Lessons from Grandma

I haven’t posted anything in quite some time, but I have been writing! Today I want to share an excerpt from that writing. It is about my grandmother, the most influential woman in my life after my mother. She passed away 3 years ago this August and I miss her as much as I did the first day she went away. This post is not only about her, but about me and just a few of the life lessons she taught me. I hope they speak to you and bless you as well.

Grandma. 5’ 10” with short, dark-blond hair (before it went white) which she set in curlers weekly for that June Cleaver kind of look. Not that my Grandma was much like June Cleaver. Gosh, I’d probably catch heck if she heard me comparing her to June Cleaver! Kim Novak…or Angela Landsbury…maybe she would like those comparisons better. After all, Grandma traded in skirts and dresses for elastic waisted, pocketless denim or polyester slacks long before I came along. And whenever she was at home, the only thing she wore on her feet were those toeless, backless, slide-on, terrycloth slippers. I guess she figured if clothes weren’t comfortable then they weren’t worth wearing.

I, along with my brother and mother, had the privilege of spending more than half my childhood living with my grandparents. While she didn’t work outside the home – and she cooked, cleaned, washed and ironed on a schedule you could set a watch to – my Grandma, Arlene was her name, found no bliss in her domestic duties. Domesticity was her job. Period. She lived for the moments in between. Those filled with piano playing, crossword puzzles, game shows, family visits, apple pie with cheddar cheese, diet coke, Pall Mall non-filters, Murder She Wrote and Fred Astaire.

One afternoon, when I was about 10, I came home from school with an assignment. I plopped myself down on the floor in front of the chair where she sat.

“Grandma, I have to ask you a question for homework. If there was one thing you could have done differently in life, what would it be?”

“Oh, let me see,” she said, resting her elbows on her knees and rubbing her wrinkled hands together. She turned her blue-green eyes to the floor to think, then looked back up at me and said, “Well, I probably wouldn’t have had so many kids.”

I, the firstborn of her fourth and very last child, stared back, wide-eyed, slack-jawed.

“I think I would have stopped after the first one. Raising all those kids…ah.” She waved her hand as if brushing away all the chores of childrearing. “Then maybe I would have gotten a job or something.”

She said it so casually, so matter-of-factly. My mind reeled. My grandma – the most dependable, reliable, non-threatening person I knew, one whose love I never doubted and whose care I never lacked – just wiped my name from her book of life! I imagined the consequences: my mother, my aunt Joanne, my uncle Gibby, my cousins and me…all gone. Uncle Thomas and his kids the only survivors. How easily she dismissed our familial line!

I took a breath and checked myself, searching for any internal hurt or anger. There was none. In fact, if I hadn’t been so shocked, I might have even laughed. Geez Gram, I thought, you can think those things if you want, but maybe you shouldn’t say them out loud…to your grandchildren!

But I found that I couldn’t hold it against her. Rather, my appreciation for her grew. She had hopes and dreams beyond motherhood and housewifery; she wanted more than us. I wondered what held her back. Was it falling in love with grandpa that caused her to settle down and have kids? Was it her limited education? Or just a lack of options for farm girls in the 1940’s? Whatever the case, she wanted something different and yet her dutiful, personal sacrifice betrayed none of those regrets.

My grandmother was the solid ground beneath my shifting sands of life. Borrowing from singer Sarah Evans, “she was steady as the sun.” Faithful. Predictable. Available. Consistent. She loved us all and would stand by us until the end. Of that I had no doubt. That day, I saw in her, perhaps for the first time, the incomparable value of a life sacrificed for others.

She was no saint. I’m pretty sure a woman who at times shared vocabulary with sailors can’t be canonized. And her insistence that “that Mary, she wasn’t no virgin” probably wouldn’t have won her any votes either. But she was ours and nothing, not even her own dreams, would change that.

At that moment, I made a point to tuck this little conversation away, knowing that someday, when I was old enough, its retelling would make us all roar with laughter.

I learned a few more things that day. I learned that while our choices matter, life is bigger than our choices. And that our regrets don’t have to define us. But perhaps, most importantly for me, an unplanned child, I learned that our plans might not always be the best plans.

How precarious was my entrance into this world! What if my parents never met? Never dated? What if they’d chosen to abort me? It was 1973 after all.

Or what if my grandma had stopped at just one child and went off to get a job instead?

Life is not only bigger than our choices; it’s bigger than me, bigger than all of us. That day, I stopped asking “What if?” and began to wonder “Why?”

Why was I here? Why was my mother here? My grandmother? Anyone?

I was Curious.

August 20, 2012 17

Promises

Promise me you’ll never leave. Promise you won’t tell. Promise to help me, no matter what. Promise you’ll never hurt me. Promise you won’t turn your back on me. Promise you’ll never give up on me. Promised me you’ll never forget.

Promises. We ask for and give them so easily. What does a promise mean to me? To you? Why are promises important?

For the last month I have been reading about promises kept, even at the most difficult times. About soldiers who risked their lives to save a woman who had earlier shielded them from the sword of her own countrymen. Not only did the soldiers save the woman, but they rescued her whole family as well. In the midst of a raging battle, the soldiers fought their way down city streets, back to her home, bringing her and her family to safety. They did this not because they loved her, not because they were a search and rescue team, not because they feared her. The soldiers rescued her because she asked them to and, in gratitude of her mercy toward them, they promised her they would. It was as simple as that.

I also read about a nation tricked into making a treaty with a neighboring village. The villagers claimed, rather convincingly, to be something they were not. The nation would never have entered into the treaty had they known the truth. Even still, when the national leaders discovered the deception, they honored the treaty. One day, a coalition of five enemy states attacked the village. Without hesitation, they called on the very nation they had deceived and pleaded for military support. As a man of his word, the national leader agreed. He then traveled with his entire army throughout the night until arriving at the village. The next morning, and for what seemed like days, they waged war on the invaders and successfully defended the villagers in perhaps their most difficult battle ever. Why? Because in allying themselves with the villagers, they had made a promise, of not only peace, but of unity.

Promises. What kind of promises have you made? Have you ever been tricked into making a promise? Or maybe you just feel like you didn’t get what you bargained for?

I read about another promise. The promise of a father. He was the father of the two soldiers and of the deceived national leader. The father had raised his children to be strong, faithful, compassionate, wise, loving, patient and honest – not because he told them to, but because he too was all those things. Their father had never made a promise he didn’t keep and he never would. In honor of their father, these sons did the same. A promise made was a promise kept.

For the last month or so, I have spent most (not all, but most) of my writing time deep in preparations for our summer play and camp. I have so much I want to write about that I’ve begun to envision the topics piling up before me like a stack of sweet pancakes just waiting to be devoured. But there is no time for self-indulgence, there is a script to be written! So, in an effort to be faithful to my blog and my commitments at the same time, I have combined the two.

By now, some of you recognize the soldiers, the woman, the leader, the villagers and the Father as characters from the book of Joshua, and our focus for this summer’s program. These last few days, as I think of the story of Joshua, I see a sweeping account of a Father’s faithfulness to his children and his determination to keep his promises, no matter what the cost. As a testimony to their Father, the children live with the same passionate, sacrificial integrity.

Do I take my promises and commitments seriously? Will I honor my commitments even when they fail to meet my expectations? Will I keep my promises, no matter the cost? Am I aware of how my faithfulness reflects on the Father who risked everything for me? The Father who promised He’ll never leave. Promised He won’t tell. Promised to help me, no matter what. Promised He’ll never hurt me. Promised He won’t turn His back on me. Promised to never give up on me. Promised me He’ll never forget. That’s a Father worth keeping promises for – am I willing? Are you?

Something to think about!

February 17, 2012 6

Hungry Anyone?

If anyone had told me a month ago, that my next favorite book would be about a futuristic society that punishes their citizens with high-tech, Hollywood style gladiator games, I would have thought they were crazy. But when my cousin showed me The Hunger Games movie trailer on his phone at Christmas, I was hooked before I even had the book in my hands! My daughter and I spent two nights reading it aloud to each other, alternating chapters. Shouting when it was time to trade the book, “Hurry! Give it over!” or if the person reading paused to catch her breath, “Keep going! Read! Read!” On the last night, we stayed up until 2:00 a.m. sustaining ourselves with granola and chocolate just so we could make it to the end. Which of course was only nominally satisfying….because it is a trilogy!!! We devoured the next two books in a matter of days.

A book that keeps me up at night is one thing. Lots of books keep me up at night. So how do I know if a book’s really gotten to me? If, when I get about 50 pages or so away from the end, I stop reading, because I just don’t want it to be over, don’t want to let the characters go. When I pick it back up, I take my time, savor those last few pages. Even with my daughter waiting anxiously to talk about the final book that she’d already finished, I read the ending slowly, mourning its passing with the turn of each page.

The Hunger Games trilogy, by Suzanne Collins, hardly lacks attention on the blogosphere. In fact, I may be the last blogger in the world to write about it. That’s why I am not going to give the standard review, critique the book or conjecture about whether this trilogy is a rip-off from a Japanese novel with a similar plot, as apparently some have suggested. (The one thing I have to say regarding those rumors is that good writing requires hard work, creativity and talent, and while these books might not rise to the level of classic literature, they are riveting. That doesn’t happen by accident.)

For those of you wondering if you should read the book, I will offer these general thoughts: Many people may be turned off by the overall concept, the graphic violence or the complete lack of anything spiritual in such a dark world, but the novel itself isn’t dark, like say The Golden Compass. The Hunger Games trilogy is about hope and the power of life to endure, spring up even, in the most neglected of places. If your kids read it, I suggest you read along with them so that you can discuss it together. My daughter and I are still talking about it!

So why am I really writing this post? What do I have to share of any real substance? Well, perhaps nothing more than to say this book confirms the relevance of Christianity’s message and the power of its imagery even in our post-modern world. I am not suggesting The Hunger Games is a Christian book or even that the author was using Christian themes. In some ways, I think Collins was avoiding religion altogether. Why else would she have created a society who faced death every day, but spent so little time thinking about the afterlife or searching for meaning? Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining! Just acknowledging that some of the treasures I found hidden in this book were likely not put there on purpose.

*Spoiler Alert* The next several paragraphs contain some spoilers. I tried not to give away too much, so I think you could read it without ruining the books or movie, but proceed at your own risk!

First, I find that the premise of the story – that a higher power, The Capitol, rules over the masses by deceiving, oppressing, enslaving and dividing them, causing them to fight one another instead of their real enemy, the sinister President Snow and his government – is not all that different than the spiritual battle depicted in Christianity. Are we not being deceived on a daily basis? Are we not oppressed by doubt, fear, self-righteousness, pride and resentment? Do we not war with one another, if not with swords and guns, then with words and emotions?

Then, there is the love story. Peeta, who represents hope, practically oozes all things good and light. He is a baker, an artist, a natural leader and a man willing to sacrifice his own life for the one he loves, Katniss. In fact, at one point he dies and – wait for it – comes back to life. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to spell this one out for you, but the material’s too good – I can’t not write about it.

At a pivotal moment in their relationship, when they are far from home and in danger of dying, Peeta gives Katniss a locket with pictures of her mother, sister and best friend, Gale. Gale, like Peeta, is in love with Katniss; however, Katniss is unsure of who she loves, unsure if she is even capable of love. While Katniss doesn’t know what she wants, Peeta is unwavering in his love for her. When she needs him, he is there. When she pushes him away, he loves her from afar. When she’s at her worst, he loves her anyway. As they look at the pictures of her family and Gale, Peeta offers Katniss his life, asking her to let him die in her place – he wants her to live, to be happy, to marry Gale and have a full life, even if that means giving her up, giving everything up. That, my friends, is sacrificial, selfless love – the truest form of love there is.

Do humans universally long for this kind of love? A love that sacrifices oneself to save another? If our music, movies, plays and books are any indication, then we must. Images of heroes surround us – heroes that can save us, from loneliness, grief, pain, danger, self-obsession, self-loathing, even death. So it should come as no surprise that so many people love these books. Whether we know it or not, the story stirs something deep within us.

Finally, as a baker, Peeta literally feeds and nourishes people in a starving community. This, I imagine, was no accident on the author’s part because he is ultimately the one who satisfies Katniss’s deepest hunger. I can’t help but smile a little at his name, which is actually a homonym for a kind of bread eaten by millions of people the world over. But I wonder if as Collins was writing Peeta, she considered the One who truly satisfies.

We, every one of us, are part of a Hunger Game. Only this is no game. This is real. Look around you. Think about it. Why are you here? Who’s really in control? Are you still a slave to the unseen powers of this dark world? Do you know who your enemy is? Are you hungry? Starving for the truth? Desperate for something…or someone to satisfy your soul?

He’s out there, you know. Your Rescuer. The One who said, “I am the bread that came down from heaven,” is all the food your starving soul needs. And He’s the only chance you have of getting out of this arena alive.

January 25, 2012 9

Unexpected Gifts

Do you remember that Christmas present you always wanted but never got? I found mine while reverently flipping through the Sears Wish Book, eyes wide, excitement bubbling through my veins. I circled the picture over and over, practically cutting a hole through the paper with the tip of my pen. Then, when I showed my parents, they promptly informed me that a Barbie Dream House was not in the budget nor would it fit in our two bedroom apartment. Even after a letter to Santa and some earnest prayers, come Christmas day, among all the presents under the tree, there was no Barbie Dream House. So goes life. Sometimes, we ask for one thing and get another.

Most of the time, such disappointments are small and quickly forgotten. But at other times, they hurt. Imagine the child who wants a set of paints or a guitar but the parents keep buying soccer balls and shin guards. Might such a child wonder, “Do my parents even know me? Do they care at all?” A good and genuine gift – material or not – is one that says, “I know you and I love you. I know you and I love you.”

I think that’s why we’re often confused when we ask the Lord for one thing and He gives us something else. Doesn’t He know us through and through? Doesn’t He love us more than anyone ever could? Scripture tells us that God gives good gifts to his children – we just have to ask. Then why do we ask for work and find none? We ask for friends and are still alone? We ask for healing and death comes anyway? We ask for answers and are left with more questions? What then?

Lately, I have really wrestled with this. It’s not that I think He can’t hear me. I know He can. And it’s not even that He’s silent. In fact, He’s talking to me all the time. But sometimes I feel like we’re having two different conversations. I ask for an apple and He answers with an orange. I ask in English and He answers in…well…God language.

One particularly frustrating night, I picked up the book Beyond Opinion. After flipping to the chapter “The Role of Doubt and Persecution in Spiritual Transformation” by Stuart McAlister, I skeptically began reading. What? Doubt? Me? Never! To my surprise, I found some nuggets of truth, a new perspective, and it’s radically altering how I view the Lord and my relationship with Him.

Do you remember what happens between Moses and the Lord in Exodus 33? I consider it one of most beautiful moments in Biblical history. At first, the Lord, angry with the Israelites for their rebellion, tells Moses to take the people and go on without Him. Like a forsaken lover, the devastated Moses shamelessly protests; the Lord immediately and lovingly responds. With an almost palpable tenderness, they lay bare their hearts, declaring their love and devotion to one another. In that moment, raw with vulnerability and heavy with expectation, Moses realizes that nothing else will do but to know and be completely known. Boldly, confident of his lover’s love, Moses beckons to the Lord, “Now show me your glory.” Time almost seems to stand still.

With passion for His beloved, the Lord agrees…but there’s a twist. The Lord only allows Moses to see His back, lest Moses die. I don’t know about you, but I might have been disappointed, hurt or even angry. After such an intimate exchange, how could God not know what Moses really wanted? The usual, standard answer would be that the Lord was protecting Moses – and that’s true. The Lord did protect Moses and He did it with moving, powerful, symbolic, almost prophetic imagery of the coming Christ. (I could write a thousand paragraphs about that, but not today!) There is no doubt that the Lord was protecting Moses, but perhaps there’s even more to it than that.

What if what Stuart McAlister, Alister McGrath and Martin Luther believe is also true? That God was indeed showing Moses his glory because God’s glory is present even in “the back parts of God”. Perhaps Moses, and we alike, must be “forced to turn our eyes from contemplation of where we would like to see God revealed, and to turn them instead upon a place of which is not our own choosing, but which is given to us. We like to find God in the beauty of nature, in the brilliance of an inspired human work of art or in the depths of our own being – and instead, we must recognize that the sole authorized symbol of the Christian faith is a scene of dereliction and carnage.” (McGrath)

We want to see God’s glory….just so long as that glory is powerful, beautiful, awe inspiring…and safe. Yet the core of our faith rests on Jesus, who was humiliated, violently tortured, brutally murdered and abandoned by his Father; the same Father in whom we’re asked to put our trust. Are you willing to look at that God? Do you want to see all of Him?

God isn’t neat, tidy, predictable or tame. Just think of Jesus for a minute. He showed up in some unexpected ways, didn’t He? After entering the womb of a poor, unwed, teenage virgin, He was born amid scandal and worshiped by mystics and the dregs of society. He acted in some unexpected ways, too. The Israelites asked for a savior who would conquer their political enemies, bring national freedom, and raise Israel up to rule over all the earth, eternally. But the King of Kings preferred to socialize with outcasts and eventually submitted to humiliation, defeat and death on a cross. Through means no earthly soul could predict, the Lord attained complete victory, spiritual freedom and eternal life for all people who would receive it.

So, when you contemplate the miraculous work of the cross, do you, like me, see the Lord’s strength and glory prevailing in spite of Christ’s suffering, humiliation and defeat? I once envisioned Christ as somehow outside of it all. But He wasn’t…if anything, He was more present, more alive, more aware of His experiences than we who live with veiled hearts have ever been. Christ wasn’t victorious despite defeat. He was victorious in and through defeat. He wasn’t strong despite the appearance of weakness. No! He was strong in and through His weakness. And He wasn’t glorified despite his humiliation. Rather, He revealed His glory in and through humiliation. In the cross, and even in the manger, we find that “God reveals himself through a contrary form. It is the back of God, which is revealed – but it is God, and not another.” (McAlister)

Recently, while meditating on God’s glory as revealed through the degradation of the cross, I imagined Jesus there – beaten, broken, humiliated and hanging on a tree. He looked like any other brutally tortured, dying man – but He wasn’t any other man. He was God. All the power of the universe, wrapped up in the flesh of one man, and nailed to a cross. The Lord, the Mighty One, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, a picture of human weakness. Then this word came to mind: vulnerable.

In Jesus, the Lord Himself became vulnerable – vulnerable to all that mankind could throw at Him. And it was in and through that very vulnerability that He rescued a cursed creation. Sometimes the Lord reveals his power with a mighty arm, but at other times He places us, as He did Moses, on a Rock, hides us in the palm of His hand and then shows us a side of Himself we’ve never seen before. He does this because He, the Great I AM, longs for us to know Him…all of Him…even the back parts.

Suddenly, I am overcome, breathless at the thought that through some divine mystery, I might actually encounter the Lord in and through my weakness and suffering. That in those cold, dark places, if I watch with the eyes of my heart, the Lord will reveal Himself to me. That He and I, for a moment, might share even a thousandth of the intimacy experienced between the Lord and Moses.

Can I be that vulnerable? What do I need to do Lord? And I hear: “Give. Give. Give. Give, yourself to Me.” The Lord knows us and loves us. He gives us, always, the perfect gift: Himself. We may not always get what we expect, or even what we asked for, but we always get Him. And for once, I see the possibility, I long to respond and give Him the only gift I ever can: Me. All of me. Warm, expectant and trembling ever so slightly, I find myself whispering, “Lord, show me your glory.”

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. II Corinthians 12:9-10

But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. I Corinthians 1:27

December 22, 2011 10

Winter’s Coming but Spring is Here!

I know so many people who look forward to, and even cherish, the cool, colorful autumn season. For me, the warm colors, rich smells and cozy sweaters are just a harbinger of things to come. There is not a

crackling fire bright enough to dispel the coming darkness or hold back the icy winds that I dread so much. Truly, truly, I dread the arrival of winter. I could list a thousand reasons why and at the top would be exchanging flip-flops for bulky jackets, open windows for cold hardwood floors and the sound of crickets for the hum of the furnace (cha-ching!)….but what I dread the most, what weighs on my body like a heavy, lead jacket, is that each day the coming winter snatches another two or three minutes of sunlight from my eyes.

To you this may sound absurd, but for me the trouble begins as early as October. One day I am my normal self, and the next I can barely drag myse

lf out of bed in the morning. After lunch, I fight valiantly – mostly for the benefit of my employers and coworkers – to keep my eyes open and mind alert, lest someone find me slumped over my keyboard and drooling on the week’s worship order. Before dinner, I frequently fall asleep on the couch which inevitably leads to an evening battle with insomnia and then…sleep, sweet sleep, just 10 more minutes, please! Some mornings, the only thing that gets me out of bed is telling myself that I can sleep again in 12 hours…eight, if things are really rough. How sad is that?

There are plenty of studies out there that define this condition and even some supposedly effective therapies, but expensive solutions for feeling tired quickly take a back seat to braces, college tuition and new tires for the car. So this time of year, you will find me counting down the days until December 22, when the sun starts rising earlier and setting later. As of today, there are 66 more days on the downhill. 66 more days of sliding headfirst into the abyss. 66 more days of darkness. I empathize deeply with our ancestors who worried, year after year, that the sun might sink below the horizon and never return. Had I lived back then, I likely would have joined the chanting and dancing and whatever other rituals thought necessary to summon the sun back up into the sky. Oh, the things we take for granted…like the air we breathe and the sun rising faithfully every day!

You may think I’m exaggerating but seriously, what other season is universally synonymous with death? When you read a book or watch a movie – excepting Christmas specials and Hallmark Channel Valentine’s movies – you know the barren trees and gray skies signal nothing but heartache. I poke fun but the reality is that every October a part of me goes to sleep while the rest of me longs for those spring days when I will once again feel fully alive. Yet the worst part of all is that the tiredness from lack of daylight brings with it a real and genuine sadness, a heavy heart and physiological pain I can’t escape.

The steel skies and withering grass remind me all too vividly of the cold, barren winters of my heart – particularly seasons of loss and grief. Leaves, far past their youthful days, give in to the relentless winds and let go, falling slowly to the earth. How many of those whom I’ve loved, have done the same? The winds blow through me and, for a moment, steal away my breath…the emptiness is so consuming, even my chest feels hollow. Time does not heal all wounds. The scars remain. Tell me something new. Tell me something of hope.

Over our recent Columbus Day weekend, we New Englanders were given the rare gift of bright, sunny, 80 degree weather for four beautiful days. My husband and I spent one of those days working in the yard – weeding, trimming and getting ready for winter. Only it felt like late June. I pruned dead branches and leaves from our lilac bush, careful not to snip the buds which are already set for spring. After I finished with the lilac, I visited my azalea and rhododendron bushes. I knew better than to clip anything from those early bloomers, and simply stood there for a while, wondering at the plump, promising buds. Swiftly, but not abruptly, the world seemed to stand still – like God had stopped the sun in the sky or pressed the pause button on his giant remote. Time felt suspended and my feet, unmovable. It was one of those moments where you can almost hear God whispering in your ear, “Pay attention.”

Tell me something new. Tell me something of hope.

Have you ever experienced that instant when something you already knew or had seen a thousand times or had recited to others over and over, suddenly became real to you? Before you knew, but afterward you understood. Before you believed, but then you received. That’s what happened to me. It was as if God had been cultivating the soil of my heart for that perfect moment when I had turned just enough for him to slide his shining blade beneath my armor, enabling him to skillfully and painlessly plunge into the hollow of my heart a new and precious seed of truth. Immediately, the seed took root and filled my chest with a peaceful warmth.

My heart, my mind, my body – all were still. Warren Wiersbe said, “Nature preaches a thousand sermons a day to the human heart.” I listened. I listened and my soul was still. Silently, I received the promise which God revealed to me through the autumn buds of a spring-blooming flower. Even in winter, we are never without the certain hope of spring. Before the first frost touches a single petal, before the biting winds blow or even one snowflake falls, God places spring in the heart of his handiwork. On every bough, a bud, and in every bud, a flower.

I stood motionless, full of wonder and gratitude. God had just spoken – sweetly, tenderly, directly to me. He knows my weaknesses, my fears and my doubts and he doesn’t roll his eyes at me, or tell me to suck it up. Instead, he meets me where I am, with his arms offering comfort and in his hands, hope. ‘I know you are dreading this coming season, Nichole. I know. But it won’t last forever. Look here! I have already prepared the flowers for spring. See! Evidence! A sign of hope for you. My promise of spring for you.’ There are only a few times in my life when I have genuinely, tangibly felt God’s love – this was one of those times.

Yet, this message, however personal and pertinent, reaches far beyond the seasons, into the place of promises eternal. In this world, there are a thousand winters – winters of the heart and of the soul, winters of the mind and of the body, even winters that bewitch and blind our spirits. But in every winter, even the winters of sorrow, bitterness, darkness and defeat, we are never without the certain hope of spring and the peace, joy, life and victory that it brings.

Nature declares the glory of God and through creation we catch sight of the Creator, and of ourselves. Who is God, and who are we to him, that He would not leave us to doubt or despair, but rather allow us a glimpse into tomorrow? What compassion! What grace! Before winter even begins, a glimpse of spring. As darkness falls and the storms rage on, a glimpse of hope, a glimpse of heaven.

No, time does not heal all wounds. The wind whips around my shivering bones, and frost settles on my skin…yet long ago, when my heart wandered in the darkness of an enchanted winter, God planted there the first seed…the Seed of eternal spring. A ray of sun, warm and bright, pierced the darkness and slowly, the ice packed around my heart began to melt. The spell was broken, the endless winter ended. Though the coldness comes, its icy fingers have no hold on me. Yes, scars remain and sometimes, the pain still steals away my breath. But I rest in knowing there is no winter God has not written, no abyss beyond his reach, no one lost he cannot find, no darkness he has failed to light, no sorrow for which he has not prepared a Spring.

For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities-his eternal power and divine nature-have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. ~ Romans 1:20

October 18, 2011 11

Adventures of a First Year College Mom – Tip #2

I knew it would be crazy – this last summer before college. Summer’s always a little crazy for us anyway. But this summer, with the shopping and paperwork and all of the “lasts” – the last visit with this friend, the last visit with that friend, the last sleepover with discipleship group, the last trip to Sonic, the last night watching Suits and Gilmore Girls, the last drive in her car, the last late night bedroom dance party, the last trip to Tulmeadow for ice cream, the last dinner with grandparents – this summer left me not only exhausted, but emotionally drained. And by drained, I mean sucked dry like an Oklahoma creekbed during the dustbowl. “Tired” doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.

Looking back, however, I am so grateful for the last couple of weeks we had together. First, Jacquelyn stopped working two weeks before she left, in part so that she could be more available for Faith Quest, our church’s summer camp. I had mixed emotions about Faith Quest happening just a week before she left, but as one of the directors I had to be there; and in the end it was a blessing. As a family, we had little choice but to spend every night together and we ended up enjoying a shared experience. Then, each night we went home (usually after some McFlurry’s) and stayed up late talking….or making rice krispie treats and watching Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. (No, I have no explanation for that.) In past years, Faith Quest has sometimes been a strain on our family, but this year I believe we had more joy than ever.

The last week before the big move, Doug and I both took some time off work and I tried to schedule work or personal errands during those hours when Jacquelyn was off having a “last” something with one of her friends. We were trying to protect our time as best we could. Of course, as often happens, my plans began to fall apart – particularly at work, where Murphy’s Law seemed to be in full force. I fought the urge to flip out or break down and just kept asking God for help, trusting him with the timing and making adjustments as necessary.

We were careful to protect the time we had set aside for dinners with grandparents, visits with neighbors and last minute shopping. I also made some of Jacquelyn’s favorite meals that week (Tomato Basil Pasta Salad, Chicken Fajitas and, of course, Potato Pancakes) and let her order out one night from her restaurant of choice – which ended up being potato pizza from one restaurant and fried pickles from another! Then, I found out that, on her own, she had decided to devote her last two days entirely to family and packing. She couldn’t have given me a nicer present.

During it all, I could feel our time together running out. In some ways, I felt alot like I did when I was pregnant: the time was coming, she needed to go, it was the right thing to do, but, man, was this gonna hurt! I described it to my mother as being on a train I couldn’t get off. I wanted to plan something special but not too sentimental and sad for our last night. After some prayers, a little divine inspiration and God’s good timing, I was able to arrange a suprise visit with our friends-that-are-like-family, the Davidsons, at Tulmeadow Farm. Jacquelyn knew we were having ice cream, but she didn’t expect to see her friends there…in fact, they had just flown back that day from a trip to Texas, so she wasn’t expecting to see them before she left for college at all! She was surprised and so happy. We enjoyed our ice cream and sat around talking and laughing until it was dark out. It was perfect.

We finished the night off by driving to Doug’s old childhood home in West Simsbury and letting the girls climb on the big rock on the cul-de-sac green, one of their favorite places to play when visiting their grandparents before they moved. On our way home, we drove around with the windows down, blaring our family songs and singing along. Last year, while on our cross country trip, the song Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey kind of became our theme song (mostly due to the line “it goes on and on and on and on”) but since then, it has kind of stuck. We also listened to Party in the USA, The Gambler and Sweet Caroline. The good news is that the sun had set and we were moving, so noone could see us our hear us!

While driving along with my hand out the window in the wind, I suddenly felt like we were on our cross country trip again. I was instantly reminded of all those days and nights on the road together, of all the amazing things we saw and did together. Suddenly, I was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I’ll admit, I had fun driving around and singing in the car that night, but thank goodness the music was loud…that way noone noticed when I was too choked up to sing. “Come on, Nichole, it’s OK, enjoy these moments. Enjoy them,” I told myself.

We went home to some last minute packing, a little disco dance party in Jacquelyn’s room (um, without Doug, that is) and the new episode of Suits. I was amazed, utterly amazed, at the gift of time God had given us that night…that week…that summer…last summer…her whole life. What a joy it has been to have her with us these last 18 years. What a gift.

So Tip #2: Take, Make and Enjoy the Time – Time is a gift. Give yourself, your son or daughter and your family the gift of time. And when, like me, you find things falling apart all around you and can’t figure out how you are going to get everything done, say a prayer and let God, the creator and keeper of time, empty your days of what doesn’t matter and fill them with what is important.

August 25, 2011 1

Trusting in God’s Goodness

You know that point in a movie, where two people fall in love but there is a secret between them? They look into each other’s eyes, he touches her face, she leans in for a kiss…but all the while someone is holding back. Even we, as an audience hold back too. As long as there’s something between them, the love relationship is incomplete. Usually it’s something silly, like the girl isn’t really a princess, or she is a princess and is pretending not to be. Or the guy isn’t really a superhero…or maybe he is a superhero posing as a clumsy reporter. Silly or not, there’s a morsel of reality in there somewhere. Because after all, in fact after the fall, there is always something between us.

When God first spoke creation into the world, including the universe, the earth, the animals and us, he pronounced it “good” – good because he created it, good because he made it so. But then after the fall, we became painfully aware that on our own, apart from God, we lack goodness and light. We are naked and ashamed. We deal with this painful awareness in a variety of ways. The first thing Adam and Eve did was cover themselves up and hide. Sound familiar? Maybe if I dress myself in good behavior and never let anyone see the real me, maybe then I’ll be OK. Or instead of hiding my sin, I’ll expose it to the world, thinking perhaps that if I can make my behavior culturally acceptable, then I won’t have to feel bad about it anymore. Or maybe I’ll just try to be the best at being “bad”.

A friend of mine recently loaned me the book, Give them Grace by Elyse M Fitzpatrick. In it, the author writes that before the fall, God bestowed on people a benediction, a blessing: “It is very good.” Since the fall, we have been consumed with trying to recover that “goodness”. Our striving for morality, power and success are merely attempts to bestow the blessing of goodness on ourselves. We even compete for it. I try to be better than you, and if I think you’re better than me, I’ll try to find ways to knock you down. Like Joseph and his brothers, for example: Joseph was a “good” boy, but his brothers were “bad”. When Daddy favored the “good” boy, what did the brothers do? Why they tried to kill him, of course. Sounds extreme but jealousy and anger and attempts to harm (whether physically or emotionally), those aren’t such foreign concepts, are they?

When and how will we ever be “good enough”? When can I come out of hiding? I’m tired of dressing up in morality, which weighs like a heavy coat in the summertime. I want to be free…to live, to love, to dream, to be me. But I will never truly be free as long as I am trusting in my own goodness…proving my own worth…or just trying to get through a day without every bit of goodness and light sinking into the black hole of shame that seems to reside deep inside my gut.

Trusting God’s goodness sounds simple at first: “God is good. All the time!” or “God works all things together for good.” Neat little packages that sum up all of life’s problems in seven words or less, no questions asked. Until the day comes when you can’t ignore the questions. Why did God allow my brothers to sell me as a slave? Why am I in prison for a crime I didn’t commit? Why are my parents divorcing? Why did God take my father from me? How can I keep my house when I’ve been out of work for a year? Why is there so much pain? And more and more pain? Then I find myself crying out, “Come on, God! You are the creative master of the universe. Surely you can find another, easier, better way to work it all out for good!”

So what does it mean to trust in God’s goodness? I don’t have all the answers…I may not even have any, but I will at least share my thoughts. First, and foremost, we trust in God’s goodness because we have no goodness of our own in which to trust. All my attempts at goodness will fail, and ultimately, the weight of dragging that morality around will wear me down, making me self-righteous and bitter. God’s goodness is my only hope.

Second, trusting in God’s goodness means recognizing, believing and accepting that everything he has ever created or done, he has intended for good, and that he is still in the process of working that all out …. for good. Before the fall, he called his creation good. And since the fall, all of history has told the beautiful, majestic, sweeping romance of his passionate love for humanity and his creative work to restore his creation to goodness. He loves his creation. He loves us. He longs to restore us to himself, to his goodness. If God’s intentions towards us and towards all of creation are good, and if his ultimate plans are good, then what questions are left to be asked?

Maybe life is a lot more like a Dickens’ novel than I previously thought. Think about how his novels begin….with all sorts of odd characters and subplots….so many, that after several chapters you read a name and think “Wait, who is this guy?” only to find out he’s already appeared twice, once 75 pages ago and once 120 pages ago…and you still aren’t sure how he’s related to the main character. As you trudge through chapter after chapter of seemingly unconnected story lines you find yourself asking, “What on earth am I reading? Will he ever get to the point? Is there a point, at all?!” And then, as the book nears its ending, Mr. Dickens, in his usual fashion, masterfully weaves each story line together into one beautiful masterpiece, so rich and warm and touching that you nearly find yourself standing atop a mountain shouting “Beautiful! Marvelous! Wonderful! Every word, every letter, every moment spent was worth this ending!” Well…that’s how I feel, anyway.

All of creation – past, present and future – is God’s novel, a love story that often masquerades as a mystery. Whether we like it or not, we are living, breathing characters in his story. We don’t always appreciate his style and we’re often confused, wondering about the meaning and importance of certain characters and events, questioning motive, conflict and purpose. We anxiously await the next event, anticipating all the possible outcomes. We laugh, we cry, we lament, we rejoice.

Unlike Dickens’ characters, though, we have free will. Even though God holds the pen, he invites us to write our story with him. Every day we face hundreds of choices, some big and some small. And somehow, those choices matter. The mysteries mount as we consider that God is not only the Author of Life, he is the main character! Add to that, the fact that he exists outside of time, and therefore, already knows the ending and we are nearly convinced that this is nothing more than a sensational mystery novel.

But wait, don’t give up! God’s novel truly is a divine love story. Right now, we are just living in the mucky middle of a long, complicated story, fraught with mystery and suspense, in which every detail – every jot and tittle, your choices and mine, good and bad – He, in his creative power, will work together for good. For his good. For my good. For your good. I know that you’re anxious and afraid, or bored or worn out or angry or hurt, but God is good and he loves you. He knows this is difficult for you. He entered the story and lived among the snarling weeds and creeping darkness. And in his mercy, He told you the ending, so that when the “night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long, and you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong” you could take hold of his promise that He has already overcome the world, remember that He has loved you with an everlasting love and look forward to that day when he takes you into his arms and wipes away every tear from your eyes.

If you know all this and believe all this, but you’re still holding something back, ask yourself why. (I pose these questions to us all – whether we’ve taken that first leap of faith or not – because we are, each of us, still in the middle of our story, his story.) Are you trying to hide something from the Author of Life? He already knows…and he loves you anyway. Have you shut the door of your heart because you fear being hurt again? That works for a while…until the cupboards go bare and your heart is starving and you’ll eat anything except that which really satisfies. Or are you believing a silly lie? After all, why else would the daughter or son of the King settle for a life wandering the streets, digging through people’s trash for food and sleeping on the cold, hard pavement? Your Father, the King of Kings, awaits you. In fact, he’s running toward you with his arms open wide, eyes sparkling, because after all, he’s got a party planned, a feast prepared and your name is written on his heart. No more wandering. No more settling for scraps. No more lies. No more holding back. You are the prince. You are the princess. Your superhero has come. Ridiculous? Nah. We all know that truth is crazier than fiction.

July 20, 2011 2

Life is Pain (Revised)

At first, I thought it strange that on the same night my 18 year old daughter went to her senior prom and my 11 year old daughter returned from her first overnight, school field trip, I found myself reading an old poem I wrote to my grandmother before she passed away. Then these words drifted through my mind: this is the long good-bye, somebody tell me why. I think these words, despite the rest of the song’s lyrics (The Long Goodbye by Brooks and Dunn) which are about a failing romantic relationship, speak to a timeless truth of life and loss.

I’m not sure when I first understood that my children are not really mine. I’ll admit, I am a little slow when it comes to the obvious. So while most of you probably knew early on that your children are gifts from God, entrusted to your care for a season, I naively assumed those moments would last forever. The mommy-hold-my-hand moments, the mommy-bake-cookies-with-me moments, the mommy-can-we-color moments, the mommy-your-my-whole-world-and-i-never-want-to-leave-you moments. Those moments. Do you remember them?

Tonight, as I watched my oldest drive away from me and toward a life that she lives almost entirely apart from me, I couldn’t help but remember that in a few short months she will leave for college. And while I rejoiced with my youngest that she conquered her fears of sleeping away from home, a familiar sadness settled in my soul. Here she goes…she’s on her way too.

A child’s primary goal is to leave her parents. From the very start, even in the womb, the main purpose of her development is to get out, get away, separate and live on her own, apart from me. The child who once shared my body, who was quite literally “bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh”, emerges, sits up, crawls, walks and then at last, runs. And while she returns at first for a steady hand, and later for a steady heart, those moments when I see her walking toward me grow further and further apart. She is going, she has always been going.

How is it that life should be so much about good-byes? You may say I am being extreme, but think on it for a moment. Can you name a person in your life that you will not, at one time or another, have to say good-bye to? We lose everyone unless they lose us first. Perhaps the Dread Pirate Roberts was not just spewing works soaked in bitterness when he said “Life is pain…anyone who says differently is selling something.” I believe he was expressing a timeless truth.

I’d like to take his words one step further and suggest that life is pain because life is loss. This is the long good-bye. I’m sure there are lots of philosophical and theological conversations we could have as to why but that is not my reason for writing this. I do not live as a person with no hope, no compass, no anchor. I know the way and I know the answer. But even in the light of eternal hope and glory, we walk in the shadow of death. I need not fear. But I hurt. Everyone hurts. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something. Don’t buy it.

Please don’t mistake me for a cynic! Rather, I like to consider myself a realist – a Christian realist, if you will. If we ignore the truths, even the truths of this world, how can we honestly interpret our reality? Even more so, how can we genuinely relate to others, especially those who don’t have the hope of Christ? There is great danger in minimizing life’s struggles or buying into the notion that as Christians we have to slap a smile on every situation.

So, my message to you (if I must have one) is that perhaps, rather than railing against the painful realities of life, rather than running from, ignoring or burying pain, rather than seeking revenge or retaliation, rather than raising our fists at God, we would be better served by deeply and honesetly accepting the truth that life, while filled with joy and daily miracles, is also fraught with loss, pain and suffering.

We waste so much energy denying reality and battling that which we can not change. Maybe instead we could let go and let the pain wash over us. Maybe we would find peace in Jesus’ words: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33) Maybe then we might see that God leaves no void he isn’t planning to fill. That all of the empty, aching caverns left behind by life’s losses, are potential reservoirs crying out to be filled by the only thing that will ever eternally satsify.

May 16, 2011 9

A Palace in Prison

There’s all sorts of prisons, aren’t there? There’s the jails with barbed wire, armed guards, barred cells and the clamor of convicted felons. There’s the places where prisoners of war are isolated and tortured. There are work camps and slavery for the persecuted, imprisoned for their religion, beliefs or ethnicity, stripped of all dignity, starved, beaten and forced to do labor their weakened bodies can barely endure. These are the prisons with walls and gates and guards and masters.

But there are other prisons too, where the walls are not so easy to see. Where one knows the gate is locked but she can’t find the door. Where the torturers are people or memories or hurts he can’t escape, the walls are circumstances she can’t change, and the clamor is the voices in his head that tell him “this is all there is”, that tell her “hope is hopeless.” And there’s the prisons of our own doing…the things that isolate our hearts…pride, selfishness, unforgiveness, arrogance, control…I could go on.

Lately, I’ve been studying the book of Genesis – mostly the life of Joseph, son of Jacob. He was familiar with all sorts of prisons: brothers who hated him, the pit they cast him into, slavery into which they sold him, an Egyptian jail for a crime he did not commit, the constant demands of his eventual high position in a country that tempted him daily with its worldliness. These are the prisons Joseph knew.

As I study, I also find myself taking special notice of Judah, for it is through his line that the messiah, Jesus comes. It is not through Joseph, Jacob’s favored son. Rather, Jesus comes through Judah, a broken and blatantly sinful man.

Judah was the son of Leah, the less-loved wife, the wife who wasn’t favored. And so he also was a less-loved son. As an adult, Judah carried the guilt of selling Joseph into slavery then deceiving and bringing suffering upon his father. He lost his first two sons, his wife and then unwittingly impregnated his bereaved daughter-in-law from whom he had unjustly kept his third son. Judah had a few prisons of his own.

One difference in these two brothers is that Joseph, whether caught in the web of his brothers’ hatred, held captive as a slave or serving time in a dungeon, was, in his spirit, a free man. We can see it in his devotion and loyalty to the Lord and the people he served, his integrity, diligence, kindness, grace, mercy and complete trust in God’s plan and goodness. Joseph is not imprisoned by his circumstances or his emotions. He seems to know a wonderful truth: that the walls that hold his body in can not crush his spirit.

Eventually, toward the end of Genesis we see a transformed Judah, who offers his own life to save the life of his brother Benjamin and to prevent his father from enduring any further suffering. We see a Judah who is free from selfishness, envy and bitterness, freed because his concern for another finally outweighs his concern for himself. He looks physical captivity, slavery and even death in the eye and seems to say, “I’ve known greater prisons than you!”

So what about you and me? What kind of prisons are we living in? Are you stuck in a job you hate? Do you feel trapped in family wrought with bitterness and distrust? Is your body giving out on you? Maybe your depressed. Or lonely. Anxious about money. Is someone you love hurting and you feel helpless? Or perhaps you’re wondering how you’ll ever say good-bye to your first child as they head off to college?

Then there’s the spiritual prisons. In one way or another we are all in danger of being trapped by our decisions to put other things before God. I find myself asking: What do I trust more…my ability to earn a salary or God’s faithfulness to provide? What do I work for more, the approval of people or God’s approval? How do I know I am valuable, because others say so or because God says so?

Through the study of Joseph and some great conversation with our couples small group, I realized, in a new way, that even when I feel trapped, my spirit is free. Free to worship the Lord, free to do what is right, free to serve and love and dance and pray. Surely this is not something we can do on our own…but with God all things are possible.

A couple of months ago I was thinking about my “pit” (see The Pits) and wondering about God…why is he so willing to enter my pit…to reside there with me. Then He gave me a sort of picture: I saw Jesus climbing down into my dark, dirty pit. He was surrounded by earthen walls with bugs, cobwebs, plant roots…you name it…but nothing He touched made Him dirty. He was light and golden and perfectly clean. Why? Then a word popped into my mind “Incorruptible.” Jesus in incorruptible. God can be with us in our prisons and remain unchanged, pure and good. The God that rules over all of heaven is the very same God that meets you in your pit. He doesn’t shrink himself for you or compromise his God-ness. Even when He took on our sin his life was pure. And whatever situation we are in, His life – his incorruptible life – that well of grace, mercy, strength, courage, joy and peace – is available to us.

There are many books and sermons and essays written about Joseph’s life with titles like: “From the Pit to the Palace” or “Prison to Palace”. But that’s no longer how I see it. No. Joseph didn’t leave the pit for the palace. The palace was in the pit with Joseph all along. “The Lord was with Joseph,” Genesis 39:2. Every day, in all situations, Joseph’s heart knelt before the throne of the Lord. And he was free.

March 30, 2011 6

In Memory

My grandparents didn’t live a flashy life. They grew up here in Connecticut – my grandpa helping his father on the railroad in Torrington, my grandma helping out on her parent’s farm in Granby and working tobacco in the summers. During high school they both lived in Granby and went to school in Simsbury. Neither really loved school and both remembered being treated as second class citizens because they were “Country Bumpkins” attending Simsbury schools. Some things never change.

One of grandma’s favorite memories – and my favorite stories to hear – was of her and her friends leaving school for their 30 minute lunch break. They started their break by lighting up a cigarette and then running from Simsbury High (which is now the Simsbury Police Station) to Doyle’s Drugstore, which was located in what is now the Apollo’s Restaurant plaza. The drugstore was also a soda shop and Grandma and her friends, after running half a mile smoking a cigarette, sat down at the counter and quickly scoffed down hot fudge sundaes for lunch. Then they ran all the way back to school, smoking one more cigarette before returning to class. Doesn’t that sound just like Grandma? As for Grandpa, he was apparently smartest guy in school with the highest IQ (he did marry Grandma after all) and if you ever get a look at his old photos, you will probably agree that he was the best looking guy there too!

My Grandma and Grandpa started dating when they were just 14 and Grandpa loved to tell the story of one of their dates in particular. On that night, Grandpa had brought Grandma back to the house in his car. It was very late and very dark out on those country roads with no street lights and this night must have been a cloudy one, because as he tells it, it was pitch black. Anyway, they apparently parked their car on the street near the house and, as Grandpa tells it, they fell asleep. A few hours later, well past Grandma’s curfew, they woke up to the voices of Grandma’s brothers and sisters calling out “Arlene! Arlene!” as they ran around the farm and street looking for her; only to find that she was right there, on the street in front of the house the whole time! It was so dark, noone ever saw the car.

Grandma and Grandpa married after Grandpa returned from serving in the Air Corps (I think that is what it was called back then). They married and bought a small home which they later sold because it couldn’t house their growing family. They would never own their own home again. They lived for many years in an old farmhouse at the base of High Meadow. Grandpa worked for the town and then for Hamilton Standard. He helped to build the suits for America’s astronauts and it is rumored that when the men of Apollo 13 were trying to find a way to survive on board their spaceship, Grandpa is the one who recommended they use duct tape to fix…well…whatever that thing was that needed fixing. If you’ve seen the movie, you know it was pretty important!

Grandma was a stay-at-home mom and housewife and ladies, it wasn’t like it is today. She had a washer and no dryer, even all winter long. Frozen underpants anyone? No disposable diapers. No microwave. She made three meals a day, every day for her whole family. No Subway, McDonald’s or delivery pizza and if there was a restaurant in town, they couldn’t afford to eat at it. No shower, just one bath and 4 teenagers. No heat in much of the house. A vacuum with no rug attachment…just the hose. And on top of all this, she had a garden – that they truly counted on for food – and farm animals to care for. Oh Grandma, you put me to shame!

They raised their children as best they knew how with the resources they had and as you know, they all turned out pretty great. Sometimes Grandma would lament about what she wished she had done differently ~ that she had read to them more or had not been so harsh. That is just what parents do, I guess. We always wish we could have loved our children better. Funny, now that they are gone, I wish I had loved them better. Anyway, while Grandma sometimes wished she had parented better, she and Grandpa never wished her kids had turned out better. They were both so proud of each of their children – who they had become, the trials they had endured and how they all seem to have come through it better in the end. They loved them to the very end with the care, angst and pride every parent feels for their children, no matter what their age.

In 1973 they had their first grandchildren, Brigette and me, and 10 more eventually followed. Grandma and Grandpa were, to me, more than Grandparents. Very early on, I lost my first father to what we will call a lack of maturity and then, when I was 12, I lost my second father, my step-father and Derek’s biological father, to a terrible disease. In some ways we lost him many years before he died. My mom did everything she could to keep us going, including working days at CG and waiting tables at night while pregnant with Derek. During those years, Grandma and Grandpa were our rocks in the middle of a stormy sea.To borrow from country singer Sara Evans: “My [Grandpa] he is grounded like the oak tree. My [Grandma] she is steady as the sun.” When everything else in life was uncertain, they were there – steady, dependable, faithful. My Grandma did laundry every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Lunch was at noon every day and dinner at 4:30. Grandpa went to work every day and came home each night in time for dinner. He didn’t go out with the guys or work endlessly to get ahead. He was there. I especially loved it when I would sit on his lap and hold his hands and pretend I was flying a plane. He would tell me “Pull up! Pull up!” or “Make it steady!” What fun for a little girl!

I know lots of people complain that their dads were never emotionally available, never talked to them much. Well, for someone like me, Grandpa’s just being there meant alot. Grandpa taught me that some men do come home every night, some men do stay, some men do love their wives forever.

I know they have touched the lives of so many people. For me and my brother, they were like the insulation of a house, keeping out the cold on a long winter night; the icing on the cake, holding everything together and sweet besides; the heart of our hearts and breath of our lives.

No, they never lived a flashy life. They never built a job from the ground up or owned a large home or made millions on a land investment or even owned more than one car at a time. But that wasn’t what made them great. The greatness of Tom and Arlene Creighton was in their day to day living, in the long haul, in their perseverance, dependability, steadiness, love and faithfulness. In the words of one of Grandma’s favorite authors, Jan Karon, they are a perfect example of “the extraordinary beauty of ordinary lives.” What they gave to me, to us, can never be measured or weighed. It is of infinite value and beyond what words can express. I will love them, we will love them, forever.

August 17, 2010 1