December 2013

NOTE: Our children's pastor asked if I would write a Christmas story for him to use, and so I did. The following is loosely based on my father’s experience as a child, in that his family really did not celebrate Christmas. He never had a Christmas tree in his boyhood home.

Robby’s Christmas Tree

Robby’s wish was simple: he wanted a Christmas tree. In his very own house. In his very own living room. With ornaments that sparkled and candles that lit up the faces of his brothers and sisters. Probably not with presents beneath it, though. That would be just too much to ask. He knew that. Just the tree. That would do.

But it really wasn’t all that simple. Not at all. Robby’s Dad wasn’t much on Christmas. He said they didn’t need it.  In fact, his family never celebrated Christmas. Never had, as far as Robby knew. No decorations. No cookies. No presents. And certainly no tree. Not ever.

Robby wasn’t sure why that was, exactly. Even though he was only nine, Robby knew that times were hard. The year was 1932 and his teacher said what was happening was called a depression. Lots of people didn’t have jobs and if you didn’t have a job that meant you sure didn’t have any money for stuff like Christmas. Some people didn’t even have enough food, so Christmas was out of the question.

But, really, since his family lived on a farm and there were lots of evergreens all over their land, why couldn’t they cut one down for a Christmas tree? Just a little short one? They had had popcorn, didn’t they? They grew some ever summer and it wouldn’t cost that much to use that, would it? Mother had a needle and some thread and he knew people used those things to make popcorn strings and hang them on their trees. They’d done it at school, after all. And maybe they didn’t have any shiny store-bought ornaments like he’d seen in the Sears & Roebuck Wish Book, but they had some paper and glue, didn’t they? They would make some ornaments! If the tree didn’t cost anything and the decorations didn’t, either, how could Dad say no?

Feeling confident that his father couldn’t possibly object to his plan, Robby convinced his older brother, Jim, to help him do the deed. The snow was pretty deep but they were big, strong farm boys and they borrowed Dad’s ax and traipsed on outside. All around them were trees of all sizes, each begging to be chosen. Robby found the best one of the lot and he and Jim took turns chopping. Dragging it back across the field, Robby was beside himself with excitement and anticipation. Wouldn’t his sisters be thrilled? Wouldn’t mother just be the proudest mom?

Dad spotted them before they got to the back door and he kind of exploded. He refused to allow them to take the little tree inside. Punished them for taking the ax without asking. And sent them to bed early with no supper. “Why?” sobbed Robby to Jim. “Why is Dad so mean? Why is our family the only one around with no Christmas tree? Sometimes it seems like Dad doesn’t even like us, his own kids. Doesn’t seem right.”

Jim didn’t know the answer to that for sure. Their Dad had always been quiet. He didn’t say much, even to his wife or his kids. And he always seemed to be a little bit mad at everybody. “Dad’s kinda worried all the time, Robby. I heard him tellin’ Ma that we might lose the farm. It’s happening to some of our neighbors. Maybe you just better stop bothering about a Christmas tree. We’re not ever getting one and you know it.”

With his empty stomach rumbling away, Robby had a hard time getting to sleep. He remembered a small paper his buddy, George, had given him at school. The paper had some story on it about a tree, didn’t it? Even if Dad wouldn’t let him have a tree, at least he could read about one. It was still light enough, so he fished it out from under his bed. There was a verse from the Bible on the paper. It said, “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed” (1 Peter 2:24). “That couldn’t be a Christmas tree,” Robby thought. ”But it sounds important. I’ll ask George about it when I see him at school tomorrow.”

Robby did ask George. And George told him about Jesus. How Jesus came to earth as a baby, God’s perfect Son, on that first Christmas. How He grew up, obeyed His earthy dad, and told lots of people how to get to heaven one day. And how Jesus died on a tree, taking the sins of every person in the world on His Own Self.

While he was a boy, Robby never did get to have a Christmas tree. He had to be content to enjoy the ones at school. But when he was grown he made sure his own children had the very best tree he could find - every single Christmas. There were sparkly ornaments and some made by his little ones, icicles and strings of popcorn. And, oh yes, even a few presents for his kids under those trees. But Robby always remembered that very most special tree he’d learned about on the Christmas of his 9^th year. And, in his heart, he knew that one was the best Christmas tree there ever could be.

 

The Talking Tree

I love Christmas movies. Some people say they’re hokey, sappy and way too cheesy. Maybe, but they are still one of my favorite December (November, even??!!) activities. They nearly always have happy endings and that pleases me. Some are uplifting though most, even I will admit, tend toward the overly sentimental. But I don’t care. If there’s ever a time for that, Christmastime is it. Angels. Sparkling stars. A little snow. And everywhere a shiny Christmas tree.

In one movie I watched this year one of the main characters tells the other, “You know, Christmas trees tell the story of our lives.” And as I decorated the little somewhat scrawny one I have in Montana, I had to agree. Unless you only have one of those fancy-schmancy, fluffy, poofy color-themed ones, each ornament you hang brings you back to another time, another place and another very special person.

"It comes every year,” said writer Marjorie Holmes of Christmas, “and will go on forever. And along with Christmas belong the keepsakes and the customs. Those humble, everyday things a mother clings to, and ponders, like Mary in the secret spaces of her heart."  Let me clue you in on some of the “ponderings” of my Christmas heart, ornamentally speaking.

My oldest ornament was my mother’s, now a rather bent, glittery cardboard baby buggy. It signaled that I was coming to join the family, and I guess the fact that she kept the buggy and passed it on to me years later meant she was happy about it! Somewhat worse for wear, there’s also waving plastic Santa who has to be tucked way back in on a branch because he’s lost his ability to hang from one. Mom saved a green felt stocking, too, that the first grade me “sewed” together. That one is relegated to the back of the tree due to its now really-tattered state.

The two Christmases we spent in Germany, courtesy of Uncle Sam and the US Army, are commemorated by traditional German wooden baubles. The daughter who technically came into the world on US soil, but possesses a German birth certificate, gets those one day.

Three tiny, beautiful little girls in their Christmas finery grin at me and are placed front and center of my tree every year. Those same darlings – as a 4^th grader, a 1^st grader and a Kindergartener - each have their own photo spots on simple golden canning lids, surrounded by glued-on white paper doilies, reminding me of how kind the folks at East Troy Bible Church were to include us newcomers in their 1983 Christmas decorating.
Chicago Cubs fans, include the ones in my house, are fond of saying “there’s always next year” and that’s true for the Cubs ornament – a yearly reminder that while those particular ball players might not (yet!) be winners, the ever-patient, ever-hopeful fans in my house who love them, are.

Bob’s late sister crafted some sparkly crystal wreaths that catch the light and remind us of loved ones who left us way too soon. Remembrances from Cathy, a dear friend who made it her tradition to craft and give an annual family ornament often cause a shiny tear or two to fall as I see her handwriting on the back of each very special piece.

Then there are the trips. In 1999 Bob & I traveled to Israel, an excursion of a lifetime for us, and a couple Bethlehem nativities are there to make us think of when we walked the streets that Jesus did. The dolphin and starfish aren’t swimming in Florida, but their presence makes us wish we were, guided by one of my passions – lighthouses. And then, of course there’s an entire other little tree full of tropical treats commemorating our two Hawaiian Christmases - and the precious boy who first made us grandparents there!

We can’t forget the bison from YNP, the Montana bears, the western boot – all reminders of God’s grandblessings (as a friend so aptly puts it!) to us and the privilege of spending so much time watching them grow from teeny-to-tall in breathtaking Big Sky Country.

A couple Christmas pretties that now spend the holiday on my tree used to reside with my parents. They aren’t the most gorgeous or the most valuable, at least in the monetary sense, but I feel pretty sentimental about them. They are a tangible remnant of and connection with my past, my childhood, and my now departed and most beloved mom and dad.

McDonald’s might not be represented on your Christmas tree, but it is on ours. Our little logo’d lunch bag helps us to be grateful to the Lord and to Bob for all his labor during his 30 year career with the corporation, the dedication to which supported our family, sent three girls to school and allowed us to show the country and many of its treasures to them.

Mr. Charles Schulz, he of “Peanuts” fame, once lightly quipped: "Christmas is a box of tree ornaments that have become part of the family." Yup, and my family, my life is on that tree. How about yours?

 

 

 

 

What's in a Name

 

Christmas is coming early to our family this year. And we’re getting a Peanut!

No, not a relative of Planters Peanuts’ Mr. Peanut. But she’s a relative of ours and we are already in love.

Our youngest daughter and her husband are expecting baby #3 - this one a little girl - in mid-December. We would have been thrilled with a third grandson, but are so excited for this female variety (after having three daughters ourselves, my husband and I know how to do the girl thing!). Her parents have dubbed her “Peanut” for the duration of gestation, though I  assume she has another for-real moniker, one that mom and dad are just not yet revealing.

But, you know, even if Baby Girl’s name actually ended up to be “Peanut,” it wouldn’t change our affection for her. She belongs to us, is already a full-fledged part of our family. Doesn’t matter what she looks like, if she’ll be tall or tiny, brunette or blond, brown-eyed or blue – we love her through and through.

Her other grandma and I were discussing this phenomenon recently—how we’ve never laid eyes on this child, never met, never touched her.  Haven’t seen her smile, haven’t heard her make a sound (another assumption: I expect she will make plenty of those!!). We’ve seen blurry, fuzzy-to-us sonogram images of this wee one, but don’t know who she  resembles, the shape of her mouth or the type of her temperament. Yet we are completely, totally, absolutely smitten by this God-given miniature marvel. She’s part Durgan, part Larson—and in our hearts, that’s all it takes to make this Peanut precious, no matter what her real name is.

When Jesus Christ came into the world many Christmases ago, this precious God-Man came with many names. The angel told His mother, Mary, to “give Him  the name, Jesus,” and that He  would be called the “Son of the Most High” and  the “Son of God.” The shepherds were told He was “Savior” and “Messiah, the Lord.” We know Him as “Emmanuel, God with Us,” “Prince of Peace,” “Light of the World,” the “Beginning and the End.” There are over 200 names and titles ascribed to Jesus, each one reflecting His nature, His character and His work.

This Image of God loves us in spite of us. We belong to Him. We are His. He knew us completely before we were born, knew our peculiarities, our peccadilloes—our sin—and loved us anyway, enough to leave His throne in heaven and come to earth on a heavenly rescue mission.

Dear Lamb of God, in Your Great Name we thank you—and we thank You for our own new little lamb, Miss Peanut!

 

 

 

 

Getting ready for Thanksgiving tomorrow? You'd better stop a moment and give thanks for Sarah Hale!

Sarah Saved the Day

When you tuck into your turkey, when you salivate over your stuffing and when your pumpkin pie pleases your palate this Thanksgiving day, remember Sarah Hale and give thanks for her, too. For without her, November 28 this year might be just another old peanut butter & jelly sandwich Thursday.

A mother of five, Sarah Hale was a fighter, a “righter” and a writer of wrongs. Born in 1788, she was a woman of great passion. When she encountered injustices (such as slavery), she and her pen argued against them. When she thought there should be educational opportunities for girls and playgrounds for kids, she wrote about it. She was a poet and an author of children's books and biographies as well as the first female magazine editor in the country. And remember "Mary Had a Little Lamb?” That was Sarah.

But back to Thanksgiving. In Sarah's day, New England celebrated the holiday but Southerners didn't; they ignored it out West and most every place else in the country. This bothered Mrs. Hale. A lot. She loved Thanksgiving and felt it was necessary for everyone in the country to enjoy it together, thanking God for his many blessings. So, she started a letter writing campaign, asking politicians to make Thanksgiving a national holiday. Her magazine articles implored readers to write letters, too, and one by one the states made it official - in their own states. But no national holiday. Sarah kept going, writing to President Zachary Taylor. No, he said. And then Millard Fillmore. Nope. Franklin Pierce. No, again. James Buchanan. No. There were just too many other, more pressing concerns - arguments over policies, economic issues and war. It seemed the country was in danger of falling apart, but Sarah kept up her quest and wrote again, this time to Abraham Lincoln. And he said…YES! It had taken Sarah 38 years and thousands of letters, but in 1863 President Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a national holiday - a day for everyone to give thanks to God, together. Sarah Hale, a lover of Thanksgiving – called the mother of Thanksgiving - had literally saved the day.

148 years later, we still need Thanksgiving. We still have concerns. We still argue. Economic issues are everywhere and war still rears its ugly head. But I Thessalonians is also still true when it commands us to "Give thanks in all circumstances." Psalm136:1 admonishes: “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good. His love endures forever.” His love endures, He will see us through it all and we are all thankful, together. Thanks for Thanksgiving, Sarah Hale!

 

Think about Your Thanks

November is rather a weird time of year. The grass needs to be mowed a couple times more but you have to bundle yourself up to do it, hood, gloves and all. Your neighbor’s Halloween pumpkin is still grinning from his perch on the porch but the woman around the corner has already strung her Christmas lights – and turned them on. Stores are still trying to rid themselves of all remaining orange and black paraphernalia while hawking all the red and green. But just try to buy a pilgrim.

I’m going to risk sounding like a broken record (just using that term dates a person, doesn’t it? You know – those old-timey hard plastic disks that played a catchy tune when you put the needle down, but would repeat the same part over and over if there’s a broken spot? Well that’s me. I’ve said this all before). We tend to skip the grateful and just enjoy the “gimme.” I feel badly each year when we rush to carve our pumpkins, do the trick or treat thing and then run headlong right to trimming our trees (even though I have been known to listen to Christmas music in October) – skipping right over the thanks. I was thrilled when I saw three homemade wooden Thanksgiving decorations in someone’s yard the other day. You don’t see much of that. Does placing a turkey in a window or a pair of pilgrims on the sidewalk mean the owner is thankful? I don’t know, but I do know he or she is at least thinking about it.

And we do need to think about it. We are not naturally a thankful, grateful people. In the Bible we are told to give thanks, commanded to give thanks: Psalm 136:1  ^“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His love endures forever.” Psalm 107:15 “Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for mankind…”                                   1 Thessalonians 5:18 “give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.” If we were innately thankful, we wouldn’t have to be ordered to be so. We wouldn’t have to learn it.

When I was little, if I wanted something or something was given to me, my parents would remind me, “Now, what are the magic words?” They wanted me to say “please” and “thank you” and they wanted me to be thankful. I don’t suppose they thought that making me say those words would automatically make me thankful, but the words' repeated use certainly made me think about it. And besides, use of those polite words helps a person function in polite society (and if you are saying, “”What’s that?” maybe the fact that we don’t insist our children use those “magic words” anymore might be one of the reasons).

A popular November activity on the social media outlet, Facebook, has several of my acquaintances daily posting something for which they are thankful. Family, friends, food, pets, home, church and God are all mentioned. All good things, all blessings and they should never be glossed-over or counted as so “everyday” that they are not worth mentioning. But, as part of the “thinking” about thanks (the word “thank” has its root origins in the word “think”) I love it when people spend some time to ponder “all God’s wonderful deeds for mankind” (see Psalm 107:15 once again). This year my daughter is going through the alphabet, coming up with a blessing for each letter. You could take each letter and praise God for someone you know whose name starts with a,b,c…and so on. Another idea is to pick a color and give thanks for several things God made in that hue (red: apples, leaves, burning bushes in the fall, cherries, strawberries, roses, your friend’s hair, rubies). You get the idea. If we spend enough time thinking we won’t have any trouble thanking. (If you think you’ve thanked Him for just about everything you can think of, what if everything you have was taken away? Could you think of more then?)

God is so creative, so generous, so kind, so loving, His character so rich and full that we will run out of days to thank Him long before we run out of reasons to thank Him.

“To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble,
but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.” --Johannes A. Gaertner

 

 

 

A "blast from the past" (November 2002; an article I wrote for Spring Creek Church's People Matters)

Turkey Talk

Each November I find myself filled with a certain amount of trepidation – all on account of tangling with a turkey. While our family enjoys feasting on that fowl, it can be a bit of a tricky business managing to produce a delicious delicacy rather than a dried-out dud.

So, I went to my trusted friends to seek out their sage advice. How, I queried, do you make a Thanksgiving dinner? Austin said, “First you put a wrapper over it.” (The turkey, I believe he meant.) “You cook it at 30 degrees for an hour; eat it with gravy, vegetables and cauliflower.” After consultation with Bob, however, Austin felt the oven temperature he advised was a little low. “Change it to 50 degrees,” Austin instructed.

On to Samantha, who said the first thing to do was “Go to Grandma’s.” Then, “You take the turkey and s-t-r-e-t-c-h it out, put sauce on it, bake it at 10 degrees for 13 minutes and enjoy it with beef stew and lasagna.”

Hannah starts with pumpkin pie, which you “Kinda bake, or you can buy it at the store.” She’s a proponent of keeping a holiday kitchen cool, so her turkey recipe only takes 5 minutes in a “1 or 2 degree” oven and “you have grease with it.” “Actually,” Hannah confesses, “I don’t really like turkey or pumpkin pie. I just eat candy.”

Kaitlyn doesn’t care for turkey, either, but does have “hot chicken, cooked for 5 minutes at 5 degrees.” “And,” she adds, “We eat hot dogs, too.”

A back-to-the-basics kind of guy, Conner’s first step is to “twist the turkeys’ heads off” followed by 10-60 minutes in the oven (we assume plucking off the feathers is involved somewhere along the way as well). His side dish of choice is potatoes, cooked, if you please.

While these folks are truly my friends, and I love them to pieces, I’m not doing a thing with their advice except to chuckle at it. They are Kindergarten, 1^st and 2^nd graders whose only culinary expertise involves the spreading of peanut butter and jelly. If I want turkey advice, I need to call the experts.

Similarly, many of us spend way too much time seeking out life advice from so-called “friendly experts” like Drs. Laura, Phil and even Oprah (or Ann or Abby) when the “cure for what ails us” lies right between the pages of God’s Word. Psalm 19 reminds us that “God’s laws are perfect. They protect us, make us wise and give us joy and light.” They are “pure, eternal, just…they warn us away from harm and give success to those who obey them.”

Want a moist, delectable, golden brown bird crowning your Thanksgiving table this year? Ignore my little friends, please! Skip the food poisoning and call the Butterball hotline. Want peace? Love? Wisdom? Joy? Skip the self-help gurus and say with the Psalmist, “Open my eyes to see wonderful things in Your Word.” What a reason to give thanks!

THINK and THANK

I see it. I want it. I have to have it.”

If you’re a fan of the HGTV hit series “House Hunters” you’ve heard those words, or plenty others like them.

House Hunters follows people on their search to purchase a home. On-camera subjects look at three properties, make comments on each and end up choosing one.

In this particular case, the husband was employed while his wife was still a student. They both wanted the finer things in life—and they wanted them all. Now. Granite countertops in their first home were a necessity and a kitchen island of utmost importance. They couldn’t live without dark cherry  42” cabinets, an open concept floor plan, hardwood floors or a loft. Extended his and her closets, too. And  of course the generous-sized master bedroom must be on the second floor, complete with the most fabulous en suite bath—and all this for their tiny budget. They were perplexed as to why this “affordable” gem couldn’t be found  and ended up spending $100,000 more than what they reasoned they should—all because they would not be satisfied with living within their means.

These folks are not alone in always wanting the biggest and best, needing to have the newest and nicest. Never settling, never compromising, never deferring a want. We are now a society of gotta-have-its. Watch the long lines form when Apple introduces a new iPhone (did all the old phones stop functioning all of a sudden?). A famous celebrity begins wearing an expensive branded item of clothing and soon it becomes required status-wear.

In 1997 I was a computer illiterate (and no, in 2013 I still wouldn’t describe myself anywhere near “tech-savvy”). But I do have more than my share of tech toys. And my closet? While not stuffed with the highest fashion I would say it’s still stuffed. Over-stuffed, even. Did I need everything? Nope, just wanted it.

Listening to those house hunters might be entertaining in a “did-you-hear-what-she-just-said” sort of way, but oh my, it’s convicting, too. When someone on the show laments the single bath status of a property, crying “How can we be expected to live like this?” I am forced to admit I don’t want to “live like that” any longer, either. (“Keep in mind,” I remind myself, “Your parents were thrilled with that little 1957 one bathroom rancher and they raised four children there just fine, thank you very much!”).

We (and by “we,” I mean “I”) need to really think about 1) Who gave us what we have: “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights…” (James 1:17); 2) being satisfied with what we have: “But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world and we cannot take anything out of the world.” (I Timothy 6:6&7) and then 3) being thankful for what we have: “Giving thanks always and for everything to God the Father…”  (Ephesians 5:20). Yes—think...and then thank.

 

Warning Words

It was a gorgeous grizzly. And I’m sure the Facebook photo I saw of it didn’t even do it due justice. The person posting the image said she had watched it from the safety of her car as it wandered around the restrooms near Dunraven Pass in Yellowstone National Park.

The same couldn’t apparently be said for other watchers, however. People were placing their children in front of the bear in order to get a great photo. “I couldn’t believe it,” the poster exclaimed. “We actually called for help because we were afraid someone was going to get hurt. Luckily the rangers showed up and the bear was more interested in what was under the rocks!” Good thing, I’d say!

Bears, both grizzlies and the black variety, are quick. And dangerous—especially when they have young. Yellowstone certainly warns people about the them, and other potential dangers in the park. The rule is visitors must stay 100 yards away from bears and wolves and 25 yards from all other wildlife (I will confess to unwittingly violating this rule one summer as I and my camera were mesmerized by a full-racked elk taking a meandering look-see through my picnic area; I meandered right along with this big fellow and I do realize he could have done me damage; I won’t do it again; I will heed the warnings in the future; at least I hope I will).

We think warnings are good, especially for other people. “The past speaks to us in a thousand voices, warning and comforting, animating and stirring to action,” said Felix Adler. Except when it doesn’t. Aldous Huxley countered: “that men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons of history.”

We often don’t know what warnings to heed. Coffee is bad for us. Coffee is good for us. Avoid fat in the diet. No, shun carbs. Sometimes it seems there’s always a new warning out about something that turns out to contradict itself the very next day.

Good to know God’s warnings to us in His Word don’t change and are always for our good. "Be very careful then how you live, not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord's will is." (Eph. 5:15-17). Oh, and steer clear of bears!

 

As Labor Day weekend approaches and many folks plan to “celebrate” with one last camping trip of the season, I offer the following essay, written several years ago. I still stand by every crabby word I wrote!

Chronicles of a Crabby Camper

In the cartoon strip “Dilbert,” by Scott Adams, Dilbert says to his dog, “Hey, Dogbert – you want to go camping this weekend?” Dogbert replies (and this shows what a smart talking dog he is!), “Why don’t we just sleep in the garage, eat bugs and not take showers.” Dilbert tries vainly to convince his canine companion. “That is completely different from camping, for reasons which will come to me.” Dogbert deadpans, “Because we might not get lost?”

Dogbert?  My sentiments exactly!

Now, the idea – in principle – of camping and experiencing the wilderness is wonderful. Psalm 9 tells us that “the heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows his handiwork. “In Genesis we read that “in the beginning God created the heavens and the earth…and God saw that it was good.” And it is good. How exhilarating it is to stand and gaze across a broad vista of snow-capped purple mountains, the wide valleys sweeping down to meet bubbling streams. How peaceful to watch gentle waves lap the lake’s shoreline, the whispering breeze rustling through the swaying trees.

Yes. And how annoying, those creepy crawlies inching up your leg. And how bothersome, those buzzing winged things circling ‘round your head.

For camping is nothing if it isn’t bugs. Grasshoppers and mosquitoes and beetles and mosquitoes. Gnats and mosquitoes and flies. Mosquitoes and ants…and mosquitoes. God must have been in an extremely creative and expansive mood when he was thinking up the insect kingdom. There are zillions and zillions of these irritating little pests – and they will all be at your campsite. They want your food…and they want your blood.

Camping is also dirt. Sandy dirt, muddy dirt, gritty dirt, greasy dirt. It blows in the air. It squishes under your feet. It permanently attaches itself to your children and all the belongings they’ve managed to drag along with them on this “adventure.”

To remove this dirt, you will traipse to moldy washrooms usually located at least a half mile or more away from your campsite. Once there, you use a toilet that may or may not work and which has seen 50,000 others of the great unwashed use it between possible contacts with the Tydee-Bowl Man. You shower in a stall that is in the midst of hosting the Olympics of Athlete’s Foot Fungus and brush your teeth in a sink so scummy you pray, pray your child manages to hang on to the toothbrush and, oh please, not…drop…it…in…the…scuz. The very best part of all this is that you get to wait in line for the pleasure of this activity. (This is all, of course, assuming there actually are (flushing) toilets, showers that expel at least a dribble of water (preferably warm) and sinks that drain – but that’s another story just too pathetic to tell.)

Back at your campsite, you prepare for a meal. (Notice, girlfriends, that I said you. A camping “vacation” is a primarily a male vacation. It’s been my experience that females get to cook and clean up outdoors just as they do indoors, at home. Only there’s no running water, no electric stove or anything else that even resembles a modern convenience.) You get to fetch your water from a spigot on down the road and lug it back as most of it sloshes out along the way. If you are really fortunate, you have a propane camp stove with two whole burners, one of which might even light. If it’s not too blustery it’s possible you might manage to heat up your delicious beans and franks just before the thunder and lightning begins and the torrential downpour drenches everything in sight.

Of course, all that water does serve a purpose. It helps wash off the hundreds of multicolored glops from your picnic table – which looks as if every North American avian has claimed it for its very own potty.

As a child, my parents thought that tent camping would provide some inexpensive family togetherness. What it actually provided was expensive family wetness. One morning we woke up floating in rain-soaked sleeping bags, along with sopping wet everything else, and promptly purchased an off-the-ground pop-up camper.

The tent lesson of my youth must have been lost on me when, years later, my supposedly loving husband talked me into acquiring a tent of our very own – when I was 7 ½ months pregnant. Ahh, that first tent-owning July weekend: fly-swatting, profuse sweating, chasing after a four year old, changing the diapers of a 1 ½ year old and trying vainly to find a not-rocky spot to rest my weary, frazzled head, along with my very expectant belly.

Years later, while on “vacation” in still another, albeit larger, canvas home-away-from-home (I guess I am not a quick learner), sleeping with my family proved to be a complete exercise in futility – for me. They all dozed along just fine, and most of the time on top of me. Their snoring caused our campsite to be declared a noise pollution hazard zone. Then, the air in the pillow portion of my air mattress escaped (and, mind you, I certainly do not blame it for doing so) and I awoke in the early dawn of the damp cold unable to stand erect, complete with a stiff neck that was to last for two solid weeks. A happy camper I was not. To this day I have a sideways memory of Yosemite National Park.

No, I believe the only true “happy campers” were Adam and Eve, and that was before the Fall. Look what happened after that: Those pesky Egyptians shooed the Israelites away from their dandy campsite beside the sea, after which all they did was cry, cry, cry in the wilderness. Elijah’s outdoor experience was no great shakes, either. On Queen Jezebel’s #1 most wanted list, he arrived at his chosen spot under a lovely juniper tree and promptly asked God to just let him die. There was also that great camper John the Baptist, him with his clothes of camel hair, leather girdles and locust and wild honey diet. How many times do you suppose he was stung while trying to evade those wild bees?

So, I must say that though I do cherish the nature that God created, I just basically want it in its place and me in mine. And, as a general rule, its place belongs outside and me not tent camping in it. Getting “back to nature” is fine, but when we’re done would you please get me back to the Hampton Inn?

Praising from the Pits

Everyone’s had one. A day that’s bright and beautiful everywhere except in your spirit. A day when the sun shines gloriously upon everyone except on you. You’re pitifully in the “pits.” What to do?

Sometimes we attempt to eat our way out of the “gloomies.” Doritos. Donuts. Dumb.

Sometimes we think shopping will cheer us up.  New purse. New pants. Pricey.

And then sometimes we just do nothing but sulk, sulk, sulk. Silly.

Maybe a little praise is in order.

Charles Wesley wrote, “Jesus! The name that charms our fears, that bids our sorrows cease; ‘tis music in the sinners ears, ‘tis life and health, and peace.” Thomas Kelly agreed: “Praise the Savior, ye who know Him! Who can tell how much we owe Him? Gladly let us render to Him all we are and have.”

After all, the Bible repeatedly commands us to be people of praise: “Shout joyfully to God, all the earth; sing the glory of His name; make His praise glorious …” (Psalm 66:1-2); “Sing praises to the LORD, who dwells in Zion; declare among the peoples His deeds …” (Psalm 9:11); “Sing praise to the LORD, you His godly ones, and give thanks to His holy name ... “ (Psalm 30:4).

One Sunday, on the back of a bulletin, I read that “a heart full of thanksgiving to Christ for all He is and has done will result in expressions of praise.” (Paul J. Twist) The little article also mention a verse in the Psalms where the psalmist praised God seven times a day for His righteous laws (119:164). It got me to thinking—did I praise God seven times a day for anything? What if I determined to change this and purposefully looked for things to praise God for every single day? To praise Him for anything...and everything...since everything I have is all from Him? And for things I’d never offered up for praise...ever?

For loving me in spite of me.

For being with me through a night of delicious, welcome slumber.

For comforting me when the slumber doesn’t come.

For the charming grin on a little boy’s sweet face, the glittering twinkle in his eye.

For the comforts of home.

For the gift of words.

For the honor of being a wife, a mother, a Nana.

For...wait, that’s seven already. But I’m not done. There’s...and… and...yup, you get it. Praise! ☺

 

 

 

 

A Lane Called Memory

This afternoon I had lunch with a good friend from high school. We hadn’t had the opportunity to sit down and chat for way too many years and the reconnection was delightful. She had been kind enough to attend my father’s memorial visitation a couple weeks ago, and seeing her there had prompted the lunch date, which prompted the walk I took afterward – a walk down a lane called memory.

A parent’s passing will do that to you – that memory walking business. Though it was late afternoon by the time I left the restaurant (high school girls have been known to be chatty, and grown – even long grown, ones – are often no less so!) but the sun was shiny and the sky was blue, so I headed back in time.

Past the assisted living facility where Dad spent his last years and days. He was cared for there by caring folks, and we are grateful for that; he sometimes would make his way to the Dairy Queen around the corner. That wasn’t there when I was a kid. Next the Pizza Hut that was, but it isn’t a Pizza Hut any longer.

The Henry Ave. Bridge across the river that took me to the west side wasn’t there, either. This one was brand-spanking new and I think it might have a new name, too. Up the hill on Olympian – when I was just about to start learning to drive I just knew I would never make it up that “mountain” in the wintertime. Why, I was positive I would slide right back down and cause a wreck. “You won’t,” my Dad comforted as we braved it for the first time. I didn’t.

The hospital on the right, where all the kids were born in the 50’s, is now an apartment building. The hospital hill is still there, though, and I’ll bet the kids still go sledding on it every winter. Doesn’t quite look as intimidating as I remember it, though. But I imagine a person could still manage to sprain her ankle on it and have to wait a really, really l-o-n-g, really really f-f-frozen, really really p-p-painful time for her dad to come pick her up (didn’t have cell phones then and I wouldn’t have been allowed one anyway – Dad had gotten by without one and so could I!).

Young swimmers were having a big ol’ time in the “Big Pool” but it’s a different big pool. Money was tight for my parents “back then” but they managed to come up with the funds for each of us to have a season pass every summer. We actually had to walk the 85 hotter-than-hot, blazing  blocks to the pool whenever we went, too. Well, maybe it wasn’t 85. Maybe just 5 or so. (!!) But there were a LOT of steps to get down, and we also had to walk back UP them! I’m not at all sure I’d allow my unaccompanied youngsters that long trek today, but it was a different time.

The corner grocery where we were sent for a last minute loaf of bread or treated to 10 cent taffy apples is a daycare now, but the house we moved into in 1957 still stands – and looks pretty good, too. Mom’s roses are gone, the color’s changed and a garage has been added (no – everyone did not have a house for their car back then; our driveway wasn’t even paved). That’s a neighborhood where almost each  dwelling housed 4 or 5 kids, had just 3 small bedrooms and only one bath (Dad rigged up a trick-or-treater-counter and each Halloween would record over 350 scary beggars!). Coming from a teeny, cramped trailer, I remember how thrilled my father was to provide that brand new, post-war home for his family.

The huge-for-its-time grocery store where we shopped is now a Family Dollar, but I’m thinking that store just built a “huge-er” one farther on down the road, ‘cause the bag they put my sweet corn in at the farmstand had the name of the store on it. Oh, and it was a different farmer. I told the “new guy” that my parents would never buy sweet corn there unless it was 3 dozen/$1.00. He just laughed and charged me $4 for 1 dozen. I hope it’s good!

In 1968 Dad moved his family into another brand new house, this one with 4 bedrooms (sorry boys, you still had to share, but my sister and I had our own rooms. Girls rule!). Sad to say, it no longer has much curb appeal, is a little rough around the edges and I think it misses my dad. We do too, house – we do, too.

They say you can’t go home again. Maybe that’s true, but you can take an hour and visit where it used to be. Bye, Daddy. Thanks for the memories.