece of agricultural fame.  His voice trailed off when he stated that he never owned one of the jackets.  In 1994 his birthday was approaching.  What do you give an elderly man who is in ill health and has no need of anything? 

Joe and I brainstormed and finally he said, “What if we got him that FFA jacket he never got in high school?  I could check to see what it would take to get him one with his name on it and everything.”   Splendid idea!

We had to verify that he had been in FFA—that part was easy.  Did we have time to get this all processed before his birthday?  Just barely.  My family was very excited to watch him open this special gift.

 
He cried when he saw the familiar blue corduroy jacket and was amazed to find his name embroidered on the right side.  It was the perfect gift. 

We never expected him to wear it publicly; it was a gift to satisfy the longing of his heart.  But he wore it several times in his old age and retold the story.  He farmed early in his life and late in his life.  The interim years were spent as a pastor and missionary.

It’s not too late to dream or perpetuate one’s connection to fame!

 

For more information about Future Farmers of America, log on to www.ffa.org 

Historical archives may be viewed at www.lib.iupui.edu/special/ffa 

 

 

Paul H. Smith--farming through the years.

          
                                            

 

 

 

What Has Brought You LIfe Today?

Looking outside at the gray skies, nine-year old Dona Rae announced, “It's gonna be a drowsy day!” Drowsy days are the ones where you just want to stay in bed or maybe read a book beside a crackling fire and sip hot chocolate. So where is the life in a drowsy day?

Three years ago I read an excerpt in a daily devotional by John Fischer that got my attention. His friend works with homeless teenagers and explores different ways to engage them in conversation—something besides the casual, “How are you?” His thought-provoking question is: What has brought you life today?

This week we've had some gray days and one had to be intentional about finding vibrant life in one's surroundings. How would “life” manifest amidst the gloomy, drowsy day?

In a twenty-four hour period I was amazed at the different ways I encountered life. It started with a thoughtful email from my friend of thirty years, Carol. We hadn't corresponded for several months so it was a joy to hear from her.

In Wal*Mart, a three-year old girl was singing loudly, “He's got the who-o-ole w-o-o-r-r-l-l-d in His hands..” That was the only line she knew but she sang it with gusto over and over...and her mom never shushed her. Her good-news-gospel song jolted us all back into what really matters. Hooray for her!

I started to unload my grocery cart when an older man approached his car parked next to mine. He was whistling a happy tune and offered to help me. I said, “My parents always whistled a lot. Thanks for the memory.” He smiled and went about his business.

Our local high school hosted the annual Cross Country Invitational Meet on this blustery gray day. I braced the wind to cheer on some athletes I know and was thrilled to watch Isaac Potes break a school record when he finished at 15:56!  Goals are vital and help one stay focused and engaged in life.

        

At this Cross Country meet I met Donald, an exchange student from Hong Kong.  We talked about language barriers and he told me about his family.  He said, "I want to see snow.  I never see snow before."  Cultural exchanges spark new interests and life in me.

These dedicated and disciplined cross country runners inspire me, but watching and hearing the crowd cheer them on reduces me to tears. This runner almost died when she was very young. She is among many runners who have faced adversities yet they press on to succeed.  

 

Many dear souls have been praying for the safe delivery of this baby girl and, yes, it happened in this 24 hour period. She's a big bundle of life fresh from  our Father's heart in heaven!  Rejoicing comes easily when our prayers are answered in this way.  Little ones spark hope and life in us like nothing else.

 

 

I posted this question on Facebook: What brought you life today? One response. Disappointing but not surprising. I was hoping to get more answers from my friends but it takes more thought to answer this kind of query. For many it's not as interesting as shopping or what I had for dinner and copious amounts of braggadocio. 

Sometimes we need a wake-up call to recognize life in all its forms.  A young man from my church had a sudden brush with death last week; it's a miracle he's alive and well. Mark's experience awakened the precious gift of life in all who know him--the simple things of everyday life have taken on new meaning.  That's a good thing.

I challenge you to discuss this subject at dinner: What has brought you life today?  Did something or someone make you feel alive today?  Be ready to listen and embrace life in a new way...because a lot can happen even on a drowsy day!

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  An unaware life is not worth living.  ~Socrates~

Does Sibling Rivalry Ever End?

If you are an only child, this question has little meaning to you. However...if you have siblings, you have probably experienced varying degrees of rivalry.

I listened to my father and aunt have “lively discussions” well into their seventies; it never stopped. They loved each other but never stopped competing. I confess I have participated in such behavior—even recently!

Two of my sisters and I took a road trip recently to visit our youngest sister (who now resides in Florida) for our second annual Sister's Weekend. Lisa's husband, Richard, drove to Ohio to visit family and friends so we could have the house to ourselves and he could maintain his sanity.  Because of construction delays in two states, the trip down took nineteen hours. That's a long time to be confined to a vehicle. And a long time to get those sibling rivalry juices flowing.

Of the three of us traveling, I am the best navigator (undisputed). During the last leg of the trip I had to sleep awhile and Becky drove in Southern Alabama into the panhandle of Florida. Everything went well until we had to turn off the interstate and drive on two-lane roads. I woke up and asked where we were. Instinctively I knew we were going the wrong direction and checked the map. Yep...heading out of our way.

After a bathroom stop, Becky continued driving with me in the passenger seat to navigate. As I rechecked the map, she sped off in the wrong direction.  Find the first road and turn around,” I ordered. She pulled into a dirt lane with a gate...and took her time. Judy and I told her to hurry, please hurry!

"What's the matter with you two?” she said laughing. Uh...Becky...We're three female Yankees in the deep South... It's 12:30 a.m. There's a locked gate and it's spooky here!  Just for fun I hummed "Dueling Banjos” from the movie Deliverance. Becky continued to laugh at us; we were serious. She lives in the hollers of Southern Ohio; we don't.

Seriously, we had a wonderful time together just enjoying the sunny weather, Lisa's in-ground pool, Navarre and Ocaloosa beaches and delicious food. We discovered two great antique stores and watched movies.  Relaxation was the goal.  But something happens in the kitchen when there are four good cooks...

We have an annual Caribbean feast of hot patties, rice 'n peas, Cayman potato salad and fried plantains. Carbohydrate heaven. Judy was assigned to make potato salad; Lisa made the patty pastry and filling; Becky helped roll the dough and I cut the waxed paper squares and took photos.  I got the easy job.

  
"You're rolling the dough too thick. Make it thinner so we'll have more patties...” Lisa instructed Becky. “Why didn't you tell me sooner--before I rolled out ten?” Becky asked.

Judy wondered, “Something was missing in mine.  You add turmeric? My recipe didn't call for that.” Lisa said, “That's why yours didn't taste just right!” “I also forgot to brush water on the dough so the patties would hold together better! I'm learning something,” Judy confessed.

I suggested, “Maybe we should have a “blind taste test” sometime with all the family and see whose patties win.” Lisa whirled around and said, “MY boys would pick MINE!” Okay, then.

“Why are you using that? I NEVER use that! I use....” Back and forth, back and forth the bantering continued. Nothing vicious, mind you. Just marking our spot in the kitchen—the inside version of peeing on the trees.  Hopefully Debbie can join us again next year and add to the sibling rivalry.

 
Is sibling rivalry so bad? I guess it depends on the extent of it. Is it hurtful to someone? Let's pray it is not.  Love should be the underlying motive in all things.  Does sibling rivalry ever end?  Probably not.

 Proverbs 27:17 Iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.

Right now we're a pretty sharp group of sisters!

 

Back to School

Just saying the word school conjures up emotions and images of youth. Some memories are pleasant and some evoke pain. I enjoyed my years in public school but there were some tough adjustments when I changed schools and cultures.

One of my favorite things was getting new composition books plus pens and pencils. I still peruse the aisles of discount stores to see the latest trends in school supplies. There's something about a whimsical looking notebook that begs for my attention.

For three months I went to first grade in Ohio before we left for the Cayman Islands. There the school year began in January and I had just turned seven when I entered Infants 1, their version of first grade.

The buildings were renovated army barracks with wooden windows propped out with long sticks. No glass windows—just open invitations for the mosquitoes. Each student had to bring her own supply of Black Flag powder to burn beside her desk to ward off the pests. That pungent smell is a memory trigger.

 
 Parents didn't have to fret over clothing because we wore mandated uniforms: girls wore navy jumpers and light blue blouses while boys wore khaki shirts and pants. Our version of backpacks were thatch bags made by local craftsmen. I still have a couple of them today. 

No large yellow school buses transported us—we rode bicycles to and from school each day. We rode home for lunch and back again. (Mom didn't get much of a break from us!) It was one mile each way so by day's end we rode four miles.

Extra-curricular activities did not exist in our government school. This simplified our lives and gave us time to play hopscotch, marbles and skipping ropes made of thatch. Our school was located next to the public library and my siblings and I checked out books regularly to stretch our imaginations. We had the Book of Knowledge encyclopedia at home that we devoured to expand our knowledge.

I never took a multiple choice or true or false test until I returned to the USA as a sophomore in high school. All of our tests were essays. I'm grateful for that now since it helped me to learn how to express myself in writing.

Our teachers were from Cayman, Jamaica, England and Scotland so Caribbean and English accents became part of my speech patterns. Two English chaps left an impression on me: they wore the same burgundy shirts all week, each day noted with a new sweat ring. I avoided asking them to come to my desk to help.

We memorized some scripture each week and those verses remain embedded in my memory. We learned our “times tables” by singing them as a class. Teachers didn't spank students but they were known to whack you over the top of the hand with rulers. I only had one in my first year—I misspelled a word that Miss Mitzi thought I should know. Ouch!

 

When I was ten years old, Prince Phillip of England visited our island so we were privileged as school children to see royalty. King George V's sister, Princess Royal also came to visit on the Royal Yacht. Ships came regularly from Central America, Jamaica and USA to deliver goods so we were exposed to other cultures which broadened our education.

Access to a great education is valuable; developing a love of learning is vital to growing as a person. My ninety-year old mentor, Louise, frequently tells me, “I have so much to learn!” I pray that I am teachable as long as I live, just like Louise.

Summer Faves

 

Our memories of summer are varied, dependending on where we have lived and places we've loved.

I lived on Grand Cayman and enjoyed the tropical climate which had little seasonal changes. I lived in Missouri where it was too hot to go barefoot in the grass during summer days. Central Ohio has milder summers with lots of green grass to mow and sink your toes into.

The night sky was clear this week and I could see the Space Station in the southwest. Amazing! Summer is fading fast here so I am savoring as many of my favorite summer things I possibly can.

• More daylight and lovely sunsets

• Wildflowers along the roadside

• Daisies, poppies and fragrant flowers

• Misty mornings in late summer

• Smell of freshly mown hay

• Skipping stones in a creek, lake or ocean

• Swimming in the turquoise Caribbean Sea

• Fresh berries, peaches and mangoes

• Sweet corn-on-the-cob dripping with butter

• Picnics with fried chicken and potato salad

• Starry nights in the country

• Riding in a convertible with the top down

• Smell of laundry that dried on the clothesline

• Fresh lemonade served in a 10 gallon crock at the family reunion

• Street and county fairs with all the junk food, especially elephant ears

• Listening to my grandchildren squeal with joy on the amusement rides

• Fourth of July, fireworks and barbeques

• Sounds of crickets...sight of lightning bugs...sweet songs of the birds

• Ferry boat rides to Put-in-Bay

• The crack of a bat at a baseball game

• Long drives to and from Missouri to visit family

Mycah enjoys some fresh corn-on-the-cob.

 
  
    Amish clothesline in my neighborhood.

 
Dad & Mom ready to cruise in Tadd's Mustang convertible.

 
 Debbie, Becky, Lisa and Rachel at Seven Mile beach in Cayman.

 
    

These are a few of my favorite things. What are your favorite memories of summer? It might be fun to discuss this as a family over dinner (or supper, if you're from the country) to see what is important to each one. Sweet summer memories...

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Leave a comment at end of post or email me: mystretchmarks@gmail.com  I'd love to hear from you!  
 

  

Celebrating Stretchmarks One Year Birthday

 
Stretchmarks is one year old today! Just like any young parent, I have had my share of anxious moments getting my blog to this milestone.

I had to learn unfamiliar language and interpret bytes and configurations. Each new step seemed monumental—like uploading photos, gauging traffic flow and interpreting growth graphs. I consulted the tutorials almost as much as I read Dr. Spock's Baby Book with my firstborn son.

There were some sleepless nights as well when ideas kept me awake. But eventually I learned to sleep through the night and not worry so much.

I looked back through my third journaling entry and my face flushed as I read this:

Wow! I can't believe all that was inside of me. It's so amazing that this is my baby blog. I have high hopes for it. I hope it grows to be strong and courageous. I want it to make a difference in this world. I smiled and sighed...I'll be back to check on you soon. 

 

Most parents worry about how others percieve their new baby—it's true of bloggers as well. It's been therapeutic to write about the emotional stretch marks of life and I am forever grateful to all the readers who gave me input.

There have been 6100 plus hits to date—that gives me enough confidence to keep going. I am aware of readers in the Middle East, Romania, England, Ecuador, Cayman Islands, Channel Islands, France, Germany, Canada and across the USA. The worldwide networking system of sharing information is an amazing thing.

Altogether now...Happy Birthday to you...dear Stretchmarks...happy birthday to you. And many more!

You can post a comment at the end of each blog post or you can send me an email at mystretchmarks@gmail.com I look forward to hearing from you!

  

Picture This

 

Kodak® moments...but I had no camera with me. 

 

Sometimes it seems too invasive to photograph someone and yet  the moment is so powerful it begs to be recorded.  I mentally captured some of these and retrieve them from time to time as reminders of what is important in life.

I went to the home of Henry and Ethel to offer respite so she could run some errands. Henry was terminally ill and she needed a short break from the rigors of care-giving.

 

Henry was jovial; she was peculiar and oddly funny. I looked about the room for clues to their life's story.  Picture this...

 

She offered to feed him before she left so I watched and listened for instructions about his care. Henry was a very tall, large man and she could no longer dress him properly. A bed sheet covered the recliner and he was draped with a beach towel for privacy.

The simple meal was placed on a tray.  She positioned her chair directly in front of his recliner, bowed her head and said, “Dear God, Thank you for this food. Bless it to our bodies. Amen.” I felt a lump in my throat as I focused on this tender moment.

The backdrop for this snapshot was a round table covered with fiftieth wedding anniversary mementos. The lines of traditional marriage vows raced through my head: for richer, for poorer; for better, for worse; in sickness and in health; 'til death do us part.

The focal point of this portrait were the negative aspects of wedding vows: poorer, worse, sickness and death.  It probably wasn't what they imagined as a young couple solemnly taking those vows. I was curious...

After she left, I asked Henry, “I see you've been married fifty years. So, would you recommend marriage?” He grinned, “I reckon I do!”  The pun was intended.  I asked, “What's your story? Would you tell me what your life has been like up until now?” 

"We've had our share of troubles...” he offered. I learned that they had only one child and she died as a young girl. They adopted another girl and she ran away at fourteen; they only heard from her a couple times. Sicknesses and disease added their toll as well.  More of the “for worse” stuff of life. I asked, “What kept you together all these years?”

"We took our marriage vows seriously,” he stated. He believed along with God's help and a sense of humor, love could hold a couple together through the best and worst of times. 

I applaud “keepers of the covenant” of marriage. Are there legitimate reasons for not sticking it out?  Yes.  However, some jump ship when faced with Nor'easters--not tsunamis.  On our fortieth anniversary we received a beautiful handmade card with this verse:

It's the couple who learns to weather life's storms who comes to know love in all its forms.

I watched another couple in the pre-op room of a Southern California hospital where the husband was prepped for brain surgery. No words were exchanged—but the tender touches and looks between them spoke volumes to me. Seasoned sailors on the stormy sea called life.  Covenant keepers.

Picture this kind of commitment and enjoy the Kodak® moment!

(Names have been changed to ensure privacy.)

What Three Things Would You Do Differently?

 

Request: Tell us three things you wish you would have done more of when your children were young?

This question came from the Mothers Of PreSchoolers group I mentored for four years. These amazing young moms taught me many things; I hope I instilled a bit of wisdom in them as well.

Response: I wish I would have...

Replaced more of their educational toys and games with art/craft supplies, dress-up clothes and simple household items. These things spark imagination and creativity which is so plentiful in children but is snuffed out without someone to encourage this play.

           
 
  
 While using creativity and imagination, one's natural gifts and talents emerge and the parent can better see these traits and many more:

• leadership

• shyness

• love of acting

• scientific minds

• organizational skills

• teaching ability

• nurturing

• hospitality

• comedic tendencies

• musical abilities

• artistic talents

Play is an important part of learning in childhood and remaining childlike as we age.

   
Relaxed and enjoyed spontaneous moments like running through a sprinkler, blowing bubbles, making snow angels, jumping in puddles of water etc. I wish I had participated more in this and not just been a spectator. My treasures are teaching me to do this.

Recorded their voices, especially their laughter—and kept this in a more organized and systematic way.

Parenting is a lifetime commitment and God is gracious to redeem some things we missed the first time around. It's never too late to enjoy spontaneous moments with your older children (and adult children as well).

 

    

 

Being a grandmother has given me a second chance to do things with more insight, wisdom and perhaps the most precious of all—time!

 

What would you do differently?  Stretch yourselves and get out of the spectator mode and enjoy some childlike activities!

 

Photos, Verses, Thoughts

 

It's summer...folks are busy and don't have time to read another blog. I will make this one very simple with photos and Haiku verses expressing my thoughts.  I wrote these several years ago not realizing I would be living them all too soon.

 

 

Zippers, buttons, ties

keep us modest and confined...

Closures that complete.

 

    

 

Transparent it seemed

Our family history displayed at auction.

   

 

 

 

Turmoil duels peace

Clashing, assuaging my mind

Battle for my soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lost in transition

My unprepared heart wonders...

Is peace possible?

What Can I Say?

 

So many ask, “What can I say? What should I say?” Most of the time it might be better to ask, “What should I not say?” I am referring to those who want to talk with someone who is hurting—someone who is facing great loss. There is no simple answer but I will offer some insights that have helped me--materials I used in training hospice volunteers and ministerial groups.

I had the privilege of meeting Dr. Alan Wolfelt during a seminar on bereavement about fifteen years ago. He is considered to be one of the top experts in this field and I applaud his work. He gave us this poignant piece to consider and I pass it on to you.

"Companioning” the bereaved. 

A note from Dr. Wolfelt

I invite you to consider the philosophy that undergirds my work with bereaved people as well as my writings. I believe in “companioning” the bereaved instead of “treating” them.

I have taken liberties with the noun “companion” and made it into the verb “companioning” because it so well captures the type of counseling relationship I support. Actually, the word companion, when broken down into its original Latin roots, means com for “with” and pan for “bread”. Someone you would share a meal with. A friend. An equal.

Companioning is about honoring the spirit;

it is not about focusing on the intellect.

Companioning is about curiousity;

it is not about expertise.

Companioning is about learning from others;

it is not about teaching them.

Companioning is about walking alongside;

it is not about leading or being led.

Companioning is about being still;

it is not about frantic movement forward.

Companioning is about discovering the gifts of sacred silence;

it is not about filling every painful moment with talk.

Companioning is about listening with the heart;

it is not about analyzing with the head.

Companioning is about bearing witness to the struggles of others;

it is not about judging or directing those struggles.

Companioning is about being present to another person's pain;

it is not about taking away or relieving the pain.

Companioning is about respecting disorder and confusion;

it is not about imposing order and logic.

Companioning is about going to the wilderness of the soul with another human being;

it is not about thinking you are responsible for finding the way out.

 

   
  
It's not about having the right thing to say because there are no sufficient words. It is not about having answers—there are none. It is about being truly present with another soul in this journey called life.

My Fourth Of July Love Affair

 

I think my love affair with the Fourth of July began in the early 1970s, towards the end of the Vietnam conflict, when Joe returned from active duty. It's my favorite holiday! I've lived under British rule and learned to sing God Save Our Gracious Queen as a child, but my allegiance is to the United States of America.

Freedom always comes with a price and thousands of men and women have paid heavily for us to live free. My first blast of reality at the cost of freedom came when I took my husband to the VA hospital in Cleveland, Ohio. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

We were seated in the emergency room waiting for his name to be called. He gave his name and the clerk said, “What's your last four?” (Everyone is identified by the last four digits of their Social Security number.) It seemed very impersonal.

What an eclectic group of soldiers for a people-watcher! Some sat with vacant stares. Others cursed and muttered obscenities. Many were vocal with their opinions of the government and treatment they received. One man came whizzing by in a motorized wheelchair with his attitude on display. Mounted on his chair was a forearm made of wood—complete with the digital symbol of disgust. Oh, my!

An Hispanic gentleman paced in the halls admiring the paintings on the wall. He would look—point--and muse. He was quite amusing and a welcome distraction.

Just then I watched another man come into the room in a wheelchair. He just barely passed by me when I heard a deep, disgusting belch. Enough already! And then the unthinkable happened. This man's wheelchair began to spin out of control and no one knew what to do.

"Who is that? What's his last four?” a clerk yelled. Excuse me? You want his last four—right now? “Who brought him? Did he come on a shuttle? Does anyone know who he is?” she continued. One brave soul reached over and shut off the electronic chair to stop the spinning. Finally, a doctor and nurse came to assess the situation. Another woman on staff came by and announced, “Oh, this is Elijah............” Finally, an identification. Elijah had a massive stroke right in front of us and they took him to a private room. He died about twenty minutes later.

On return visits during the next three years I enjoyed watching the WWII veterans come and go. Some of them were still married and they shuffled the halls arm in arm with their lifelong sweethearts—searching for room numbers and doctors. They stood proud and most wore their hats indicating their branch of service. Proud men and women. Korean veterans walked proudly as well. And then there were the Vietnam veterans.

The majority of these soldiers are bearded, sloppy and have a victim's mentality; they are easily recognized. Their mistreatment is undeniable but I often wonder if part of their issues stem from so many being drafted into military service while the other wars were fought by men and women who volunteered to serve their country.

We began to see more veterans from Iraqi and Afghanistan wars. Young wives pushed their husbands in wheelchairs while toddlers hung onto Mommy. It's a wrenching sight. One GI lives at the VA hospital; we guessed him to be in his late twenties. His attitude was remarkable since he had to lie on his belly all the time. He navigated the hallways on a motorized guerney designed just for him. “Hey, how ya doin' today?” he would ask. I imagine that in the dark of night he struggles with life issues but he inspired me each time I saw him.

I wanted to photograph people and ask them questions, particularly the Tuskegee Airman who rode the elevator with me. Thirty seconds was just not enough time to listen to his story. I got in a heap of trouble one day for taking a photo outside the building.

It was a breezy day and some vets were standing outside smoking. The three flags above them (Ohio, USA and POW/MIA) were perfectly displayed in the wind so I took a picture. Oops! A security guard appeared from nowhere and asked, “What are you doing?” “I'm taking a picture of the flags. Is something wrong?” “I'll have to take your camera from you. You can't take pictures anywhere on the premises—the Privacy Act forbids it.” he responded.

"Please, sir. I didn't know. You can take my camera and delete the pictures. NO problem.” He relented, “Normally I would have to take the whole camera. I won't take it—just don't take any more,” he warned. NO problem! I have vivid memories of the sights and sounds in the Veterans Hospital but no photos.

These memories magnify my love of freedom and liberty we enjoy in America. Cultural diversity is another expression of our freedom. Last weekend my granddaughter's birthday party was in a metro park in Columbus. Within fifty-yards sat five families of five ethnicities: Japanese, Muslim, Indian, Hispanic and our family.

Other symbols are reminders as well: patriotic music, fireworks displays, military statues...a black granite wall of names...flags on military graves...a veteran standing at attention as Old Glory passes by in the hometown parade.

 

 

 

My Fourth of July  love affair continues...

 

Let's celebrate life, liberty and the happiness we enjoy in the United States of America...and don't forget to thank our veterans!  God bless America and America, bless God!

My Montana Summer

 

"A baby fills a place in your heart you never knew was empty.” ~Unknown~

My world changed dramatically twelve years ago today—June 26, 1998. My heart enlarged to welcome my first granddaughter, Montana Jaide, and I am forever changed since my Montana summer.

She was born on a hot, hazy summer day when the tiger lilies, Queen Anne's lace and sweet peas bloomed along the roadside and corn stalks sprouted up in the farm fields in the ninety-five degree heat. As I drove through the country to the hospital, I reveled in the landscape as I imagined my new role in life. 

I stored up snippets of advice from grandmothers I admired; now it was time to open those files and retrieve wisdom freely offered from amazing women like my mother, Wanza, my grandmother, Grace; Ann Moyer, Evelyn Cole and Barb Barr. Others never knew their casual sharing impacted me so deeply, but I made mental notes to follow their examples.

Words like “heritage” and “legacy” suddenly emerged in my consciousness. I raised three sons and a girl was a treat. My mind raced to think of girlie things we could do together. My future seemed brighter at the prospects of sharing my world with a little female. A second chance at parenting—oh, how I needed that.

Wonder and imagination grew inside me again. Babies fresh from the Father's heart and heavenly realm evoke amazement and wonder. Simple pleasures and joys grow exponentially in the company of these precious gifts.

I was reading from World's Bible handbook by Robert T. Boyd on the fruit of the Spirit of God and found this very interesting. The fruit of the Spirit is LOVE; only one fruit—love! The other qualities mentioned are varieties of love.

• Joy is love singing.

• Peace is love resting.

• Longsuffering is love enduring.

• Gentleness is love's touch.

• Goodness is love's character.

• Faithfulness is love's habit.

• Meekness is love denying self.

• Temperance (self-control) is love holding the reins.

 

Based on this insight, it seems to me that babies come equipped with the Spirit of God. 

 

Love becomes flesh when they arrive in our world. They coo for joy at the sound of your voice and the sight of your face. Is there anything more peaceful than a sleeping baby? They are longsuffering—and put up with a lot as we learn their temperaments. Their touch is gentle; they show goodness. They love faithfully even when mistreated. Meekness and self-control come with some maturity!

 

These same qualities are required to nurture the next generation.  Each child requires a different dosage and some require huge amounts of self-control. Mysteriously patience and longsuffering seem more natural the second time around.  Not having to be responsible twenty-four hours a day lightens our load, and we finally realize that spilled milk is not the end of the world after all.

The first grandchild gets to choose what grandparents will be called. In the beginning I was “Mammer” which later became “Grammer” and Joe was “Papa” from the start.  I call my grandchildren my "treasures".

It's been fun to watch Montana grow to age twelve. I'm not certain which of us has grown more but it just might be me (except for the fact that she is now one half inch taller than me).  What a privilege it is to be her grandmother.

My prayer is that her heart will always be tender towards the Father and that she is confidant in His love for her. I often tell her: I hope that when I'm really old that you will sit on my lap; that you will still enjoy telling me your hopes and dreams—your struggles—the deep longings of your heart. Grammer will always listen to your heart and you can tell me anything. Nothing can change my mind about loving you! 

 

It's undeniable--faithfulness is love's habit.

Happy Birthday, Montana!

Click on Montana in left column for more photos.

Can One Farmer Change The World?

 

How productive is sitting in a ladder-back rocking chair staring out the window? It might be world changing.  You could ask my grandfather, Earl Smith, if he were alive today.  He would say, "Oh, psshaww."

He could have chosen to sit in his curly maple chair and feel sorry for himself as he thought about his life and the tough things he had to face: the Great Depression; the births and deaths of his triplets; his close call with death when he tried to rescue sheep in a flash flood; being a widower for twenty-three years; his son Dale's mild retardation; his daughter Ruth's mental illness; his only grandchildren lived in a foreign land; loneliness.  Et cetera...

Ruth and Dale lived at home and helped him maintain the family farm where the familiar routines of country life suited them well.  His daughter, Geraldine, lived in Columbus and worked as editor of American Ceramics Society Magazine. My dad, Paul, was his oldest child and the only one who married.

Grandpa was a common farmer most of his life but taught school in a one-room schoolhouse a few years. His mailing address was simply Route 2, Fredericktown, Ohio. From that 70 acre farm he touched the world and his seed continues to carry on his legacy. How did he do it?

He loved the smell of fresh hay and harvested corn. His garden was enormous so that he could give the extra produce to folks who needed help. He raised sheep but never once tasted a roasted leg of lamb—too expensive for his tastes. The summer he died (age 82) he planted two hundred strawberry plants so he could share; and he canned crisp lime pickles. His love of flowers was legendary. None of these are really world-changing activities. 

But every day when Grandpa finished eating lunch, he chose to sit for a spell in his rocker and meditate. He was a deep thinker and scribbled notes in the margins of Farm Journal magazines. He learned to quiet his mind and body to listen to that still small voice. He prayed for many people; his thirst for wisdom must have been high priority because wisdom seemed to ooze out of him.

A young minister, Ray Linn, came to his church full of education and zeal. Grandpa nurtured him and taught him how to counsel folks—how to listen to their hearts and love on people. Ray often stated “I would not have matured as a minister without Earl's wisdom.” Ray has ministerd over fifty years to thousands.

My dad also loved to work the land and raise sheep, but in his early thirties he felt called to become a minister so he enrolled in seminary. In 1956 our family moved to Grand Cayman Island to work as missionaries.  Was this a world-changing move? Maybe so.

My father pastored over fifty years and touched thousands of lives in several countries; our family enjoys worldwide connections because of this ministry. My grandfather's prayers impacted our lives and we in turn touched others--and they touched thousands.  Do you see the pattern emerging?

Aunt Gerry paid Grandpa's fare to Cayman to visit us in 1962. Here are some excerpts from his account that was printed in the Waterford Church of Christ newsletter:

Due to the generosity of a loving daughter and the urging of relatives and friends, I was persuaded to board an airplane in Columbus for Cincinnati, there to become a passenger on a jet airliner bound for Miami. In Miami, I boarded a British plane for a flight over water and Cuba to the Island of Grand Cayman five hundred miles away, for a visit with my son, Paul, and family.

There I spent three weeks in a wonderful climate, saw many new sights and enjoyed the fellowship of the church. I worshipped with them and was inspired by their earnestness and devotion to the same God and Savior, partakers of the same Spirit as we in America.

I was born and reared in horse and buggy days when the average speed was six miles per hour, and when the fastest railroad train traveled sixty miles per hour. Now I have ridden in a jet plane weighing over a hundred tons, traveling six hundred miles per hour and flying five miles above the earth. It was a thrilling and never to be forgotten experience. This makes one more reverent of the Power of God, who created the fuel, metals, atmosphere and the laws governing them and who gave to man the brain power to assemble all the instruments to work according to His laws....

As I witnessed the vastness of the sea and the mighty power of even the small waves, I was made to feel the utter insignificance of man and be reminded of the scripture, “What is man that thou are mindful of him?” Yet we are told in Holy Writ that God cares for, takes note of, and loves any and all who reverence and obey Him....

I rejoiced in the consecration of the people, and especially the earnestness and developing leadership of the young people...

Yours in Christ,

Earl Smith

Nothing pleases a farmer more than to reap a harvest. He wisely planted “seeds of righteousness”  and lived to see a part of the great harvest.

I saw Ray Linn last summer when he officiated a relative's memorial service. He mentioned again my noble grandfather's wisdom and marveled that he has now seen the fifth generation of believers in the Smith family.

 

Can one farmer change the world?   You be the judge.

Photo: Earl Smith among his beloved flowers on the family farm.

Do You Have A Spiritual Birthday?

 

Meet my twin sister, Winifred Moore. We have the same father but different mothers. Don't believe me? I'll get to that in a minute.

A few weeks ago my niece was getting settled in her hospital room after surgery. It had been a tense morning as we waited to speak with the surgeon to be assured that she was going to fully recover. Just then we heard a sweet, joyous tune played over the intercom.  It reminded me of an ice cream truck's music, but much softer.  I thought maybe there was a new trend in the hospital so I looked for an ice cream cart to emerge.  Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you... rang out in the hallways.

The student nurse turned and said, “Isn't that the sweetest thing? They play that every time a baby is born in the hospital. If twins are born, it's played twice."  The atmosphere changed from tension and worry to joy at the thought of a newborn baby. That got me thinking about something else...June 11, 1961.

According to that date, I'm really only forty-nine years old today.  I like that!  Do you know your spiritual birthday?

That Sunday in June my father was preaching at the Church on Hospital Road in George Town, Grand Cayman where we were missionaries. I don't recall specifics about the sermon but I remember what came next. He gave an invitation to any who wished to be born again that day.

Winifred was first to walk forward to my father and I followed her as we sang hymn number 210 (if I remember correctly) in the blue songbook: Sinners Jesus Will Receive.

 

Chorus:

Sing it o'er and o'er again, Christ receiveth sinful men

Make the message clear and plain, Christ receiveth sinful men.

I didn't have any dark secrets in my life at age eleven--no real obvious sins—except maybe pride. That's a big one. I believed what the scripture said that we have all sinned and need Jesus to be our Redeemer, so I accepted our Father's gracious offer.

After services we went to the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea to be water baptized. There we stood side by side—newborns in the family of God.  Soaking wet, clean as whistles.  Twin sisters for life--as different as night and day.  The saints sang a song in celebration.

“Count on it—there's more joy in heaven over one sinner's rescued life than over ninety-nine good people in no need of rescue.” Luke 15:7 (Message bible) I wonder what the music sounds like?

Newborns--natural births.  Born again children--spiritual births.  Both are  cause for joyous celebration!

A Veteran's Surrender

 

Discharge from active duty does not discharge a soldier from the effects of war. Freedom comes with a price tag, and full disclosure is seldom made.

Slowly the cost of this precious freedom emerges as soldiers struggle to adapt to the challenges of civilian life. I witnessed this firsthand when my GI Joe returned from Viet Nam, May 28, 1971. His safe return home and official discharge from active duty occurred on that same unforgettable day in May. 

 

The “fine print” of military service may include flashbacks, nightmares, night sweats, fear of loud noises and fireworks displays. But this aspect surprised and shook me: the veterans' mistrust of children.

One of the casualties of warfare is loss of innocence and abuse of children. Cruel men and women brainwash these precious ones to kill and maim whoever rebels against them. Joe witnessed children kill many, (including their parents), because they had been trained to kill if anyone refused to obey those in authority. Our soldiers became wary of these young children and the bitterness escalated over time.

Upon arrival in the USA, one of the most hurtful insults our veterans heard was that of “baby killer”.  Is it any wonder our veterans suffer such mental torment? I've spoken with parents whose sons and daughters served in Iraq and Afghanistan; they have issues with children for similar reasons as well.

    

 

I looked through some photos of Vietnam and found one of Joe visiting an orphanage...a safe haven for soldier and child. What did it take for him to come to terms with his mistrust and bitterness towards children?

 

It took having children and grandchildren of our own. Time and prayer also helped the healing process.  On a visit to Southern California I witnessed evidence of this transformation.

 

In 2007 my sister Deborah became grandmother to an adopted four-year old Vietnamese girl named Elizabeth. She was welcomed into the family a short time before Papa John died, but he never got to meet her. (He would have adored her!) She barely spoke English but endeared herself to us all with her zest for life.

John's funeral was held at First Christian Church in Long Beach, California, where he pastored a multi-cultural congregation.  We watched as Elizabeth's  eyes brightened when she heard the familiar Asian music the Cambodians sang.  She giggled in delight when she spotted Asian food at the dinner afterward.  (Joe politely refused it—too many reminders.)  But the most wonderful thing happened when we were visiting at the house. Joe and Elizabeth became buddies.

This photo is priceless to me: one GI Joe and one Vietnamese child...simply surrendered!

  

   

Mayday! Mayday!

 

It's a bad day when you have a Mayday! and get zero help when you call that toll-free number! I've had a couple frustrating experiences in recent years.

 

Mega ministries advertise prayer lines and hundreds of counselors standing by to take your calls. I prefer to talk to someone I know when I feel desperate, but maybe an anonymous call would be helpful. Maybe not.

 

One of my family members was seriously ill and had a psychotic episode which triggered suicidal thoughts. That was a firsthand experience I do not want to repeat. Don't bother friends this late at night I reasoned.  So I called one of the widely publicized toll-free prayer lines.

 

"Hello, thank you for calling ******, this is Shirley. How may I help you?” In between sobs I stated my reason for calling.  She replied, “Well, you can get better from that!” STUPID Shirley put me over the edge. I rationalized that she wasn't properly trained—or having her own issues.  I gasped, "But I need prayer!"  She finally decided to pray for me.  #*$@){!(*#. Loosely translated that means Mayday!  A more common meaning is ungodly thoughts.

Joe and I ministered together forty-plus years and it was excruciatingly painful to not have him beside me in a church service.  I had a major meltdown when I came home one Sunday.  My mother called and I couldn't talk to her because I was wailing.   So...I mustered some courage to call another prayer-helpline.

My heart pounded as I pushed the numbers and prayed I could make sense when I talked. Wasted energy, I tell you. A brief recorded message began: “All our counselors are busy at this time. Please hold!” Are you kidding me? I can't hold. I can't listen to a recording when I'm in crisis!

I called a different one.  It rang through and then I got cut off. Grrrrrrrr!  Yes, I knew all the “right” scriptures that were supposed to comfort me; I could quote them all.  It wasn't helpful.  Anonymous counsel was nonexistent that day.  Sometimes one needs “flesh and blood” to talk to...someone who will listen objectively.  Or a dog. But I'm not a dog lover.

 

Mayday! It's a vocal distress signal that literally means, “Come help me!” The old custom of wearing black clothing for one year after a loved one died served as a visual distress signal: I'm emotionally fragile, be kind when you speak to me. (That's my version.)  Sometimes I think that custom should be reinstated.  Wearing black armbands for a day or two doesn't have quite the same punch.  But help does exist and often comes in unexpected ways.

 

One Saturday night a few years ago, Joe and I were lying in bed crying out to God for someone to encourage us as we walked through a very difficult time. We spent our lives encouraging others and now we needed some return on that investment. 
We put on our smiley faces for Sunday services and began to greet everyone. As I talked with a young woman I had not seen for a long time, her four-year old son whirled around and hugged me tightly and gave me a great big kiss. I thought he mistook me for his grandmother but I was wrong. I heard God whisper, “There's your encouragement. That was from me!” I wasn't expecting it to come packaged in a freckle-faced boy, but what a refreshing gift.

 

I haven't called any prayer lines recently, but here is a short list of things I know work.

• Someone who is near and will respond kindly to my Mayday! is much more helpful.

• Skip the insulting platitudes.

• A simple nod of the head works.

• Save the “well-you-know...” stuff.

• Presence ranks high—I love presence!

• Be on the lookout for four-year-old freckle-faced boys.

Photo by L. Scott

CAN I GET A WITNESS?

Several years ago I flew to Southern California to help my sister care for her husband John. The hospice nurse suggested that we have one of their volunteers come so that we could get away for a short while. On Easter Sunday, Leo, hospice volunteer, came to help so we could attend church services.

Leo was a quiet man. He scanned the living room for the Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times and finally asked if we had a copy. Bob (John's brother) walked to the corner to purchase one before we left. I asked, “How did you become interested in hospice work?” He answered, “My mother had hospice care. I want to repay the kindness to others.”

I probed further, “What do you do as a vocation?” “I'm a homicide detective in LA county,” he replied. Seriously! I was face to face with a real detective.

I wondered if real detectives watched detective dramas so I asked, “Do you watch CSI or NCIS?” He gave a “nah” look and said, “Most of what you see on those programs are not true in the real world. I'd give anything just to have some evidence and a witness. I mostly investigate drive-by shootings and there are no willing witnesses.”

I have given the topic of “witnesses” much thought since then. What would bible stories sound like if the characters shared firsthand accounts at festival celebrations to second and third generation family members? Imagine with me...

 

Julia overheard her teenaged great nieces and granddaughters discussing the Mosaic laws regarding women. They were outraged at what seemed to be serious injustices towards women. Questions. Animated disagreement. Finally Julia addressed them, “What are you so passionate about today, dear ones?”

Priscilla persisted, “The law that says women should be stoned if caught in adultery...what about the man? What is done to him...anything? It seems so unfair!”

Julia agreed. Leah asked, “Did you ever witness a woman being stoned?”

Julia's face flushed. “Come here and sit with me. I have never told you a dark secret from my painful past, but it's time you knew.

As a young woman I made many unwise choices. I was one who was caught in adultery.” The girls sat in stunned silence.

She divulged, “My heart pounded as the men brought me into the street to be stoned. I saw my life pass before me in the twinkling of an eye.  There was a Rabbi nearby that the religious men were trying to trick. They asked this great teacher named Jesus some questions but I couldn't concentrate. He bent down and wrote in the dirt and seemed to ignore them.”

"What did he write?” they asked. “I don't know.  I was too ashamed to look...but in the end he told them, 'The sinless one among you, go first: throw the stone.' He wrote again in the dirt. One by one the crowd left, starting with the oldest one until I was left alone with him. Then he asked me, 'Woman, where are they? Does no one condemn you?'”

I answered, “No one, Master.” No man ever looked at me with such purity...it seemed like he looked into my very soul and really knew me. I was overwhelmed by such compassion and love. His instructions to me: Go on your way. From now on, don't sin.

Mary dared to ask, “Did you ever commit that sin again?”

"Never!” Julia responded. “If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Do you understand how close I came to dying? These men had stones in their hands... I kept one of the stones as evidence of being redeemed from my sin. There will always be injustices but now I know for certain that mercy triumphs over judgment.”

"Oh, YaYa, I'm so glad the Rabbi named Jesus saved your life!” Leah declared.

"Yes, Aunt Julia, I had no idea you were an eye witness of His love. I truly have a lot to think about,” Priscilla added.

----------------------------------------------

Based on John 8:1-11; James 2:12

 

Now it's your turn. Think about some bible stories in the context of telling them at family reunions and celebrations and make them come alive!

MY MOM SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME!

 

I have been very blessed to have a godly mother but I know that is not true for everyone. I've also been nurtured by many women throughout my life who have invested heavily in me. I am forever grateful!  My Mom taught me many truths and set a good example for me in many areas.  She was strict but lots of fun too.  Here is a sampling of Mom's Musings.
   
 
The basics of everyday life:

• Don't talk with your mouth full of food.

• Clean up your plate (still paying for that one!)

• Change your underwear every day.

• Find someone who can give a good haircut.

• Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about.

• Don't you ever sass me again. (I liked having the last word.) Amen!

• “Red” up the table. (What color red would you like it?)

• If it's worth doing, do it right the first time.

• Remember who you represent when you leave this house.

• Shut the door.  Don't slam the door!

Housekeeping tips:

• Make your bed hospital style.

• Keep entrance to your home clean.

• Windows should be spotless.

• Sew with quality fabric and thread. 

• If surprise guests come, put the dirty dishes in the oven. Put other stuff in closets or wherever you can hide them.

• Always buy quality things—it's cheaper in the end.

 

Relationships and Friendships:

• Choose your friends wisely because they can last a lifetime.

• Your date could become your mate: be wise.

• Have fun with your children and especially grandchildren.

• Be consistent when disciplining your children.

• Don't tattle or tell secrets.

She scared the “hell” out of me with this one: Don't go anywhere you wouldn't be glad to see Jesus in the Second Coming! That advice alone kept me from making myself vulnerable to peer pressure to go to unseemly places.

       
Photos (click on each one to enlarge) left to right:

Mom giving me a haircut and my sister Becky waiting her turn.

Mom makes adjustments to my wedding dress.  My parents were examples of faithfulness in marriage for fifty-four years.

Demonstrating fun--Grandma showing my son Tadd how to bat the baseball.
 

            
 
 
Photos (click on each one to enlarge): left to right

Best friends forever--Wanza and Olga Adams.
  
Mom set an example of sharing her knowledge with others: Wanza and Rhodell Manderson.
 
From generation to generation...Rachel, "Great", Tadd and Isabella.
  
 
One does not have to give birth to a child to be a nurturer--comforting news for the barren women of the earth. There are nurturing souls everywhere, so if you need a Mama, ask God to make one available to you. Both of you will be rewarded.  If you long to nurture another, God will make that possible as well.  Happy Mother's Day!