Lessons from the Pups

We have two little dogs, Mr. Peabody, a Pekingese/Poodle mix, with no desire to be more than a decoration on our laps. When we bought him, he was very quiet and continues to be that way, which is really nice when you realize how yappy little dogs can be. He is just about fourteen pounds of snuggles and love. He has an underbite, pushed-in face, and eyes that communicate volumes of adoration. We purchased Misty as a companion for Mr. Peabody. She is a two-year-old dynamo, tiny but mighty (at least in her own mind). At ten pounds (a Papillon/Bischon mix), she makes up for all the noise Peabody doesn't make.  Misty has quite an attitude. She does not like it when people attempt to approach her - she wants to approach them on her terms. She has a tendency to sneak up on people, nip at the back of their pant legs, then run in the opposite direction. So far she has not actually bitten anyone except family (a story for another time) and I truly think those bites surprised her almost as much as those she nipped. Both pups absolutely love our granddaughters. All we have to say is the girls are coming over, and both dogs begin looking for them.

Everyone in our association knows Mr. Peabody and Misty. When we walk them around the path Misty always has a ball in her mouth. She runs to pick one out each time she leaves the house. Most of them return home with her, but some are still out there somewhere. During the summer, the dogs love meeting the children in the area. Peabody will graciously allow them to pet him excessively, while Misty will drop her ball at their feet and happily retrieve it  when it is tossed. One neighbor, about half-way through our walk, has a bird bath that is just the right height for the pups to take a drink from it each time they pass her house. Her cat sits at the patio door and stares at them. They are definitely entertaining.

Both pups sleep in our bed - I know, the dog whisperer doesn't like that - Peabody wrapped around my feet and Misty between us. She has one problem, however. We have a pillow top mattress with a two-inch foam pad on top of it. While Peabody has no trouble jumping on the bed, Misty is not quite as successful. She must go into the closet, turn and run before projecting herself onto the bed. If there is space to accomplish this feat, she settles down for a nice warm snuggle time. However, if she leaves the bed in the middle of the night, there is not as much room in the bed and she is unable to project herself quite as far. She thumps her nose into the foam pad and she needs to try again. She does this a few times before sitting down and whimpering for one of us to help her. Ron has no problem getting her to come to him for a lift into the bed. I, however, am not successful because she will not allow me to pick her up! I am the alpha in the family as far as the dogs are concerned. I am the one who bathes them, brushes them and clips their nails. I am much less likely to pamper them than Ron is and he happily admits to being "low man on the totem pole," in the house. I think I intimidate Misty. She loves to cuddle up when I'm not in a position to groom her, but at other times, she avoids me.

This morning, Misty wanted to jump into bed with me after Ron had wakened and was readying himself for the day. I moved over to make room for her, and Peabody, after grumbling in the way only he can, moved as well. After about six thumps, she began to whimper. I patted the mattress, she backed into the closet and tried again - thump. She tried again and thumped again. I called her to try to pick her up and she would not come near me. She tried again a few times with the same results. Her whimpers gained volume, but she would not come to me for help. After another few tries, her whimper became more of a groan than a plea and she crawled under the bed.

Here is my "message" moment. I think that we are often like Misty. God is waiting to help us obtain what we want. Instead of allowing him to pick us up and provide the help we need, we continue on our own, stubborn and independent - wanting to do things our way. We continually bump our noses on obstacles to the blessings God has for us. Instead of allowing him to guide our steps and learning from our mistakes, we back away from him and avoid him in the attempt to make our own way.

It would be so much easier if we just relaxed and allowed God to pick us up. Now, the question is whether to buy some steps for Misty. Her nose must be getting sore.

What Were You Doing?

Each year on our anniversary, we play the "What Were You Doing?" game. The day before and the day of our anniversary, we ask each other what we were doing on that day at that time. This year we have been asking, "What were you doing forty-five years ago today at this time?" After forty-five years, we find that some of the smallest details are becoming fuzzier, but there are some things we remember every year. Our most precious memories, we find, include many funny things that happened that day, but some are so special, they remain locked between just the two of us, kept in that place in our hearts where we share the only key.

When we remember the day before our wedding, we remember it as busy with final loose ends to tie up. We had no groom's dinner, but after the rehearsal, everyone was invited back to my home where my mother had prepared yet another feast for those who attended the rehearsal. Ron's family had traveled from Minnesota and were all there, as well as all of our bridal party and family. It was a crowd, but everyone was happy and, of course, only my Mom could have made a simple meal a feast fit for a king. she accomplished this in spite of helping me plan a wedding, caring for our busy family and dealing with the natural emotions of "losing" her first child. I am still in awe of her love and abilities. She was and is my example of beautiful womanhood.

The day of our wedding was the only Saturday in November with beautiful clear weather at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. That was a true indication to us that God was smiling on us and blessing us. Ron was a member of the Fifth Army Band, considered at that time to be one of the premiere military bands. We were blessed to have his friends from the band provide the music at our wedding. Unfortunately, we didn't think to have it taped, so it only remains in our memories, but the musicians were spectacular. We had asked one of the men, a fine trumpeter, to play "Trumpet Voluntary" as the processional. He was to begin playing as I entered the sanctuary. The aisle I had walked every Sunday to attend Mass, extended forever that day as I stood on my Dad's arm at the back of the church. I actually forgot the trumpet would begin as I stepped out from under the balcony and when it did, I momentarily hesitated. My beloved Dad didn't miss a beat when he whispered to me, "Can't back down now." His comment immediately calmed me enough to begin the long walk down that aisle.

I remember the priest who conducted our wedding was having his own first that day. We were his first wedding. He was nervous as well. He asked Ron if he would take me as his wife. When Ron affirmed he would, Fr. Dubi turned to me and asked if I would take Ron to be MY wife. I had no idea how to answer - if I said "no" how would that look to those witnessing the wedding, but if I said yes, was my answer valid? It's amazing how many thoughts can crowd a second, but I chose to say yes, so now Ron and I acknowledge we are both on level ground, since we're both wives.

We forgot about the photographer who wanted to take pictures on the steps of the church after the ceremony and as we exited the church to a volley of rice (at that time it was allowed), and lima beans (thanks to my teen-age cousins!), we continued to run to get to the car and out of the rain of lima beans. We needed to retrace our steps to have our pictures taken. Fortunately, the spots where the lima beans hit did not show on the photos.

The reception began a few hours after the wedding because a wedding immediately followed ours at the Church. We shared the flowers we bought with the next wedding, so didn't need to remove them from the church. To keep those who had traveled from being without a place to be until the reception, my parents once again hosted a light lunch at our home. I continue to be amazed at the unconditional love my parents had for us not only that weekend, but our entire life together. The reception itself was huge, Polish, and filled with laughter, dancing, food, more food, and plenty of drinking. I had shared with Ron the traditions with which he would deal during the reception - we could not leave until the last of our guests was gone and he had to dance with any woman who asked him. Poor Ron did not know how to dance, and so we spent two weeks prior to the wedding in my basement with me trying to teach him the basic steps to the waltz and polka. When the time came, Ron rose to the challenge and did pretty well, until his partners asked him a question. Then he needed to stop dancing, because he couldn't count and talk at the same time. Most of the guests left before midnight, except for one man who mourned the loss of a pin. He claimed the pin was worth four thousand dollars and he refused to leave without it, even with assurances from my parents and the owner of the ballroom that if he left his name and address they would surely return it if it was discovered. He refused to leave and we were kept at the ballroom because we had come to the reception in my parents' car! We learned after hunting for nearly an hour that the pin itself was plastic, and he had received it after taking a course in broadcasting for which he paid four thousand dollars. My father quickly closed the session by telling the man everyone had to leave - now!

We returned to my parents' house to find Ron's car up on blocks (thanks to my uncles and cousins again). Fortunately for us, that was all that happened negatively because my father asked our neighbor to keep an eye on the house and he chased off the pranksters with a rifle. Thank you!

My mother performed another miracle by hosting a party the following day at our home for anyone who wanted to come over and be with us while we opened the gifts we received. Unfortunately, Ron and I were not able to make it to the party because we were both ill. After all the excitement, nerves, emotions and very late night, we woke with severe headaches. We arrived at my parents' home too late to see everyone else, but did spend some very special quiet time with my family. Ron was discharged from the Army two days later and we were free to begin our new life together. We spent Thanksgiving with my family and then said good-bye. I assured my mother I would not forget my family and she told me I was always allowed to return home, but not without my husband.

We grew up at the beginning of the "free love" era. However, Ron and I were both raised traditionally and with a strong faith and foundation. We determined prior to our marriage that divorce would never be an option. When we had our counseling sessions, we openly discussed the differences we would face as a "mixed" couple with Ron Protestant and me Catholic. He wrote us a beautiful letter after our marriage encouraging us to keep Jesus at the center of our marriage and we could never fail. We have faithfully done that.

We celebrate forty-five years today. We remember the day with joy and fondness, awe at the love expressed to us. We have learned the true meaning of unconditional love. Our years have been a mix of ups and downs. We have grown together and learned to know the heart of each other. God has been with us every step of the way - through the birth, growth and finally, adulthood of our sons, through Ron's injury at work and his continued pain each and every day, through financial lows and near poverty, through the ministry of those in our congregations who loved us, and even through those who did not. He has been at the center of our marriage and our life. We could not have survived without him. We have been through things that would have brought many couples to separation and divorce, but we have been blessed to survive with our marriage intact.

Our commitment to each other and our marriage has grown stronger. A waiter asked us at dinner last night how we have made it. He is planning to marry next year and wanted to know our "secret". We continue to be humbled by the fact we are looked at as an oddity - a couple whose marriage has continued. We are humbled because we are truly and completely blessed. We have worked hard, but the commitment we made forty-five years ago sealed our love and desire for each other. We had no loopholes, no ways out. We did not "try it out" before we married. We knew no one else. We kept ourselves for each other and God blessed. He has remained faithful to us as we attempted to remain faithful to him. As we look back, our memories are precious. As we look forward, we are expectant. We pray that God will give us many, many more years together here on earth, hopefully to even see our beautiful grandchildren joined in beautiful, long-lasting marriages!

At Your Age....

As we age, we must face some harsh realities. We must adjust our thinking to take into account the many changes occurring in our bodies. Most of us realize we can no longer do the things we used to be able to do without preparation. For instance, to bend we must position ourselves by something  which we can grab for assistance in rising again. To walk up stairs, we must make sure a sturdy railing is close by to allow us to pull while trying not to cry out in pain as our knees loudly crack and pop (no sneaking around anymore). We find ourselves talking to our bodies. "Come on feet, you can do it, just move a little bit." Above all else, we try to remain off the floor. Once down, we may need to call for assistance - "Help, I've been playing with my grandkids and I can't get up!"

We discover while our bodies are striking for the right to stay put, they are also growing strange, and sometimes painful, lumps and bumps. They all have medical terms like bunions, corns and hammer toes, but what they really are is the body's way of paying us back for years of wearing shoes. This is why many older people wear "old people's shoes." You know the ones I mean, the wide ones with round toes and Velcro so it is easier to remove without bending (remember that need for positioning). I'll be ordering my pair soon.

Our eyes are beginning to betray us as well. We must hold our reading materials farther from our faces to see small print. We may need to have two different types of glasses, one pair for distance and another for close work. We hang glasses around our necks or wear them on top of our head. We often lose one pair - the one we need at that moment. Personally, when using the computer, I enlarge the print to about one hundred thirty percent to see it clearly. Thank heaven for that ability. Speaking of computers, we need to talk about our fingers. That is another area where the body likes to develop additional bumps around the knuckles while thinning the skin and throwing a few dark spots around to decorate them.

While others are looking around them to see who might be present, or where the food is, we must first gauge the distance to the nearest bathroom. We ask ourselves questions before traveling, "How many rest areas between here and there?" or we are computing the ease with which we can arrive somewhere comfortably, "If I go right now I will be able to make it easily." We always visit the restroom prior to leaving the house, especially in cold weather, and resist the desire to drink another cup of coffee."

The worst thing about aging is what happens to our minds. I am one of those people who can start a task, then think of another, and another, and another until I finally return to the first task - with nothing completed. I easily begin a sentence and forget what I was saying within two words. We have grown adept at talking to someone who is very familiar while desperately trying to remember a name.

I have decided to make the best of aging. There is nothing I can do about it. So far I have not been offered senior discounts although I'm very qualified to receive them. I like asking for them and having a clerk tell me I don't look like I'm sixty-six. Of course, I know they're lying, but it sounds good anyway. I may be going grey (I'll keep it covered for a little while yet), and I may search for my keys while holding them in my hand. My husband may walk through the house looking for his cell phone while talking to the doctor on it, and we both may rattle when we walk from all the medications we have to take - with water again. (Where is that bathroom?) We're maintaining our senses of humor about growing older. My dad used to say, "Old age is not fun." Laughter is good medicine and Ron and I are going to be well medicated. We may not be able to stop the aging process, but doggone it, we're going to enjoy it as much as we can.

Now where did I leave my keys again???

Wounded Warriors - Changed Attitudes

I graduated from high school in nineteen sixty-five - during the time of the Viet Nam war. I was not interested at that time of much beyond the Beatles and spending time with my friends. I did not like the news at all. It seemed every college campus was shaken by one protest or another, sit ins, angry words and even violence were part of those scenes.. We heard about all those who dodged the draft by finding other places to live, especially Canada. All of this swirled around me while I blissfully lived the life of a sheltered, parochial school graduate about to enter the job force and more worried about the wardrobe I would need for work than the difficult times through which my country was going.

After graduation I was offered a job as a secretary and my life became one of work, friends from school and new friends and experiences, as well as my mother's sudden illness. I began to hear and see more of the world around me. My boundaries were expanding and I was beginning to seek opportunities to build experience and social skills. One of those opportunities presented itself in the form of the United Service Organization (USO).

My new maturity caused me to pay much more attention to the world in which I lived. I became extremely upset by the treatment I saw the young men received who were returning from the war. They were insulted, called baby killers, and treated generally as unwanted. No one seemed to care.

The militant in me was born. I determined to do something to support those who were fighting for my country. The politics of the war meant nothing to me. With a father who had served during World War II and uncles who served during the Korean War, I was raised to love my country and feel deep gratitude and respect for those who sacrificed themselves to protect the freedoms we have. To show my support, I became a junior hostess at the chartered United Service Organization (USO), which was the officially recognized organization. We were called upon to provide a "home away from home" for the men and women serving in our military as well as the occasional foreign military personnel coming through the city. One weekly opportunity quickly became my favorite. Each Tuesday evening we traveled to the hospital at the Great Lakes Training Center.

We were given strict instructions. We were to visit with the wounded, talk to them about their families or girl friends, play board or card games, and even write letters for those who were unable to do so. We were never, under any circumstances, supposed to ask them what happened to them. If they started to tell us anything, we were to listen quietly, but ask no more of them. I was nervous the first time we went because I did not know what to expect. I had never seen a wound beyond a cut finger or skinned knee. Now I walked into a large ward where each bed held a young man with various injuries from head wounds to missing limbs. It was amazing to me that they were happy to see us enter, and willingly talked about everything but the war. Many weeks we traveled back to our center with tears in our eyes brought on by the things we had seen and the stories we heard. My heart was touched deeply by the sacrifices that had been made. The wounds were grievous to be sure, but the attitudes of these young men were remarkable. They were proud to have served their country.

Perhaps the experience that most impacted my life, however, was when we were invited to attend a dance at the mental health ward of the hospital. These were not the young men we were used to visiting, but men who were literally old enough to be our fathers, World War II and Korean veterans, who were suffering with what was then called "shell shock," or PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). These men were unable to enter back into society because what they experienced during the war was so traumatic. They were gentle, sweet men for the most part, who enjoyed spending time talking to us, dancing and enjoying the company of someone not connected to their medical conditions. Those visits changed my life.

The wounds with which our military return from war are long-lasting and life changing not only for them but their families as well. They will bravely work through painful rehabilitations without complaint. They are proud to serve and willingly set aside their hopes and dreams as they leave their families to spend time in conditions most of us would never abide. They depend on our continued support and love. The thought they are not forgotten carries many through the most difficult situation. When they return home, it is often hard for them to adjust. So many are physically wounded, but many more are wounded mentally. We cannot see those wounds, but they are very real.

I have been overjoyed to see the difference with which our military are being welcomed home during this time. It was so very different for those returning from Viet Nam. I never heard anyone tell a veteran from that war thank you for your service. We can never take back the way the men and women who served then were treated, but we certainly can say thank you now. I don't remember the names of the men I visited with at the hospital so many years ago. I hope that they were able to return to loving families who supported them as they healed. I pray those who suffered invisible wounds have found help to overcome. I'm sure most have, but I'm also sure many have not.

These wounded warriors changed my attitude and my life. I am proud to be a patriot. I am proud of the men and women who serve in our military and sacrifice so much. I'm deeply grateful for the families that support these faithful volunteers. I pray that we, as a country, never forget that what we have is due to the sacrifices so many made, and that we learn to be worthy of that sacrifice.

You Prayed What???

When I was much younger I prayed for the privilege of becoming a martyr for Jesus Christ. Yes, you read that correctly. Let me assure any readers that I am not a person enthralled by pain. I hold no desire to be tortured or separated from any part of my body. I am not a masochist.

I was brought up in a home where Jesus was my best friend. I clearly remember my mother telling me I could always know that Jesus was by my side and I did not need to be afraid of bad dreams, being lost, or fearing to be alone. I knew beyond any doubt that Jesus was real and, though I could not see him with my eyes - my heart felt his nearness and love. When I was confirmed as an eighth grade student in the Catholic Church, I was asked, as were all my classmates, whether I was willing to live for Christ and, if called upon to do so, give my life for him. I felt the solemnity of the moment and the strength of the vow I was about to take. My "yes" meant yes and I determined to be the best follower of Jesus I could possibly be. There have been many times I have fallen short of that goal. I have not been perfect and do not claim perfection in any way. However, I feel an urgency lately that I have not felt previously; and I sense that the time is coming when I may be called upon to choose, as many before me, the acknowledgement of God or the ways of the world.

Persecution may seem to be an impossibility in our society and in America - where everyone is free. However, over the past few months and weeks, the loss of religious liberties for those of us who profess Christ as Lord and Savior, has become more prevalent than ever before. We have become accustomed to being seen as unenlightened, uneducated, intolerant haters, foolish and "losers." Our beloved Christian symbols have been desecrated  with urine and forbidden from public sight. We have been told that our faith is obsolete, irrelevant and out of touch with societal norms. As far as persecution is concerned, this all is quite mild. Believers in other countries know full well that when they say their "Yes," it means loss of family, livelihood, freedom and death. Yet they make the same choice I did with joy and the knowledge of their eternal salvation.

Our country is growing more intolerant of Christianity as the days pass. Public stories recently showed that standing for one's Christian principles and beliefs may well lead to the loss of livelihood. In the workplace, standing upon Christian principles could lead to discipline, loss of job and possible litigation. Our beliefs are offensive to many. All of this saddens me deeply. I feel the urgency to become bolder - to make clear to all with whom I come in contact that I am not ashamed of the Gospel!

We who profess Christ should not be surprised at the reaction of our society. We were warned by Jesus himself that we would be despised as he was. I draw strength and comfort in knowing that I may be unenlightened in the eyes of the world, yet I have within me the light of Christ. We may be considered intolerant haters by those who attempt to silence the word of God as they have for over two thousand years; however the word will not be silenced. If called upon to die for Christ, I know my last breath here will be my first with him in heaven. With all my heart I want those I love sharing my eternal lifetime in heaven.

I am only human and have hoped at times that God would ignore the prayer of an enthusiastic, immature child. My vow remains, though, and I cannot turn aside from it. I remain enthusiastic as I watch the blessings unfold before me that have come as a result of the choices I made - my godly husband, my sons and their beautiful families. I have seen my granddaughters blossom in the knowledge and love of Jesus. I have been blessed with family and friends who have looked beyond my peculiarities to love me as I am. I have been blessed with a home, a job and a faith community in which I am encouraged to become exactly what God has gifted me to be.

I am deeply humbled and grateful to God for my life and the opportunity to live for him. Yes - even to be a martyr for him if called upon to do so.

Sometimes It's Best To Shut Your Mouth

Busia and Dziadzia (grandma and grandpa in Polish), came to the United States as immigrants shortly after World War I. They worked very hard to raise their family and become acclimated to a society completely unlike the ones from which they traveled. They loved America and were thrilled that their children had the opportunities which they had suffered hardships for them to achieve.

My grandfather never did learn English very well, but that was not unusual. He was a quiet man who I recall appearing serious and quite grumpy at times. His smile was infrequent, but he did attempt to tease his grandchildren. I was very intimidated by his gruff manner, but when the smile broke through, the love in his eyes sparkled. There was something that thrilled my heart each week at our regular Sunday dinners when he led the family in prayer - in Polish. While I never understood the words, the sound of his voice, rich with respect , showed his faith. My grandmother, however, learned her own version of English. It was quite broken, but easily understood by all of us. She was devoted to her family and grandchildren. Because I was the first, I was most spoiled and remained close to her to the end of her life.

When my grandparents, my father and my aunt and uncles wanted to discuss us, they would change their language from English to Polish. Because none of the grandchildren had learned the language, we never knew what they were saying, therefore their secrets were never revealed. Occasionally we would hear a phrase that we latched on to and my father gladly translated for us. I proudly learned to say, "Merry Christmas!", "Give me a kiss." and other phrases. We even learned to sing happy birthday for my father's ninetieth birthday party, and I eagerly shared the song with my four granddaughters so they could wish their great-grandpa a wonderful day.

One of the things my family took joy in was playing games. My grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles often joined in a game of cards to finish the day. We cousins would play or watch the game, trying to learn the rules so we could join the group. During those times, my grandparents would lapse into Polish, as would some of their children, which made learning the game difficult, but it was fun to watch them enjoy family together.

Fast forward to my own family. When our two oldest sons were toddlers, I would tease them with a few of the phrases I had learned growing up. One of those, I believed, was to call them "little monkeys." That would be considered a most acceptable phrase by most people, but I said the word once when we visited my parents and my father reacted much stronger than I had anticipated. He raised his voice to ask, "Do you know what you just called your children?" I drew back in amazement as I told him what I thought I had said. "I called them little monkeys, didn't I?"

"No," he responded, "You just called your little boys... let's just say, I would not win mother-of-the year for my label of my sons." Mortified, I decided I would never, ever say anything I could not specifically translate myself. This has become a topic of humor in our family, but I still cringe at the thought I could have said this where my grandmother would hear it. You see, I learned the word from her! She said it a few times during the family card games and it was she who told me it meant "little monkey!"

Getting Old Is Not Fun!

One of the lasting memories I will have of my father is his expression of resignation each time something made him feel his age, or inability to do the things he wanted to do. He would say it in Polish, but since I have no idea how to spell it (and learned the hard way - a subject for another post - not to try speaking or spelling a language with which I am not familiar), I will simply translate it - "Getting Old Is Not Fun!" Unfortunately, with each passing year, I know exactly what that means.

I am one of those people who will begin to wash a load of laundry, think of another piece of clothing to add and go to the bedroom to pick it up. When I get to the bedroom, I realize I never made the bed, so I do that, then take the drinking glass from the bedside table to take it to the kitchen. When I'm in the kitchen, of course I need to make a cup of coffee. While I'm waiting for the coffee to brew, I make a side trip to the living room and find a piece of mail and take it to the desk where I see dust bunnies building a community, and decide to retrieve the duster from the laundry room where I find the load of laundry still waiting for the missing piece of clothing!

Most people over sixty would probably relate to my foibles, and we all chuckle at how silly we feel when such things happen. However, there are other things occurring now that are not nearly as easy to face. In the past year we lost my beautiful godmother and beloved father and my husband has lost a precious sister. These were blows that made us all the more aware of our own mortality. We have been placed face to face with how we will finish our lives.

Ron is now "retired," which for a minister is never really complete. He keeps his life busy in many ways by volunteering at the emergency room in our local hospital, teaching a driving course for those over fifty-five, guest preaching and teaching, and shuttling cars for a local dealership. He finds ways every day to show the deep faith he has as well as his love for others. I still work full time, but wish I were retired. I, too, try to show each day how important my faith, and share it in various ways. We have both become well aware that we may not have many years left on this earth. The question is, how will we fill those years in the way God wants for us?

I want to see all of my family and friends (past, present, and future)  assured of where they will be for eternity. I don't want to leave this earth with the knowledge that I may never see some of them again because they have not taken the simple act of accepting the forgiveness they have been offered through the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. The responsibility of carrying Christ to our world is awesome.

As we age, we all have aches and pains, worries and cares that keep us from focusing on what is most important. Our society attempts to defy aging in the attempt to keep mortality at bay. We wonder whether we will be able to afford our increasingly abundant medications and medical treatments. As we age, we begin to think of the possibility that we will lose our mobility, our mental acuity, and become more dependent upon others to assist us. We may need to give up our drivers' licences, our finances and our health decisions to someone else as we become less able to do things for ourselves. We are becoming vulnerable and we don't like it.

I am very grateful that we live in a comfortable home, still have a stable income and can still care for ourselves and our chores. I am grateful that we have a strong family relationship with our sons and their families, our brothers and sisters. We continue to trust that our lives will be fulfilled and fulfilling to others as we go day to day. Nope, growing old is not fun; but it is necessary. The alternatives are not acceptable. Another thing I remember about my father...

"Well, I'm up, I'm taking refreshment... what more can I ask?"

What Did They See?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, those times that He met with the Pharisees?
Did his eyes spark with frustration, anger and fire?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, that time in the boat skimming dark Galilee?
Did they see strength and power over nature, and glances of wonder for lack of faith shown?

What did they see int he eyes of the Master, when the children were gathered so close to his chest?
Did they see joy, comfort and freedom? Did his eyes reflect the innocence there?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master, each time he gazed on some body in need?
Did his eyes brim with compassion, love and forgiveness? Did they see the power he had to fill every need?

What did they see in the eyes of the Master when he was taken and hung on the tree?
Did they see dread, pain and sorrow; loneliness, with love and forgiveness mixed in? Did they hear agonized shame when he begged for his father, compassionate love for his mother to hold, and forgiveness and welcome for the repentant thief?

What did they see in the eyes of their Master/Redeemer that Sunday he rose to waken the dawn?
Did they see joy, forgiveness and triumph? Did they see their failures swallowed up in his love?

What will we see in the eyes of our Savior on our first day of standing in front of this throne?
Will we see welcome, love, joy and forgiveness, or will we see sadness as we're turned away alone?

Of Dreams and Foxes

Have you ever experienced one of those dreams that remain with you throughout the day? Do you wonder if it means anything, or are you able to forget it and allow the dream to go into that area where dreams go when deleted from the mind?  My dream this morning was one of those dreams and I believe it was meant to be shared.

We were in an old church, much like the first one we served, with wooden floors that slanted toward the altar area - floors that squeaked, allowing no one to sneak into the Sunday worship late. The seating was theater-style and the sloping floor made you feel you were leaning forward, perhaps in eager anticipation of the message? The altar and choir area rose about five feet above the first pews. It was a damp, musty building, but we loved the congregation and our children, who were not in the dream, had friends there.

The morning worship service had ended. It had been okay, with the typical, "Good job, Pastor" comments made as the people filed by on their way home to complete their day.  My husband and I remained, as usual, to turn out the lights and lock the doors.

As I opened the front door, the cocoon of silence that wrapped the church was broken with cries of pain and pleas for help outside. The bright morning had disappeared and darkness had overcome the neighborhood. I was shocked by the sight of people being attacked and brought down by a pack of foxes, covered with mange, disfigured and obviously rabid. A woman lay to my left in the snow. She gazed at me with pain-filled eyes, whimpering in pain and begging for help. There were mounds of snow surrounding the area making access to the church slippery for the people, but easier for the claws of the foxes to climb.

Ron ran for something to use as weapons to keep the foxes from gaining access to the building, and, armed with a large stick and a broom, we found ourselves striking out at the foxes. Several times we drove them back and each time a few people rushed through the door to the church and into the sanctuary. Men, women and children streamed through the door as over and over we drove back the beasts. Some of those rescued joined the fight allowing more people to come flowing in to safety. As the numbers of people entering slowed, the fox attacks did as well. I recall asking about the woman in the snow and hearing a voice say, "She didn't make it - don't worry about her."

I turned back to some families remaining in the hallway who said they had never been in a church. We regaled them with all the church had to offer them and while the sound of the foxes outside grew quiet, we conducted a tour of the education area, youth room, music room and library. We listed all the programs the church offered, Sunday School, youth group, Bible Studies and choir.

As we neared the sanctuary, the noises assaulted us. Voices in raised whispers were heard from those who "respected the church." As we stood in shocked awe, the visitors shrank to the wall with disbelief and dread. As we observed, people were pointing at each other, criticizing and gossiping. Others shook their fingers in the faces of those they had chosen to correct. Some people cried, and some began to moan in pain, begging for aid. All over the sanctuary, I watched as people began to morph into mangy, disfigured foxes. They began attacking one another. I saw the eyes of the woman again, over and over.

I heard the words, "Whatsoever you do to the lest of these, you do to me." I realized with a broken heart that we had failed to do what God wanted of us. Instead of healing the hurting and saving the broken, we had been distracted by superficial things. While we thought of programs and buildings, the foxes had entered and overtaken the church.

I woke to my own thoughts, loud enough to have been spoken aloud, "Dear Lord, forgive us! We have allowed the foxes into the church."

Memories

Dad is nearly ninety years old now. We're planning on a birthday party for him in late August. The entire family is planning to be there to celebrate the gift of our father. The question, though, is how much will Dad be able to take part. You see, my father has Alzheimer's, among the cruelest of diseases - not so much for the person with the disease, but those who are helpless to keep their loved one from fading away. Dad is frustrated with his declining memory. He is fearful of new people and activities. He does not want to leave the security of his home, and his body is suffering from old age, disuse and poor hygiene. He retreats from his fears and frustration in bed, where he wraps himself in sleep. With the gentle, sacrificial care of my sister, he remains in his own home. He goes out only to doctor's visits and Church.

Dad seems happy in his memories, most of which are from World War II. He knows us, his children and grandchildren, although his grandchildren are frozen in his memory as teenagers. He struggles to remember his great-granddaughters. He introduces my husband to my brother, though we have been married for over forty years. Dad has grown more gentle. Previously a gruff, opinionated man with a tender heart, he has softened, though the stubbornness born of a life of self-sufficiency and determination does not allow him to accept help from "outsiders."

There is nothing to be done but wait. We all wait now to see what another day will bring. Anything that upsets his routine has the potential of pushing him to the next level of Alzheimer's. He lives a delicate balance of the present, where the rest of us abide, and the past where he dwelt in his strongest emotional ties, World War II, the Great Depression, building a marriage and family. Those times that were stressful and took much determination and commitment appear to have the most prominent place in his memories. He remembers the early years of their marriage, but has difficulty remembering how or when he met my Mother. He remembers fondly the men he trained while in the Air Force, and the tricks they played upon one another; but cannot recall hearing from any of them following the War. He remembers delivering telegrams and leaving school to help support his family. We have learned much from the memories Dad lives now. We have gained insight into his early life he was hesitant to share before. When we contemplated getting a puppy, Dad recalled a dog from his childhood I had not heard of previously. The dog was aggressive and Dad warned about the breed.

Perhaps the most touching and telling of all the memories Dad still retains is that of his faith. Following my Mother's death, he nearly lost himself in grief. He found his way out by giving of himself, time and talents, to others. He found joy in providing rides to those in need of them, visiting the sick and those who were shut in. His priest encouraged Dad to become a Deacon in his church, which would take three years of training to accomplish. Dad declined, saying he did not want to commit three years if he might not live that long (that was twenty years ago). He, instead became a Lay Minister in the church and the visits, rides and giving became an integral part of his life. During the training, his eyes were opened to the wonders of the Bible and he found a deeper, stronger faith than he knew imaginable. He learned every part of the Mass, including the priest's portions. He found a joy beyond any he had known in service to the Lord.

We have attended Mass with Dad since he has lost so many memories. Sitting next to him, I hear him quietly recite each word of the service, each part done with reverence and peace. I take great comfort in the knowledge that whatever else my Father loses, even his memory of me as his daughter, he will never lose his closeness to the Lord he served so happily the final years of his life.

I look forward to the birthday celebration. The entire family will be present, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We do not know how clear his relationship with many of us will be, but we will be united in our gratefulness for the years we have had. Memories do come and go. Some fade with age, some with disease, but all will be clear again someday. When we meet again before the Lord, our eyes will see clearly, our minds will be sharp and our memories will be glorious to recall.

Retirement?

It's very interesting being a Pastor's wife. In many ways, the life I lead is completely dependent on what church we are serving. The question is always, "How active will I be in this ministry?" We have served some churches where we have worked as a team. I was side-by-side with my husband in all areas of the ministry. At other times, I have been on the sidelines - relegated there by church members who see the Pastor's wife as an accessory to him, perhaps a necessary accessory, but an appendage just the same.

I recall one church where my husband was asked to preach for a fellow Pastor on vacation. We completed our own service and literally sped the twenty or so miles to our friend's church. My husband had warned the leadership that we would be coming in at the very last moment and we believed all was in order. We walked through the door and someone quickly pointed out to me where the piano was. I merely looked at him and agreed that the piano was very nice. What I did not realize, and what we had not been warned of, was that while my husband was asked to preach, I was expected to play the piano. Unfortunately, no one had bothered to ask if I could play the piano. I cannot. My husband can, however, so the service was not without music. This is just one example of the stereotypical views that people have of a Pastor's wife. She is someone who quietly supports her husband and play the piano.

Now my husband has come to the time in his life where he has spent thirty-two years in the pastorate, and feels it is time to step out of that role. He will not be leaving the ministry. He has been called and cannot turn his bank on the calling. However, he will rest, recuperate and gain strength to begin the next phase of his journey with God. Eventually, he will return, perhaps to teach, but no longer will he be a senior pastor with all the requisite responsibilities. While he is eager to begin the next phase, and spends time refreshing his body and mind. I am left with a huge question - what about me?

Just as being a Pastor's wife was foreign to me thirty-two years ago, being a layman's wife is something foreign now. I was happily in that role when we first married forty years ago and for eight years I would not have thought of being at the center of things at the church. I was always willing to help out, but not lead. I was active and involved. However, now I have lead. I have been asked to teach, speak publicly about matters of importance, counsel and even produce and direct the services my husband has prepared. He has retired - and, therefore, so have I.

The choice is not mine. I will once again become one of the congregation in whatever church we attend. Where possible, I will take part in things, but I will no longer be looked to as someone with answers. I will once again become anonymous, another face in the crowd. I'm not sure I'm ready for that now. I have become used to being the Pastor's wife... the one who knows the Pastor's heart. This is a bit of a blow to my ego. While my husband will once again be looked to as someone with authority, I will not. Even when relegated to the background there was a sense that I was on the "inside." I will need to adjust to no longer being there.

I'm sure I will survive. I will continue to love and support my husband,children and grandchildren. I will work at my job with the same commitment I have for many years. I will continue to love my Lord and my God and will live as I have in service to him. I will no longer be the Pastor's wife. I guess I'm retired from that. It will be an adjustment, but it will be one of many in my life. And with God's help, it will prove to be another wonderful step in the road I travel.

But I Was Just Kidding!

I am on a bandwagon of late, and this is a chance to ride a bit longer.

I find it harder and harder to sit still when people are throwing around "cut-down" humor. To belittle one another with comments and sarcastic responses is not only rude, but entirely beyond the scope of Christian sensitivity. Every day comments are made that, on the surface, appear to be attempts at humor. However, they are seldom funny, and more often than not, have a cutting edge to them that makes one wonder exactly just how serious the comments are.

This is a very big problem among teenagers. For a number of years, my husband and I were the youth workers at the various churches we served. One of our strictest rules was that no humor that would demean another would be allowed at the youth meetings we led. It will never cease to amaze me how deflated a teen becomes when they are cruelly teased, and no reaction seems forthcoming from leaders or others in the group. This is bullying and tolerated, even encouraged, by some teachers and youth leaders. We have seen all too often lately, the results of bullying gone too far. It usually ends in tragedy, if not to a group of people, to the heart and psyche of the young person on the receiving end of it.

The people I'm talking about in this post, however, are not teenagers. They are adults. These are people who are intelligent, upright, honest citizens who work hard and have hearts of gold - until it comes to humor. I find this behavior rude, cruel and showing complete disrespect for the individual at whom the barb is aimed.

Words cannot be taken back. Once that arrow is shot, it cannot be retrieved. Too often, the comment maker follows with a statement to the effect, "Just kidding." If they show any sensitivity at all, they might ask, "You know I'm kidding, don't you?" At least that question demonstrates some amount of care for the feelings of the person attacked.

I did mean to use the word attacked in that last paragraph, for that's what it feels like. My husband and I have discussed this phenomenon frequently. He is a recovering sarcastic. When we were first married, during that period of adjustment when we seek to discover all the wonderful things about each other, he found it easy to make a quick remark, without thinking, and it would sting. Of course, I overreacted many times as well, but we did need to work through the idea that sometimes quick wit can be a dangerous weapon. That kind of humor is unacceptable in our home.

Another side of sarcasm, is the self-deprecating sarcasm we inflict on ourselves. Sometimes we make the remark because we can see it coming from outside of us, and perhaps feel we can make it less hurtful if we say it first. Sometimes we have a poor self-image and can't see ourselves deserving better than a cruel comment. This type of cruelty toward ourselves shows disrespect for who we are in Christ.

We are temples of the Holy Spirit, corporately and individually. What we say to one another, we are saying to someone who has Christ living within him or herself. Didn't Jesus himself say that, "Whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do to me."? I truly believe that goes to the area of cut-down humor as well. When we say something disrespectful, cruel and demeaning to another person, we are saying it to Jesus.

I'm not on this bandwagon to bring guilt upon those who tend to make these kinds of remarks. It takes hard work and concentrated effort to stifle the comments before they come spilling out of our mouths. My bandwagon is just a reminder that words can and do often hurt. Let's choose our comments carefully.

Donut Hole Prayer

When our sons were younger, we enjoyed a long trip from the country into the city to attend the church where my husband grew up. The journey usually took about 45 minutes and we spent the time talking about Jesus, singing songs and enjoying the quiet time after the normally hectic preparations for Sunday worship. The ride gave us the opportunity to arrive at the church happy and relaxed.

Since our trip home usually extended through the lunch hour, we periodically stopped to buy a treat to tide the boys over until we returned home. Our favorite destination was a bakery on the way that served delicious donuts, breads and rolls. The boys always asked for donuts or donut holes, which they would munch happily in the back seat, scattering crumbs liberally.

One particular Sunday, our oldest boy, then about 3 years old, became thirsty while eating his donut. We were not quite halfway home, and it was not convenient to stop at that time, so we played the usual parent game of, "We're almost there. We'll get you some water when we get home." Within a few minutes, the plaintive request would come again, "Mommy, Daddy, I'm thirsty!" We would repeat our answer, and he would repeat his request shortly after.

Apparently, our little guy thought he would go to a higher source and we heard, from the backseat, "Jesus, please can I have a drink of water?" Lee and I smiled as we listened to this desperate attempt by our son to be satisfied. It wasn't until we returned home sometime later that we realized our boy hadn't asked us again for a drink of water. His prayer had been answered.

We spend many, many moments in "donut hole prayers." Some are not too serious... "Jesus, can you help me find my papers?" "Jesus, if you just let me get through this test, I'll study harder next time." "Jesus, please don't let me make a fool of myself when I get up to speak." Some others are desperation prayers... "Jesus, please heal me!" "Jesus, lower the fever of my child." "Jesus, help!"

I believe that donut hole prayers, unless you're a three-year-old child, are not sufficient to establish a real relationship with the father who loves us so much that he would come to earth as a human being to communicate with us and pay the price of death for our sins. How does God feel when we ignore him until the last minute when we're in deep trouble and panicky, I wonder. He answers us, I know He does. However, I also believe it must break His heart to know that we more often than not, see him as a stopgap measure on our road through life. We pray only in the times we're "stuck," but never think of it when things are going well.

When we pray donut hole prayers, we miss out on so much of what God has for us. We haven't taken the time to be silent in his presence and listen to Him. We don't thank him for the glory of creation, for the family we have, for our homes, health, friends and provisions he has made for us to enjoy and cherish.

Perhaps it's time to not settle for the donut holes. Surround those holes with the rest of the donut. Surround yourself with the blessings God has for you. Then the donut hole answers will become very special treats.

Can I Divide Him in Half?

With the recent deaths of two prominent celebrities at young ages, Kirby Puckett and Dana Reeves, I have overheard some interesting conversations around the office. In addition to the death of these celebrities, one of our colleagues lost his mother during the same time period.

Such a string of deaths serves to draw people to the thought of their own mortality. The conversation that struck me as most unusual was one I overheard in our lunchroom. Three women were discussing the disposition of their bodies after death. They also questioned how to dispose of the bodies of their husbands and loved ones. There was quite the debate about whether or not cremation is allowed by various faiths. Some, who were members of the Catholic community, said that cremation was not allowed, while others disagreed or said they really didn't care. One woman was convinced that no one in her family would care what was done with her body, as long as it was gone. The majority of the ladies decided they wanted to be cremated. Once that decision was made, they began to debate what should happen with the cremains afterward.

One spoke of an aunt who had been sitting on a mantle for years where a virtual shrine had been erected in her honor. Another said she thought it was illegal to do anything save bury the ashes. Still another stated that she wanted her ashes scattered in her garden. One woman stated she was going to have her husband cremated (I'm not sure how she'll guarantee he'll go first), but wanted to know if she could divide him in half so she could scatter his ashes in two separate places. This debate is certainly not new. I remember a letter printed in an advice column years ago, where the man stated that his wife had asked him before her death to paint her ashes on the ceiling of their bedroom. He had remarried and wanted to know if it was all right to paint over his first wife.

I find it interesting that such a conversation could consume the better part of an hour with absolutely no one questioning what happens to our souls after death. Isn't that a far more important question? There appears to be a general feeling that even in death, our bodies are the essence of who we are. But we are so much more than flesh and bone.

The very fact that a body can be reduced to ashes emphasizes the fact of its fragility, and disposability. However, our souls cannot be destroyed. They live on throughout eternity. We should be much more concerned about the destination of our souls, than the destination of our ashes.

We have been guaranteed eternal life in heaven only if we have accepted the gift that Jesus gave for us on Calvary. If we choose not to receive the gift he offers, then we choose to live eternally separated from the love and glory of God. We are assured that one of two destinies awaits us, heaven or hell. It's up to us which one we enter.

I look forward to a life without pain, sorrow, illness or death in heaven. Some day my body will be gone and few will remember I ever walked this earth. It doesn't matter to me how my family chooses to dispose of my body. I don't think I'll be needing it up there.

What's In a Name?

Disclaimer: I promised my family and friends when I started this blog that I wouldn't mention any of them by their real names. Therefore, any names I use are purely the product of my imagination. I just get tired of typing "my husband, my sons, etc." It is easier to name them. I asked my husband what name he would like for me to use when speaking about him. He chose the name Lee.

In the ministry, often a wife appears to be just an appendage to her husband. We are often introduced to people as, "This is our pastor, John Smith, and his wife." I do not believe for a moment that this oversight is a deliberate attempt to ignore the fact that I am there. In fact, I find it an honor to be considered such a part of my husband that it seems appropriate to link us together in an introduction.

For many spouses of ministers, however, this is a difficult adjustment to make. I have counseled with young women who hated being a pastor's wife because they felt overlooked and unrecognized for their own accomplishments.

This anonymity has not been present only in church settings. I have been nameless in stores, on the street, and even, on one instance in my own family. My mother-in-law quite often forgot to mention my name when she introduced my husband and I in the first few months after our marriage. She would simply say, "This is my son, Lee, and his wife." He would often retort, "Mom, she has a name, her name is Naomi." This continued for several months, until at the funeral off one of Lee's cousins, his mother made her standard introduction, and he made his customary retort. Then, turning to the relative to whom he was going to introduce me he said, "This is my wife, uhhhhh...." I am convinced that God had a good laugh watching poor Lee squirm!

I work as a paralegal in several areas of law, including business and immigration. In both of those areas, the misspelling of a person's name can have serious, sometimes live-changing consequences. Contracts used in business must be correct, and a person could be denied status in our country should an error be made. I feel sorry for people whose parents labeled them with a name meant to be cute or funny, or even honoring to a relative or friend; but caused immense heartache and even bullying throughout school. How many times as a child did you wish your parents had given you a different name? How many times are parents pressured to give a child a name to please someone else? In our case, I was asked to name our oldest son after my grandmother. Her name could be used in either a masculine or feminine form. I immediately thought of all the ways our baby would be teased and we decided against it.

We will fight ferociously to protect our name because with that name comes a reputation. What images come to mind when you hear the name of Mother Theresa, Marilyn Monroe, Mahatma Ghandi, or Adolph Hitler? The reputation of these people has gone on far beyond their earthly lives.

Is our reputation as important as we believe it is? I'm not so sure. I have just begun reading a book about attitudes toward mistakes and failure. In it, the author stresses that to fail at something or make a mistake is not a negative, but that our attitude toward that mistake or failure will determine whether the failure can be turned into success. We are so afraid someone will think poorly of us if we fail, and our reputation will be irreparably damaged, that we shrink from attempting what God has in mind for us.

Jesus had a poor reputation with most of the religious leaders of his day. His hometown population ridiculed him. However, he knew his purpose in life. He had given up his position in Heaven, set aside his Godhood, and come to earth to bring forgiveness and eternal life to those who believed in Him. His mind was set on what He was to do here on earth, and so He didn't look to the approval of people, or seek to protect his good name.

One person may have an easily recognizable name, with the power and prestige that come from a sterling reputation for success, and not be welcomed into the eternal glory of heaven. Another may have no name recognition and a reputation as a failure, and be joyfully welcomed into the arms of Jesus at the end of life. God knows whether we will be considered a success or failure during our lifetime. But reputation and a good name on earth mean nothing to God if we do not accept Jesus. Our names will be written in the Book of Life, only if we have recognized and received the gift Jesus brought.

Far more important to God is our willingness to follow the path He sets for us. It is entirely possible that the path could lead to what the world considers failure and loss of reputation. It could also bring success and recognition. The only thing that matters to God is our attitude.

God will never think less of us for our mistakes. He will welcome us into His Kingdom warmly and equally, and He will eternally remember our names.

Home is Not a Place

My family moved into our first home when I was 14 years old. We all were excited to live in a big house on a large lot. My sisters and I had dreamed of a house that resembled the ones on "Leave it to Beaver," or "Father Knows Best." My dreams included my wedding day when I would come down the winding staircase on my father's arm. The real house was not what I had in mind.

Oh, we had a staircase, but it was a narrow, functional way to travel from the kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs. No grand entrance would take place there. Another of our dreams was to have our own rooms. Instead, we shared bedrooms. My two sisters and I shared a room and my two brothers shared another. Dream number two was not to be.

This house was not what we had pictured, it was not perfect; but it was the greatest place on earth. We lived a sheltered, close-knit life in that house. Memories pour through my mind as I sit here writing this evening.

Shortly after we moved in, while my mother and father were shopping, I was left in charge of my brothers and sisters. We heard a strange, thumping noise coming from the basement. Convinced that some evil person had broken in and was ready to murder us all, my sisters and I grabbed the first thing we could find to protect our home. In this case, the weapons of choice were the metal extensions to the vacuum cleaner hose. We proceeded to shout about how we were going to the basement, with weapons in hand, and anyone down there had better get out.

Just like in the movies, we went toward the noise. Eerie music should have been playing as we made our way to the door, wondering what we would do if someone was there. We opened the basement door and began creeping down the stairs, to the unfinished area where shadows moved. The monster furnace loomed in the semi-darkness. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we realized that our intruder was just a pair of tennis shoes that my mother had put into the clothes dryer. Feeling foolish, but definitely wiser, we returned upstairs where we could stop trembling.

In that house, we learned to dance with my dad, we played in the yard with our friends, and cooked out when the weather was warm. It was in that house we got "the talk" from our mom. It was in that house that we would giggle into the late night, knowing that my parents' threat of, "If we hear just one more peep...," would never come to pass.

It was to that house that I brought my future husband after our first date, to meet my parents. We had been skiing (he skied, I watched) and the roads were treacherous and icy. I had neglected to call my family to let them know we would be late, and my father was quite worried for my safety. As I introduced the two men in my life, my father let us know in no uncertain terms that he was not happy with the fact he hadn't heard from us. I was convinced that one of those men would no longer be part of my life.

It was in the living room of that house that my husband and I spent many evenings snuggled on the couch. And it was there that he proposed to me. I told him that he would need to ask my father for my hand (yep, another dream of mine). We waited nervously for dad to return from the night shift he worked. When he came home, my husband told my father about his desire to marry me. My father's response was quite touching. He said, "Well, it's about time!"

My grand entrance on that staircase went in reverse, as I climbed the stairs to tell my mother I was to be married. I had pictured a "Hallmark" moment when I would tell my mom my plans, she would draw me into her arms with tears in her eyes and speak of her little girl getting married. Instead, when I woke her up to tell her my news, she groggily said, "That's nice," turned over and went back to sleep. Poof - there goes another dream.

The memories of that house flood my heart. I will never forget leaving the house on my wedding day, dressed in a gown, exactly like the one I had dreamed of, and returning to it a married woman. I will never forget saying good-bye to my family as my new husband and I left to travel the 400 miles to our new life together. I will never forget returning home with my babies to introduce them to their grandparents, aunts and uncles. I will never forget receiving the news that my mother had passed away quietly in her sleep, in the very bed I went to when I shared my special news.

I will never forget encouraging my father to sell the house when it became much too difficult for him to maintain, even with the help of my brothers and sister, who still remain in the area. I will never forget returning to visit and going back to where the house had been to find a hole where it had once stood. In its place was a huge building that held no memories at all. I felt like a stranger in the neighborhood I once knew so well.

My dad is living in a smaller, newer house now. He has a small yard. My sister lives with him. We have returned to visit, and the house feels different. But our home is still there. I have discovered that family is what makes a house a home. A building can be demolished, but the memories that linger in our hearts and minds keep the home fires burning deeply. When we return to visit we are truly home.

Lenten Sacrifice

Today is the first day of Lent, Ash Wednesday. Lent is considered by virtually all Christian denominations as a time of preparation for Easter. We spend these forty days meditating on the sacrifice that Jesus made for us. We are reminded of our own mortality, symbolized by the ashes, and what will happen when our life here is over. Not every denomination places ashes on the heads of believers, but they are a poignant reminder that we are, indeed, dust and will someday return to that state.

I’ve heard people talking about what they’ll be giving up for Lent. I also hear the underlying regret that they must put a favorite candy, food, or beverage aside for the season. I find this very sad. The sadness doesn’t come from the fact that they’re thinking about sacrifice, but that they seem to resent the imposition that giving something up has on their lives. My question to them is, “Then why do it?”

I grew up in a Catholic home. Thanks to one of the Sisters who taught at my high school, I have a different perspective about Lent. She taught us one year that Jesus doesn’t really care what we give up for Lent. He really wants to know what we’re going to do for Lent. Her point was that if we’re giving something up, and complaining about it, then we’re being quite selfish. We need to remember – this isn’t about us! She inspired me to attend Mass every morning that Lent before school. That meant I needed to get up earlier and hurry to keep the schedule, but I will never forget how good it felt to begin the day meeting with God.

When Jesus told believers to take up their cross, he was talking about developing a lifestyle of service. Does it really matter to the kingdom if we eat a candy bar, or drink a can of pop once in a while? Of course not; but what if we went to a women’s shelter and passed out those treats to the women and children living there? What if we packaged meals for starving people, or attended church more regularly, read our Bibles more, prayed more, gossiped less, reached out to the unlovely?

God certainly calls us to use our gifts and talents for the building of his kingdom. I think he’d much rather have us share ourselves in his name, than grumble about “giving something up.”

Outnumbered but not Outdone

I grew up as a girl. I did girlie things like play with dolls, rollerskate, and jump rope. As a girl brought up in, let's just say a more gender-defined era, I have no sense of adventure. The most rustic I would ever want to be is in a motel that has only a double bed in the room. Therefore, I have come to believe without a doubt that God does indeed have a terrific sense of humor. Why else would he have dropped me into a family where I was the only female except for the dog?

There were lots of challenges trying to bring some civilization to this band of free spirits. All four of our sons were gifted with my husband's quick wit. They delighted in my naivete. I played straight man to their comedy on more occasions than I care to remember.

Particularly interesting were our family meals. We made a conscious effort to eat at least one meal together as a family each day. This was harder as the boys grew older and began taking part in sports and other school activities, but it remained a wonderful opportunity to connect as a family.

Mealtimes were also one of the times when my darling sons and husband practiced their comedy routines with their "Gracie Allen" mother. The goal always appeared to be bringing me to the point of laughing just as I took a sip of milk. They scored when the beverage of the day began dribbling out of my nose. I'm sure that Emily Post would have been horrified by the shenanigans that took place at our dinner table. It was quite often irreverent, messy, and just plain fun.

Family meals and the time before them, when one or the other of the boys would park himself by the kitchen counter and talk to me as I prepared the food, were times I will always cherish. I learned their dreams and fears, I listened to the heartbreak of broken high school relationships, and I heard the concern they shared over friends who did not have positive family lives. I was privileged to see a part of my sons that some mothers never do. That kind of intimacy is golden.

The boys grew up and eventually developed table manners. They have all met beautiful young women. Two of them have married and have given us three gorgeous granddaughters. Do the math - I'm not outnumbered any longer!! When we're all together, we females get our licks in now and again.

Now they are all having family dinners in their own homes. My husband and I are eating dinner alone most evenings. That's not such a bad thing. We still like one another. But when the boys are "home" with us, the fun begins again. They still try to get me snorting a beverage, and sometimes they succeed.

They are the best of friends, not only with each other, but with their parents. Our relationship with our sons has changed. We are still their parents and we still worry about whether they're eating well, getting enough sleep, and all the other things that parents do; but now we see they're beginning to take care of us. The tide is turning. They call us to see how we're doing, to let us know they care and love us.

I doubt greatly that our granddaughters will hear the stories about putting rice between Grandma's toes (use your imagination on that one) until they're raising children of their own. And by then they'll have their own stories to tell about their family dinners.

Firsts

I've been thinking of how many "firsts" we encounter in our lives. We have our first birthday, first tooth, first step, first day of school - even first blogs. Each of these firsts is historical. Each first is the beginning of a new chapter in the book our life becomes.

This past year has been a year of firsts in our family. The biggest first was the planting of a new church. My husband has had the dream of planting a church for years, but the opportunity did not present itself until one year ago this month. That was when a small group of people gathered in our living room and asked if we had thought about starting a new church.

It was only after several months of praying about it, examining motives and seeking wisdom, that we felt that the time had come to move forward. Even with the knowledge in our hearts that God was calling us to the new work, this was one scary first.

Neither my husband nor I are spring chickens (we've even moved a bit into the tough old bird category). We questioned whether we were too old to take on this kind of stress. My husband, after many years of pastoral ministry, needed to become a tentmaker to help with our financial responsibilities.

I don't know why this is called "planting a church." It really would more properly be called "birthing a church." Like childbirth - the labor is long, and painful at times, but also like childbirth, the living body that is born pushes the memories of pain away.

Early on in our examination of what this ministry would be like, it was determined that our fledgling church must be a place of peace and rest to those who have, for whatever reason, "dropped out of church", those who have been hurt by the church, and those who are new to the idea of faith and "religion."

Ours is not a typical church. No steeples or bells, high ceilings or marble, we are located in a business park. We have no pews, hymnals, or other trappings of the church. Instead we sit around tables, serve refreshments and do not formally take an offering. We sing, worship, join in Holy Communion, and love Christ and each other. We are a family.

Our church is now nearly a year old. We continue to celebrate many firsts... our first