Last summer I set out three tomato plants. Two promptly disappeared in the night, dug up by some mysterious animal that left crater-like holes marking my loss. So on that sole remaining plant I hung all my hopes for growing fresh tomatoes. I watered it. Encouraged it. Sighed over it when, weeks later, it was filled with nothing but leaves.
Finally, just before all hope was lost, a tiny green ball appeared. ONE tiny green ball that grew into ONE mid-sized tomato. But the scarcity of the crop made the feast more sweet: I ate that tomato warm from the vine, standing in my backyard.
This morning, I planted three tomato plants. Again. I placed them in a different spot, in the corner of my big flowerbed. I’m hoping my nocturnal creature with a penchant for tomato plants will not find them. I’m hoping the angle and duration of the sun is better. I’m hoping for MORE THAN ONE TOMATO!
I’m optimistic that these plants will prosper. Perhaps they will feel the peer pressure of all the prodigious perennials growing around them and be ashamed not to G-R-O-W.
My mother used to say, “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” (Actually, my mother had lots of sayings like this!) So as a child I was taught to do my chores with an eye toward perfection—whether it was ironing pillowcases (yes, we used to do this), washing hundreds (truly…hundreds) of cobwebby jars at the start of canning season, choosing raspberries to freeze for my annual 4-H project, memorizing verses from (what else?) the King James Bible. It was all to be done…well, well.
But I’d like to amend that aphorism of Mother’s. Or perhaps contribute a new one of my own. “Anything worth doing is worth doing…again.” And again, if necessary. So what if you don’t succeed? That’s what second attempts were made for! Practice may not make perfect, but it does make practicing a habit. And that’s a good thing.
I like to imagine that even as I am writing this blog, my tomato plants are putting down roots that will let them stretch toward the summer sun flooding that bit of yard.
I want to stretch, too, beyond the comfort of things I do well. I think that the God who created second chances—and tomato plants—would be pleased with that.
My grandson Drake is losing teeth…all of them front and center.
It began a couple of months ago when he lost his first tooth. Drake is a trooper and, with the help of his dad, he’d soon yanked out the tiny white tooth.
Then it was time to learn about the tooth fairy. Tooth under pillow=surprise in the morning. Sweet!
I had gotten some Susan B. Anthony coins when I was traveling on the toll road, so after Drake was asleep I took one over for Amy Jo to put under his pillow. The next day he came to my house all excited. “Look, Nina! It’s a special coin that only the tooth fairy has! It’s really the same as a dollar bill.” Drake turned the coin over in his hand. He couldn’t have been more impressed if it had come from a pirate’s chest hauled up from twenty fathoms.
The next tooth—a top one—came out a few weeks ago. This time the tooth fairy left a travel toothbrush, floss (practical one, that tooth fairy) and a dollar bill.
A few nights ago we were having dinner at my daughter’s. I had brought a big kettle of fresh corn on the cob. As Drake was eating, I saw him wince a couple of times. Next thing I knew, there was a bit of blood on his napkin. He hopped down from the table, got a paper towel…and pulled his other top front tooth. Then he walked around the table showing off his “treasure.”
At 6 years old, Drake is right on schedule to lose teeth. And for every “baby tooth” that pops out, a bigger, stronger tooth will take its place. Permanent teeth that will last him for the rest of his life (provided he takes a cue from the tooth fairy and uses good oral hygiene).
Life is about loss—and the things that come to fill up those holes left behind. Sometimes the result is happiness; sometimes it’s contentment; it may even be a quiet acceptance that nothing will ever be quite the same.
A few years ago I lost a job I loved. A job I was good at. It hurt. I kept gingerly touching the void left behind. Suddenly I had more time on my hands. I had creative energy to spare. My new job demanded I learn new skills—and I felt a bit clumsy in the attempt.
Fast forward. I love what I do. And (thank you, Jesus) I’m pretty good at it. I have more time to spend with my grandchildren. I bake cakes. I garden. I volunteer more at church. I’m planning a spiritual retreat next month. The things that have filled up that hole are different, but good.
God knew that would happen. He wanted me trust him, to keep walking when I wanted to sit by the road and sulk. Holes are opportunities. Drake knows that—he looks in the mirror every day to check on his emerging teeth.
I’m planning to be just that optimistic about my own losses, too.
The early summer sun struggles to get through the rows of windows in my sunroom, smudged as they are with layers of dust and trails of errant raindrops. I’d like to see them clear, streak-free, the perfect surface for golden rays to shine through.
But it seems hopeless, really. You see, my driveway is hundreds of feet long. And it’s made of gravel. And my husband, who runs his own excavation company, drives his big dump and semi trucks up and down it every day. Clouds of dust float toward my house and settle…on my windows.
Sure, I could drag out Windex and paper towels and stepladders. But the next day, the dust would be back. And the day after that.
Still, I know the windows need to be washed. That a fresh start would be a good thing. Even if the beneficial effects are fleeting, there would be those few moments of perfection before I heard the sound of tires on the driveway.
I’m a bit of a window fanatic. When we built our house, I kept saying to Gary, “Let’s put a window there. And there.” Finally, being the sensible one, he pointed out that we needed walls, too. Still, I ended up with 14 windows in the front of my house and another half dozen in the back, plus the sunroom.
Maybe that’s why I notice the dirt so much—there are so many windows to notice it on!
I’ll get around to washing the windows soon. But the dust isn’t such a bad thing, really. It gets stirred up when the mail carrier drives up to bring me a new book I ordered. It rolls across the yard when my daughter’s SUV pulls to a halt and my grandsons pile out. And every trip my husband makes in one of his trucks is cause for praise that he has work in these difficult times.
Clean windows are a good thing, but dust is the stuff life is made of. And I can live with that.
“What do you have planned for Memorial Day?” my friend Brenda asked as she was leaving.
“Nothing much. You?”
“We’re planning to spend as much time as we can on our boat.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s supposed to be nice weather.” I waved good-bye to Brenda, but couldn’t get her question out of my mind.
When I was a kid, no one ever wondered what to do on Memorial Day. We all knew what we’d be doing. In fact, we didn’t even call it Memorial Day—we called it “Decoration Day.”
The day began with everyone picking flowers from their gardens—bright orange poppies, heavy-headed peonies, iris in every shade of purple. We clustered these into bouquets, tied them with string, and kept them in buckets of water until it was time to go to the cemetery for the service.
I still remember the feel of the sun on my face, the wind playing with my ponytail, as I stood looking out over the rows and rows of granite headstones. I hadn’t experienced death firsthand, but I knew this was a serious moment. That the people standing there had lost loved ones. Maybe even mothers and fathers. It was a sobering thought.
The high school band played. (Years later, I’d be in the clarinet section as we marched on those gravel paths playing patriotic tunes.) A local minister talked about sacrifice and loss and death…and victory over death.
Dozens of tiny flags were scattered throughout the cemetery, fluttering on the graves of veterans. They were always in place, so I’m not sure who put them there. Lion’s Club? VFW? After the solemnities were finished, we kids were given the go ahead to decorate the graves. We grabbed armloads of bouquets and ran from flag to flag, leaving behind a fragrant tribute of freshly-picked flowers.
But now? Memorial Day has become the first three-day holiday of summer. Cookouts. Camping. Sidewalk sales at the mall.
So this afternoon I went for a walk in our local cemetery. I stood staring at the site where my mother-in-law and father-in-law lay buried. This is the first Memorial Day since Mom died. I adjusted the yellow roses I’d placed in the vases. I imagined them together again in heaven.
I wandered from stone-to-stone, my shoes picking up grass from the recent mowing. Ours is a quaint cemetery, where loved ones leave all kinds of mementoes on the graves—plaster angels, T-shirts, a golf ball. I paused to read the plaques of soldiers and sailors, veterans who fought for the freedoms we so easily enjoy today.
Flowers bloomed, flags fluttered—and, except for the occasional birdsong—it was utterly quiet. I stood soaking up that silence, realizing that everyone resting beneath this sod had once been like me. Busy. Happy. Alive.
I hope my summer afternoon visit will pay honor, somehow, to these lives. Especially those who served our country in war after war.
I still don’t know what I’m going to do Memorial Day weekend. But I know what I’m not going to do. I’m not going to think of it simply as three days to play and shop and eat. I’m going to remember to remember that life is short and memories are precious—and freedom is a hard-won gift.
“Nina,” the small voice behind me said, “can I play with the little Leggos?”
I turned from the computer to see my 6-year-old grandson Drake standing in the doorway. He and his brother Brock had been playing in the backyard. But now Drake had come in to ask this oh-so-important question.
The little Leggos.
The “little” Leggos were left over from my son Brett’s plastic block days. The Christmas Brett was 6, I asked all the relatives to buy him Leggo sets as gifts. We ended up with hundreds and hundreds of small colorful shapes, each one adorned with tiny circles that connected to the next one…and the next one…and the next one.
Brett spent hours hunkered down in the center of that colorful mass, creating rocket ships and pirate ships, barns and skyscrapers. Now Brett builds real houses. Wonderful structures—tall and straight with artistic touches of stained glass or roofs the color of a verdant forest.
I’d never gotten these small blocks down for the grandchildren to play with. Too many little hands and too many little mouths! But Drake was 6 now, in kindergarten. The chubby Mega Blocks were of no interest to him. He wanted the challenge—and the possibilities—of real Leggos.
“Let me find them,” I said, heading upstairs to the back corner of the guest closet. “And be sure to pick them all up so none of the babies choke on those little pieces!”
Drake grinned in delight as I dumped the container onto a rug in the sunroom. And for the next hour, he worked intently on his creations.A rocket ship. “It’s going to the moon,” he told me. A thick-walled house
.
Among the mass of blocks, he found a small plastic treasure chest. Then he found a bright yellow block that fit into it perfectly. He proceeded to build a pillared, flat-roofed structure to house this find. “It’s a treasure house,” he said, lifting the lid on the tiny chest and showing me the “gold” inside.
When his mom came to pick him up, Drake had to leave in a hurry. So I picked up the Leggos and tossed them back into their big plastic bin. How many times had I done this when Brett was young? (And how many “missed” Leggos had I found when I stepped on them with bare feet? Ouch!)
I don’t know what Drake will do when he’s a grown-up. His mother is a lawyer and a real estate broker; his father, an electrical engineer, owns his own company in Chicago. His Papa spends most of his time on heavy equipment—bulldozers and excavators. His Uncle Brett builds and rehabs houses. And his Nina, well…she’s a bit of a dreamer and wordsmith.
Whatever Drake decides to do is fine with me. As long as he never loses the thrill of creating something all his own. And as long as he discovers that the greatest treasures are not found in chests filled with gold, but in hearts that love family and seek to serve God.
My granddaughter, Isabelle Grace, came to visit me today. It was a short stay—only an hour or so before I had to drop her off at preschool. But, oh, how much she packed into our time together!
“Let’s go outside,” she said as soon as her mother had pulled out of the driveway.
“But everything is wet from the rain!” I replied.
Isabelle looked out the patio door and said, “It’s a nice day. Let’s go outside.”
So we did, soaking our shoes in the wet grass as we picked a basket of spring blossoms. “I want to cut,” Isabelle said, looking at my large, utilitarian scissors. So we found her a small red pair with rounded blades. She looked at them reverently. “I will be so careful, Nina!” And she was—as we snipped tiny Korean lilacs and sturdy pink almond branches, gathered scarlet azaleas and heavy-headed purple iris. “I see some yellow flowers!” she exclaimed, bending to pull a few fuzzy dandelions for the bouquet.
My sister Libby has been visiting me for the last week or so. When Isabelle arrived, she was delighted to see that Libby was still here. “Let’s have a picnic!” Isabelle suggested (or ordered, it’s hard to tell with 2-year-olds). Soon she was “packing” three small plastic bowls with two wheat thins and one marshmallow each. Isabelle, Libby and I ate this treat sitting outside in slightly damp lawn chairs.
“Let’s blow bubbles, Nina!” So we did, using our wands to catch iridescent orbs before they could float away.
My sister, who suffers from both fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis, was having a high pain day. She watched as Isabelle and I chased bubbles down the sidewalk.
Back inside, Libby returned to a big pile of mending she was doing for the family. Despite her pain, Libby always needs/wants to be busy.
“Time for school!” I said as I reached for Isabelle’s shoes.
“I want Libby to do!” she said, grabbing the shoes and running across the room.
Libby slid the bejeweled canvas slippers on Isabelle’s wriggling feet, taking a bit longer than usual to navigate the Velcro closures. “Aunt Libby’s hands don’t work so well sometimes," she said.
With utter sincerity, Isabelle said simply, “You need to get your hands fixed, Libby.”
All too soon Isabelle will learn that not everything can be fixed. Some things are what they are. Challenges. Dilemmas. Opportunities to persevere under trial. Chances for our patience and faith to grow.
Finally, at long last, it is spring. I know this is true because I have a bouquet of fragrant lilacs sitting beside me.
There are other clues, too. When I changed my bed this week, I tucked away the flannel sheets and took out the soft cotton ones—the ones the rich gold color of summer sunsets or really good mustard. I know it’s spring because road construction signs, heavy equipment and an army of orange cones have taken over the interstate near my home.
And I know it’s spring because last week I bought strawberries that (drumroll!) tasted like strawberries! For months I’d had to content myself (I wasn’t all that content) with colorless, tasteless winter berries. Blah. But these were rich and juicy. Not quite out-of-the-garden, but better than those rose-colored Styrofoam ones I’d been slicing into my yogurt.
Inspired (and slightly drunk on the glory of real strawberries), I decided to make a strawberry cake. As some of you may recall, last summer I took a cake decorating class. And while I wasn’t the star pupil, I did manage to master shells and roses and leaves and a very freehand version of “Happy Birthday.”
Because of that class, I own a big plastic tub of “tools” associated with cake baking/decorating. These include a tall cake pan (8” x 3”) and a cake leveler. The pan lets you bake a cake tall enough to slide the leveler through and create two layers. But I had this vision of cutting the cake into four layers. Then piling strawberry yogurt, whipped crème and fresh strawberries between each layer. Daring to be sure.
So last Sunday I invited the family and a few friends over for dinner. The showpiece would be my strawberry cake.
I came home from church and confronted the cooled cake. It didn’t look nearly tall enough to cut into four layers. But I had this vision. “Okay, Lord,” I prayed as I tied on my apron and picked up the leveler, “I know this is a small thing compared to world piece and a cure for cancer. But I would so take it as a personal favor if you could please let this cake not fall into pieces in my hands.”
I took a breath and slid the leveler through. Two layers. I set those side by side, adjusted the leveler wire to an even smaller height, and did it again. And again.
Four round layers sat on my counter, staring up at me like chaste white faces.
In a flash I piled on circles of strawberries, layers of yogurt and whipped crème. I garnished the cake with fat red strawberries cut in half. It was…a vision of yummy loveliness! (So what if it listed a bit on one side?)
I have other visions, too. I see myself and my husband growing old together (okay, so we’re already sort of old). I see my family all in church, heads bowed in prayer and hearts open to the Holy Spirit. I see myself with enough nerve to wear the new strapless dress I bought for my niece’s wedding next month. I envision my prayers—all kinds of prayers— answered.
Vision. It’s what faith and prayer…and cake decorating are all about!
3-D movies are all the rage now—and I couldn’t be happier.
What could be better than the way this technology wraps you into the scenery, pulls the picture right into your lap, slaps you in the face with the action?
3-D movies have been around forever—or at least for most of my life. But, as a child, I never went to the theatre, so it is only in the last few years that I’ve experienced their wonder. (When I was young, the closest I came was my plastic “View Master” with the little disks. Remember those? My Grand Canyon one could actually produce vertigo!)
Because I’m crazy about cartoons (my favorite TV show is “The Simpsons”), animated films featuring 3-D are always on my “to see” list. That’s why I was so excited last week to introduce my two oldest grandsons to this amazing phenom.
We bought our tickets and popcorn and headed for the IMAX theatre. An usher gave us our glasses, and we settled in for the feature presentation.
“Now, it will look like things are going to hit you, but they won’t,” I promised Drake and Brock.
“Why won’t they hit us?” 4-year-old Brock asked in between bites of popcorn.
“Because they aren’t real, right, Nina?” his older brother Drake volunteered.
“That’s right,” I whispered as the lights went down and the music came up.
Soon dragons were flying over our heads and boulders were zooming near our faces. Several times I flinched. Once I actually ducked. Brock kept reaching out for the close-enough-to-touch images.
An hour and a half later, we emerged, blinking into the lights of the lobby.
“That was fun!” Drake said. “Do we get to keep the glasses?”
“They only work here in the theatre,” I said as I dropped my glasses back into the “recycle” box. The boys followed my lead.
They skipped ahead of me and I thought about all the very real adventures ahead of them. The very real problems. Life, as it turns out, is completely 3-D.
That’s why a flat faith just isn’t enough. Rote devotional readings. Empty recitations. Mumbled prayers. Faith must be as dynamic and dimensional as the realities of life. Practical. Vivid. Close-enough-to-touch.
Because you never know when a boulder—or a dragon—is headed your way.
Last night I stopped by to see my granddaughter, Isabelle Grace. I’d been away for most of the week, visiting my friend Lurlene in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Isabelle gave me the kind of heart-warming welcome only a two-year-old can, that flinging against your legs in a hug so sincere you can feel it in your bones. “Nina!” she shouted. “I missed you!”
We played with various toys, chatting about her day, her dog, her preschool. “I’m so hungry!” I wailed, looking toward Isabelle’s play kitchen.
“I’ll fix you something!” Soon she was serving me plastic French fries and plastic pizza and plastic carrots. (I sense a theme here…) When we got to the plastic peaches, Isabelle said, “Let’s go eat some real peaches!”
I followed her into the kitchen where (silly me) I looked around for some round, slightly fuzzy fruit to peel. But it turns out the peaches were in the fridge in a tiny plastic container with a peel back lid, precut and prediced. (Where were things like this when I was raising my kids?)
I pulled out the silverware drawer. “Which fork do you want?” Isabelle chose a small blue plastic one. I found one like it and said, “I’ll use one just like yours.”
Isabelle’s face lit up in delight. “Oh, Nina,” she said, her eyes glowing with joy. “We’re going to best friends forever and forever!”
We settled in at the dining room table, taking turns spearing tidbits of peach while I made up stories about all Isabelle’s cousins, stories staring (who else?) Isabelle Grace.
But I kept thinking about that comment. “We’re going to be best friends forever and forever.”
I cherish my friends. They live scattered across the United States, tethered to me via phone and email and the occasional visit. I’m sure you have friends who are “like family” to you, too. But family who are like friends? That was a new one.
I know I sometimes listen a bit closer, take a bit longer to lose my temper, am more open to criticism from my friends than I am my family. How does that old idiom go, “Familiarity breeds….”? Oh, I remember…contempt. YIKES!
So I like the idea of treating my family like friends. After all, you can never have too many best friends forever. Never.
I like worshipping at the early service at my church. The congregation is intimate—60 people on a good Sunday. We sit huddled together in the center section of the sanctuary like a gaggle of contented geese. There is no choir, but the music is simple and sincere and we all sing from our hearts.
Communion is by intinction—we file forward to celebrate the Eucharist, tearing a chunk of bread from a freshly baked loaf and dipping it into the goblet of juice. As I make my way back to my pew, the yeasty sweetness resting on my tongue, I am always overcome with awe and gratitude.
Last Sunday I served as deacon for this service. Because the crowd is so small, only two deacons are scheduled. We help the elders take the offering. We “dismiss” the rows for communion. We pass out and collect attendance rosters. But my favorite thing is lighting the candles. The service begins with the two deacons “carrying the light of Christ into the sanctuary.” We separate at the front of the church and light candelabra of 7 candles on each side of the communion table.
My VERY favorite thing, though, comes at the end of the service. The two deacons go forward to extinguish the candles and relight the wick at the end of their long brass lighters. The bulletin proclaims: “The light of Christ is carried into the world.” My friend Sue was serving with me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw she was having trouble with her wick. While the pastor offered the final blessing, Sue struggled to push a bit of wick forward. On cue, we extinguished the flames and I relit mine. But as we walked out behind the elders, Sue’s lighter was dark.
I joked with her in the narthex. “Looks like you were having trouble letting your light shine!” Sue laughed as she headed off to breakfast.
But all day I thought about what had happened. I was the only one that morning carrying the light of Christ into the world. What if that were really the case? How much darkness and pain would be pushed back? How many rays of comfort and joy would spread across my community? Would anyone even notice my flicker of Christian love?
I’m sure the wick problem will be resolved by next Sunday. But I have something to think about for a long time.
Because I really AM the one responsible for carrying the light of Christ into the world.
