Okay, so she’s my only sister. And I don’t have any brothers.
There’s something special about a grown-up sister. Somehow that same female who found you annoying (“Can you possibly chew that gum any louder?”) and always in the way (“Get out of my room!”—that one always confused me, since it was my bedroom, too) has turned into someone who wants to spend time with you. Someone who is willing to drive hundreds of miles to share a cup of tea on the front porch.
Libby is five years older than I and, growing up, that put her just far enough along on the maturity scale to make it hard for us to play together. When I was 5, she was 10. When I was finally 10, she was a cool 15. But occasionally we’d find common ground, like the time she helped me sew button eyes on socks, and we gave a puppet performance for Mother. Or when she’d play hide-and-seek with me in the barn.
For as long as I can remember, my sister has been able to make anything. Even as a teen, she could make the biggest, fluffiest, flakiest biscuits. When she decided to knit, her first project was a cable knit sweater. (Mine was a solitary lopsided slipper.) She can decorate cakes and turn a tomato into a rosebud garnish.
When I got married, I was still in college and beyond broke. So Libby, who had gotten married several years before in a hoop-skirted gown, cut up her own wedding dress to make mine. It was beautiful.
But now Libby is making the most difficult thing she’s ever attempted: a new life for herself.
After 46 years of marriage, Libby is a widow. Living alone. Facing days that are not defined by that familiar companionship between husband and wife. For years she was a caregiver to Denny, so there is a freedom about her new life. She can buzz down to McDonalds for a fish sandwich or cup of coffee. She can come to visit me. But the rhythm of things has changed. She is still searching for who she is, for what shape her life will take.
Libby’s got children and grandchildren and a brand-new great grandson. So, as they say, life goes on. But it’s a different life to be sure.
Yes, my sister can make anything. And as she works on this latest challenge, I’m planning to help her any way I can. That’s what favorite sisters do.
When I went outside this morning, I knew. It was time to harvest my tomato crop.
It’s been a long time since I had anything to harvest. The last time I planted a garden was more than 30 years ago. I was pregnant with my son Brett that summer. And—after picking and shucking and boiling and freezing 100 ears of sweet corn—I went into early labor. A cautionary tale to be sure.
But this year I decided to put out a few tomato plants. So I went to the farmer’s market and carefully chose four stout green ones. I placed them in the edge of a flowerbed in my backyard. “Grow, my lovelies!” I said as I tamped the moist soil onto their roots.
Within days, something (raccoon? groundhog? alien?) had dug up three of the four plants.
Now all my hopes were riding on a lone plant.
But I watered and watched and soon a tiny green tomato appeared. One tiny green tomato. It grew slowly but surely, and its visage began to change to a soft red. But still no siblings appeared on the plant.
So, I grew a tomato this year. One tomato.
But somehow I’m not disappointed. It’s a pleasingly plump little thing. I’ve been admiring it for days now. But this morning I noticed it was beginning to split open. It was time.
So I picked it. What to do with this solitary prize? Slice it onto a sandwich? Cut it into a salad? Slit it and fill the center with humus?
No, there was only one thing to do with this tomato. I gave it a quick shower under running water…and ate it whole, the juice running down my chin, the tender tomato meat still warm from the sun.
More is not always better; a little can be just enough. Sometimes the scarcity of a thing gives it a sweetness that can't be known in abundance. I learned this from growing tomatoes…er, tomato.
Let me be the first to say it to you. MERRY CHRISTMAS! Why do you look so surprised? After all, Christmas is only four short months away. Time to break out the fruitcake recipe…
Of course, maybe the reason I’m humming “Jingle Bells” is because I’ve just returned from visiting Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland—“the world’s biggest Christmas store, open 361 days a year.”
Whew! What a place! Aisles and aisles of every kind of decoration, light, tree, bulb, collectible, novelty you can think of. Rows of lovely Nativity scenes
.
And if you get hungry from all that shopping, you can grab a bite of food at “Season’s Eatings.”
Truth is, visiting a Christmas store in mid-summer isn’t all that much of a stretch for me. Christmas is never far from my thoughts. I listen to carols in my car even while the air conditioning is running full blast. And I buy presents all year long, whenever I see something unique or (I admit it) “drastically reduced.”
I especially love decorating my home for Christmas. Last year, as my husband, Gary, lugged box after box from the attic, he looked down from the ladder and asked, “Honey, did you ever think about simplifying this whole decorating thing?”
Well, sure. Of course I’d thought about it. But where would I begin? Should I not put up the cute tree in my bedroom, the one I decorate with ornaments shaped like shoes and purses? Or maybe I should forego placing the three Wisemen on the mantle, the ones that had been my mother’s. I am sure the grandkids would miss that jolly Santa who belts out “HO, HO, HO!” when you squeeze the toe of his boot. And a candle in every window of the house, well, the whole neighborhood looks forward to that!
But back to Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland.
“It’s just to look around,” I assured Gary as I backed out of the driveway to make the four-hour trip to Frankenmuth, Michigan.
Well, I didn’t just look around. I bought…some wonderful gifts (just wait, Lurlene—you’re going to love yours!) and even some new decorations. The first thing I saw when I entered the store was a tree decorated entirely with a construction theme. My son is in construction—so I nabbed a string of “lit” tools for his birthday present this month.
I try to keep the Christmas spirit alive in my heart all year. Of course, I don’t always succeed. But every year I get a chance to fill myself, once again, with the wonder and gratitude the season always brings. And this year I’m getting a jumpstart on that!
By the way, you should see darling lights I bought for outside decorating. Suppose it’s too soon to ask my husband to put them up?
A storm tore through my small Northwest Indiana town last night—its 150-mile-an-hour winds leaving a trail of devastation more than a mile wide. The roof was ripped off our middle school. Countless trees were uprooted, smashing cars and breaking windows in their thunderous descent. Bricks flew off apartment buildings. Almost everyone in town lost power. We were the lead story on the Chicago news this morning. Helicopters and cameramen have been hovering about all day. The National Guard and Red Cross have made an appearance.
Pretty scary stuff.
I rode out the storm at my son’s house. My husband Gary and I had just had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants and stopped by Brett and Stacy’s to hold our new grandson, Knox. The moment we walked in, the ominous news began flashing on the TV. Tornado warnings. And then, amazingly, the name of our tiny town rolled across the screen.
It was Knox Edward’s first storm. He’s only four days old…and he slept through the entire event. I held him close as I watched trees outside the window bend crazily in the wind. The sky was dark and the clouds swirled in a savage dance. “Should we go to the basement?” Stacy asked.
But the storm had tracked a few miles from us. Soon my son’s cell phone rang. It was his buddy sending him images of the trees down at one of the rentals Brett owns. (The pics above show some of the damage.)
As I cradled Knox in my arms, his even breathing seemed incongruous with the tension in the room, the scrolling warnings on the TV. Danger? What danger? Knox was at rest. Secure. Wonderfully oblivious. And why not? The house was filled with people who would have done—literally—anything to keep him safe.
Sometimes when the storms in my own life come roaring down on me, I tend to panic. What will I do? How will I handle it? What if (fill in the blank with the worst possible thing) happens?
If only I had someone who cared for me, someone who would do anything to see me through the crisis….
Wait! I do have Someone. And you do, too.
I’m in between storms just now, walking in sunshine, enjoying my health and my family. Of course, I’ve lived long enough to know that the weather can change in an instant. But the next time dark clouds begin to gather, I’m going to remember baby Knox—and lean hard into those everlasting arms.
Staycation—have you heard the word? It’s when one chooses to go on holiday by not going at all, to STAY rather that VACATE one’s home and community. And last week, that’s just what I did. I took a staycation.
It started about a month ago, when I realized no fab vacation was in my near future. Plus, I found I was slightly irritated when postcards from my friends arrived (my pal Desila is in Paris as I write this). And I kept running into people who said, “Oh, summer is just flying by. Soon the leaves will begin to fall…” NOOOOOOOOOO!
So I put out the word that I was going to take some time off to enjoy the pleasures of the season. I told my family, my friends, my coworkers. I knew there were pitfalls to avoid. For instance, I work from home. I decided I could check email once—and only once—a day. Ditto for phone messages.
And then I planned—something fabulous for each day. (I also made sure I hung out on my patio and took lots of walks.) Here’s how it worked, beginning last Sunday:
Day 1: I joined members of my church for a “Spirit Walk” and picnic at a nearby arboretum. My hubby, son and his family, as well as two of my grandsons, came along. It was super hot, but that only made the cold watermelon yummier.
Day 2: I rose early and went out to Lake Michigan (a scant 4 miles from my house) where I found a cozy picnic table on the beach and read for almost three hours. Heaven! That afternoon I took my best-10-year-old friend Rachel to see a 3-D movie. Popcorn anyone?
Day 3: I picked up my friend Kathy (in my convertible!) and we headed to The Shrine of Christ’s Passion, about an hour away. What a moving experience! Life-sized statues portraying Christ’s life from the Last Supper through the Ascension.
Day 4: I took the train into Chicago and…shopped! (I got the greatest pair of shoes at Nordstroms.)
Day 5: My friend—and pastor—Victoria joined me for a drive to South Bend where we had lunch at Tippecanoe Place, a lovely mansion turned restaurant. As some of you remember, last summer Victoria was battling cancer. So this lunch was especially special as we celebrated her good health.
Day 6-7: My hubby and I took a quick trip to Saugatuck, Michigan to celebrate our anniversary. Lovely weather, great food, and a beautiful rose garden right in the middle of town.
Day 8: The perfect ending to a perfect week—my new grandson arrived! Knox Edward Carney was born a 7 a.m. He is (of course!) gorgeous. Mother Stacy is doing well and my son Brett couldn’t be prouder. Now big sister Isabelle Grace just has to learn to share…
Most of us remember Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, pining for home. Eventually she clicked those ruby slippers together and (poof!) arrived back in that drab house in Kansas. But this time all she could say was, “There’s no place like home!”
I couldn’t agree more. This week I laughed and cried, I read good books and ate good food, I spent time with people I love, I took prayer walks in the sand and—literally—stopped to smell the roses.
Here are “postcards” from my staycation. Having a wonderful time…wish you were here.
It started this morning—a perfect summer morning. How I longed to be outside!
Alas, I needed to work, to write. I was staring down several deadlines, two of which involved (ho, ho, ho) Christmas stories. I climbed the stairs to my office. I could do this. I was a professional. Self discipline? I have tons of it!
But I was too restless to concentrate. I kept looking out the window, longing to go…where? I wasn’t sure. Focus! I chided myself. But it was no use. The feeling to get out of the office was too strong. I tried to think of an errand I could run, something to justify venturing out. Ah! I needed the book my writer’s group was discussing this month. Relieved, I practically ran out to my car.
At Barnes and Noble, I pushed open the door and thought, Now for a little browsing. But a voice inside seemed to urge, Get your book and leave. What? I always browse! Still, I found myself at the checkout in a matter of minutes. Outside, I headed to my car, a little confused at my own behavior. Why leave work only to rush right back?
“Are you Mary Lou Carney?” I looked up to see that I had passed a young woman with dark hair. She was staring at me with something like hope—and disbelief.
“Yes, I am,” I said, smiling.
“It’s Darla!” she said, thumping her chest with her hand.
Darla. That one word was all I needed to take me back…how long? 30 years. It had been 30 years since Darla sat in my class, part of a gang of girls determined to give their teacher a hard time. But even in the midst of her trouble-making friends, Darla always had a tenderness about her.
We embraced, and she held me tightly. “I needed to see you today.”
Needed? “Want to have lunch?” I asked.
So we went to a nearby restaurant, and, over bowls of soup (she didn’t touch hers) Darla told me that her husband of 22 years had died. She has two young children. Things are hard, but she is grateful for the good life she has had. She shared her grief, her plans for the future, showed me pictures of her son and daughter. Finally, we talked about those years when I was her high school English teacher. “We all thought you were so mean,” she laughed. “But you were smart to not let us get away with anything.”
“Some days you guys were pretty mean yourselves!” More laughter
We parted in the parking lot. We exchanged email addresses and hugs. “I just can’t believe I saw you today, of all days. I came to the bookstore to buy a journal and forgot my glasses in the car. That’s the only reason I was on the sidewalk at the same time you were. Pretty amazing, huh?”
I couldn’t begin to tell her what an odd series of events, nudgings, urgings, had placed me there at the exact time she was coming back from her car. Coincidence? Hardly.
Oswald Chambers, in his spiritual classic My Utmost for His Highest, says, “I know when the instructions have come from God because of their quiet persistence.” I know that my restlessness this morning was really the stirring of the Holy Spirit, the yanking of the long, strong thread connecting Darla’s need and my whereabouts.
Part of living in the Spirit is trusting those mysterious nudges. I’m not saying that every time you want to skip out of work, God is leading you to the golf course. I am saying that the unseen world is real and close. And sometimes, if we pay attention, we get to be part of something strange…and wonderful.
A Midwest rite of summer arrived last week: THE COUNTY FAIR. The ever-new, never-changing county fair.
My daughter Amy Jo and I took her three boys—Drake (5), Brock (almost 4) and Mace (11 months)—for an afternoon on the Midway. We bought the oldest two wristbands so they could ride as much as they wanted. And they wanted to ride a lot!
One of their fave rides? A towering pink and purple plastic slide, made even slicker and faster by the blankets they tugged up the stairs and sat on while they (whoosh!) descended.
Baby brother had to be content to just watch—for now…
My son Brett joined us, too—along with his lovely (and very pregnant!) wife Stacy and little 2-year-old Isabelle Grace. Husband Gary (aka: Papa) showed up just in time to ride the Ferris Wheel with Drake. A few rides later, Gary was too sick to even think about eating dinner with the rest of us. (Why is it the rides we love as children are the ones that make us want to puke as adults?)
Much of our dinner was, of course, fried. (Hey, it’s fair food!)
For dessert, we bought an elephant ear and a funnel cake and, while pulling apart the hot dough, debated the merits of each. Hours later, as we were standing in line for the kiddie roller coaster, Drake asked, “Nina, was that a real elephant ear?”
I was happy to inform him that no animals were harmed in the preparation of this cinnamony treat.
We watched 4-H members show off their dogs, roamed a building full of rabbits with ribbons on their cages, sat on big green tractors, and ate ice cream. By dusk, the kids were sticky and tired…and the adults were a tad cranky.
Another summer day at the fair winding down.
Next summer my grandchildren will be bigger, older. I have a feeling Drake won’t be so interested in the tame rides and slides. Mace will be clamoring to board the brightly-painted train; Stacy’s new baby will be stroller-bound and restless.
And that’s okay. Change, after all, is the point of life—we grow, explore, get better at facing down our fears, dare to dream.
But I’m glad some things stay the same. Like the unconditional love of family, the joy of childish pleasures, and the predictability of county fairs. (Elephant ears—yum!)
For the last several weeks, I have been taking a Digital Photography class at a local university. It’s a continuing education course, designed for adults who want to increase their knowledge without doing enough work to earn college credit. Didn’t seem too intimidating.
But only 20 minutes into the first class, I was seriously thinking of bolting. (Then I remembered I’d bought the book and paid my nonrefundable fees.) We were each asked to state our name, tell why we signed up for the class, and show our camera.
One by one the rest of the people in the room began unzipping leather camera cases and taking out serious black cameras and pricey big lenses. I clutched my tiny crocheted string purse (the one with the pink and yellow embroidered flowers) and, when my turn came, I pulled out my camera. A tiny Sony…a tiny hot pink Sony.
YIKES.
But I stuck it out, and while some of what the professor said went over my head and way beyond my magenta technology, I still learned a lot. And I couldn’t help thinking how much photography is like life. He advised us to…
Get up close. You miss a lot when you don’t get really involved with what you’re shooting.
Try a new perspective. You’ll be surprised how different things look from a fresh angle.
Don’t be afraid to blur backgrounds. Concentrate on what’s important.
But the piece of advice I liked best was the first one he gave us. “Ninety percent of the quality of the picture is the person taking it.” Not the camera. Or the lens. The person. (Did I mention I own a tiny pink camera?)
Those words remind me that what happens to us isn’t nearly as important as how we respond to what happens to us. And while we often have no control over events, we have complete control over how we respond to those events. The power is in the person—in who he is and Whose he is.
Class is over now. But the prof left me with lots to think about, including his final admonition:
There’s no doubt about it. Our church has gone to the dogs. And the cats.
And the congregation seems just fine with that.
The critters haven’t really taken over the pews, but last week was our “Blessing of the Animals” service. Every summer Sunday, our early service is held in the woods adjacent to our church. The elders, who give the sermons, are used to competing with birdsong. So what’s a few woofs and the occasional meow?
I don’t have a dog. Or cat. Or hamster or gerbil or parakeet. I do have lots of animals that make themselves at home on my rural property. A family of deer frequented my front yard all winter. Each morning when I start down my driveway, rabbits scurry into the brush. And twice this week, from my office window, I have watched a gaggle of guineas forage.
So while I was prepared to smile at these proud pet owners and scratch a few pooch ears, I hadn’t planned on the service moving me personally.
But a phrase in the “call to worship” caught me by surprise. “We ask for your blessing, your shalom, on the creatures present here that we love, on all creatures celebrating in the wild, and with creatures departed but remembered warmly.”
Creatures departed but remembered warmly…
Ginger. My dog when I was 8 years old. She was my constant companion as I did my farm chores. My playmate when I ran through the fields or threw stones into the creek. I taught her to untie my shoes and fed her the ice cubes left after I’d drunk my KoolAid. And when she was gone, I mourned long and hard.
The elder in charge was speaking. “…these yellow ribbons are so you can remember a departed friend. Write your pet’s name and then we’ll tie them on a tree after communion is finished.”
I took the ribbon and, with a black sharpie, wrote her name. My pal Ginger.
I don’t know if there will be animals in heaven. Truly, I haven’t spent much time thinking about that question. But it doesn't seem an extraordinary thing to imagine. Why not a few woofs and meows and other creaturely sounds mingling with the heavenly choir? Revelation 5:13 seems to imply that praising God is not a joy reserved exclusively for humans: “Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and in the sea, and all that is in them, singing: “To the one seated on the throne and to the Lamb be blessing and honor and glory and might forever and ever!’”
When I get to heaven, I’m looking forward to seeing Jesus. And Mother. Grandmother and Aunt Ida. And maybe, just maybe, a furry little mutt who likes to eat KoolAid-flavored ice cubes.
I love it when the Fourth of July falls on a Saturday, because the holiday just goes on and on and on!
We had lots of family visiting. My niece Christine from Birmingham was here, along with her three children: Aiden (3), Finn (2), Kiera (6 months). My sister, Libby, made the four-hour drive from her home to celebrate with us, too.
The highlight of our weekend was a parade through my daughter Amy Jo’s neighborhood. Libby and I went over early and decorated enough wagons and strollers and trikes and bikes so that everyone had something to ride or push. (It was the first time Drake, 5, rode a two-wheeler without training wheels!)
Is there anything more nostalgic than a small-town parade filled with flags and kids and patriotic music?
Grandson Brock (3) won for “best tricycle.”
His little brother Mace and my great niece Kiera took the coveted “best-decorated stroller” award.
But we all felt like winners, especially when they passed out those HUGE red-white-and-blue Popsicles.
It’s been a difficult year for my family in many ways. But Friday evening as we held on to helium balloons and tried to keep track of all those babies, I couldn’t help but think of how blessed we are. How fortunate we are to live in a country that applauds initiative, that allows honest elections, that breeds heroes willing to make sure we remain free.
Yes, it was a weekend of fireworks, family, flag-waving and…gratitude.
I’m going to make sure the gratitude doesn’t get packed away with the tinsel and top hats. It seems the least I can do for a country that does so much for me.
