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.

HE'S THERE!

Truth is the torch that gleams through the fog without dispelling it.  - -Claude Adrien Helvetius

They were there. We knew they were there. But if our own eyes were to be believed, they were definitely not.

My husband loves to visit them, those four presidents up on that South Dakota Mount Rushmore. I believe even he has lost count of how many times we’ve made the trek out from Rapid City to call on George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt.

Traveling from the west on a fine summer sunny evening, all appeared set for a grand viewing of Gutzon Borglum’s carved masterpiece. But as we approached, things got darker and foggy fears  began to intrude. This had never happened before! Winding our way past  some frolicking domestic bison and a small herd of tiny deer gamboling playfully in the ditch, we started to think this presidential peek might just be a big fat bust, pun intended. Our four former heads of state were hidden, our view totally obscured, as in  “you’re not seeing the monument today, guys!”

Thick fog had completely obliterated our view of Mt. Rushmore. We know for a fact it was there—had some of our history’s most famous personages taken a tumble down the mountainside, it surely would have been classified as a breaking news story.

 Truth was, our eyes could not be believed. We could not see what was right there in front of us, much like what happens sometimes when we are in the midst of a great difficulty in our lives, a personal tragedy or a devastating illness.

At times like those we need to forget what our eyes see or don’t see and remember what God has said in the past: "This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the LORD your God is with you wherever you go."  (Joshua 1:9) The never-changing truth is that even though trouble might obscure our perception of peace for a while, the Lord is always there, loving and caring for us even though we might forget and think perhaps He’s left us. “For He Himself has said, ‘I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you.’" (Hebrews 13:5c)

Fog might restrict visibility for a time, but fog is no match for the gleaming torches of our spiritual eyes! The Lord is there!

 

 

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LIBERTY!

A delicate “little lady,” she is not. From her heel to the top of her head she measures 111 feet, 6 inches, weighs 225 tons and her waistline is a whopping 35 feet around. A face-to-face meeting with her in New York Harbor would be startling, as she sports a 17’3” visage from chin to cranium! Her index finger is 8 feet long, tipped by a 13 inch fingernail. At her feet lie the broken shackles of oppression and tyranny.

Lady Liberty, as she is often called (formal name: “Liberty Enlightening the World”), cuts quite an imposing figure. A gift from the people of France to celebrate the centennial of the American Declaration of Independence, the copper and steel statue was designed by French sculptor Frederic-Auguste Bartholdi and dedicated by President Grover Cleveland in October 1886 (the French were just a little late, as they intended to have it ready by July, ten years earlier). 

When the idea for the statue was proposed the deal was that France would cover the cost of the statue itself ($250,000) and the U.S. would take care of the base and pedestal ($280,000). Newspapers around the country called it a “local, New York project” and scoffed at the idea until publisher Joseph Pulitzer got behind the effort and encouraged benefit balls, theatrical productions and donations from schoolchildren around the country. Emma Lazarus’ poetic words inscribed on the statue’s pedestal were part of a fundraiser: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door." 

Sadly, this symbol of freedom was closed to the public after the 9/11/01 terror attacks. But fortunately the pedestal and lower observation decks reopened in 2004 and visitors were finally re-admitted to the rest of it in 2009. This “enduring icon of freedom” was once again open for business. 

The cross of Jesus Christ is the ultimate “enduring icon of freedom” and will never be closed. It is always open to all. While it, too, is the object of scoffers, it stands tall as the symbol by which all may be granted true freedom in this life and that to come. Luke 4:18 records Jesus reciting words from Isaiah as He proclaimed, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” True, lasting liberty!

Happy Father's Day

As we approach Father’s Day 2013, I am distinctly, most poignantly aware that this holiday will most likely be the last I mark while my Dad is on this earth. At 89, feeble, and in hospice care, he will surprise us all if he’s still with us on August 6, his 90^th birthday. As he has often told my sister, he is ready to not be. Weariness has overtaken him.

Because I am who I am, and maybe because of him who raised me, I have made some preparations for this leave-taking. I tend to not like leaving things to the last minute if I can help it. Arrangements are set with the funeral home and even pre-paid. I am grateful that Dad was willing to do this when my mother passed. It makes things much easier for those of us who remain. I have constructed a preliminary service bulletin, pending, of course, the input of my siblings. I have made a first-time attempt at a video retrospective of my father’s life. And this is sadly interesting to me: Dad was born in August 1923 and I have never seen a baby photo or a young child photo of him. Not ever.

I don’t know if his remaining siblings are in possession of such a photo, but I do know neither my siblings or I have one. Perhaps they are lost or never existed. My Dad had a somewhat difficult childhood, growing up on a poor northern Minnesota farm with a cold, reluctant farmer for a dad and an overworked mother of 8, pretty much charged with raising her brood on her own. There are two photos of the home Dad lived in as a boy, with his father and mother and a couple aunts & uncles out front, but Dad wasn’t around yet when these were taken.

I first see Dad as a smiling almost high school graduate. Hard to look at that boy I never knew and see the elderly guy I’m acquainted with now!  He’s then pictured with his siblings, minus the brother who died in a plane crash (one that severely injured my dad as well).  There’s a proud Army-Air Force military man and then another grinning guy, this time with his beautiful bride.  I see him tenderly holding his first-born, a precious look on his face that tells me I was very much wanted.  As were my two brothers and one sister who followed. The little house on Johnson Street – 3 bedrooms, 1 bath – 4 kids! Nobody on HGTV’s “House Hunters” would consider such a thing today, but he was proud to be able to provide it! The new house on Garfield Ave, with the Chevy (in which I took my driver’s test) parked out front (no power steering!- I was sure I’d never manage to parallel park that “boat” in my driver’s test, but I did!). Dad gets progressively older in the photos that follow, as do we all. His kids grow up, they marry, have kids of their own. And their kids have kids! I adore the photos of “The Bobs” – my father, my husband and my oldest grandson. My Dad liked that, too.

My father loved my mother. He loved his children. He loved his grands and his great-grands. I don’t think he ever quite saw himself as an old man, his wife gone on to her reward, and him living out his last days in assisted living. None of us ever do. We are all babes, running around the playground. And then we blink and all the cares of school and jobs and child-raising and life-living are over. For my father, in between his youth and old age was a life made up of honor and perseverance and hard work and wisdom and teaching (with a little bit of humor and dog-loving thrown in!). I am grateful for and have benefitted from every last bit of it.

Thank you, Dad. Happy Father’s Day! I love you, Barb

“Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” Exodus 20:12

Father Knows

 

“Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.”                 -- Bruce Lee

Don’t they look beautiful, those weeping willows swaying in the wind? In a soft breeze they nod calmly back and forth in a sort of hypnotic lullaby of swishhh, swishhh, swishhh...while a storm causes them to whip around in a defiant “you can’t knock me down” mode.

Well, maybe the willow itself stands tall in a heavy gale, but its branches are another story. They are everywhere, all over the ground! As a child I often begged my father to plant a willow, for, as I pleaded my case, “they are so pretty, Dad!” Without fail, Dad always replied with a shake of his head, “No. They are way too messy.” And, also without fail, I would grumble (under my breath of course), “You just don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad.”

But Dad did know, as dads often do. He knew I’d be the one weeping if we planted a willow! In Wisconsin we are neighbors to a gorgeous such specimen. It’s tall and full and quite spectacular as it stands majestically just on the other side of the lot line. Oh, and it’s really, really messy as it lets loose of its twigs and branches—all over our yard. When it’s time to cut the grass you either do a pre-mow pickup of  the bigger stuff or plow right over all the little stuff. It’s like what T. Jackson Anderson wrote of his willow issues, “Willow trees are messy. In fact, only my daughters and pecan trees rival willow trees in messiness. Of course, my daughters are beautiful, so they can be excused. Pecan trees, at least, are useful; they produce pecans in exchange for those hard to rake leaves. Now, I know what you are saying: willow trees are useful. Aspirin comes from willow trees. I know aspirin comes from willow trees, but trust me on this – willow trees are evil.”

Well, whether or not a willow tree is capable of evil remains to be seen, but every time I mow over its detritus I am reminded of my father’s wisdom—and my Father’s wisdom. We honor our human fathers for their care and their wise counsel, while also realizing their frailties and human foibles. Our heavenly Father has no such issues. He is right, He is knowledgeable, He is wise—about everything, all the time.  And as Romans 11:33 reminds us, we would do well to remember that. “Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and His paths beyond tracing out!”

 

The Father knows!

 

 

 

 

That's the Mom

The next-door neighbor puppy was barking at me in my yard, trying to guard her own back yard, I guess. “No!” chided the pup’s pint-sized mistress. “That’s the mom.”

Yup, that’s me – the mom. And I’ve been her now for almost 39 years next week. I remember clearly the sparkling autumn Berlin day I was given that official news. As I boarded the city bus back to our apartment, that 21 year old me pondered with excitement all that news might entail. Boy? Girl? Name? Would he be fussy? Would she be cheerful? How would I manage being so far from my own mother? What would being a “mom” mean, really?

I ended up being “mom” to that first beautiful baby girl, followed in short succession by two additional gorgeous, sweeties. So, for me, “mom” meant years of  three bouts of severe morning sickness, weight gain, childbirth, nursing babies, doctor visits, drippings from tops to bottoms, sneezing, coughing, pneumonia (including two baby hospitalizations), shots, chicken pox (each girl, two weeks after one another; no vaccinations then) and head lice scares (I know that’s really not that big of a deal; as the pediatrician sighed at me, “Mother, if your child has friends they’ll get lice & pinworms” – but that stuff still gives me the willies). “Mom” meant walking the midnight floor with a girl who thought the stars came out to light up her playtime and not her dreamland. “Mom” meant picking up toys and sweeping up messes and picking up toys and sweeping up messes…and teaching little girlies how to pick up toys and sweep up messes. “Mom” meant assigning “time-outs” and explaining countless “why’s” and “what-for’s” and, yes, sometimes “because I said so’s.” “Mom” meant fishing things out of toilets that shouldn’t ever be put in toilets and cleaning lipstick and Vaseline smears off walls.

“Mom” was also the pure delight of a first smile, the certainty that “no, it wasn’t gas – she really did smile at me!” The giggling. The out-and-out laughing. The dollies. The stuffed animals. The Legos. The birthday parties. The popsicles. The cookies. The splashing in the kiddie pool, the squirting with the hose on a blistering hot summer day. The squealing! The school days. The homework. The parent volunteering.  The high school graduations. The trips to college. And then those graduations.

“Mom” was bringing little girls to Sunday School every week, worshipping with them, seeing them all come to Christ. “Mom” was the joy of knowing they each had a relationship with Jesus and the pleasure of watching them grow in their own Christian walk.

“Mom” was all that, and more – much more. I heard about a woman rhapsodizing about how great her experience on one of those reality shows had been, since being a mom had meant her life had been “put on hold.”  On hold? Oh, dear lady, think about what you said! Being a mom means you are privileged – privileged to raise up a new generation of hard, diligent workers, honest, kind neighbors and solid, helpful friends. You have the incredible opportunity to help better the world and everyone in it as you work to shape a young life into someone who will do the same for others. A calling, a purpose – but never a life “on hold.”

So, yes, that’s me. It's the best thing I’ve ever done. Thank you, Lord – “that’s the mom!”

 

THANKS

I can’t tell you their names. But I do know for a fact my Sunday School and youth group leaders were there even though their identities escape me today. Their efforts live on – in me, in my kids, in other kids and even in their kids.

My mother started bringing me to church, to Sunday School and Vacation Bible School when I was very small. When my sister and my brothers came along, she brought them, too. While my father supported mom in her efforts, he did not regularly attend. She did it on her own. Regularly. Faithfully.

My teachers were regular and faithful, too. From the Bible they taught me about God and how He made the world; how He created each blade of grass, each pebble of rock, each drop of the ocean. And how He created me. They made sure I knew that because God loved me so much He wanted me with Him in heaven someday; they showed me that God sent Jesus, His One and Only Son, to die for me so that I could live in heaven with Him someday. They gave me an opportunity to accept that gift and guided me along the way after I did. They encouraged me to reach others and helped me to learn how to do that.

I did grow up to follow in my teachers’ footsteps. Since about the age of 14 I’ve taught Sunday School, VBS, weekday kids’ clubs. At age 61 I’m still doing it. Over the years I’ve had the privilege of modeling the Gospel to my daughters, their friends, my grandsons and a whole new generation of little ones. Granted, some days are more difficult than others, some children are sassier than others, and some days it might seem the better part of valor to retire the teacher’s manual, but the reality is this: kids today need to know about Jesus just as much as they did when I was young. What was poured into me in years past still needs pouring into little people today.

This morning I saw a photo of my grandsons showing off the awards they earned for a year of memorizing Scripture. I also saw a message from one of my former students as she looked forward to her children receiving the same awards in a few weeks. And I couldn’t help but thank God for those teachers-with-no-names from bygone days for the part they played in raising up my generation, my children and these 2013 children of faith. Their efforts are still paying dividends for God's Kingdom! May they reap their rewards – and may this spiritual legacy continue!