My grandson, Drake, and I were standing outside church last Sunday morning, waiting for the rest of the family to join us. I was, as is my custom, dressed up—a lacey top, a gauze broomstick skirt, and a great straw hat with a band of tulle and a cluster of silk hydrenga.
Suddenly, the sun disappeared and it started to sprinkle. “Oh, no!” I wailed. “My beautiful hat will get wet!”
Drake looked at me, considering this for a moment. Then, with perfect 3-year-old logic, he said, “Nina, your flowers will like it. They need rain!”
I laughed, even as the drops became thicker. All Drake knew about flowers was that they needed water. And during this recent summer of drought, he had watched both me and his mother water, water, water. He wasn’t aware yet of the whole silk flower phenom or that blossoms this perpetually full could be had for $3.99 at Hobby Lobby.
Knowing what’s real and what’s not.
That’s pretty much a life-long quest, whether you’re buying your first (or latest) diamond, seeking for true love, testing the waters of a new friendship, or choosing which tub of butter-like substance to buy for your morning muffin. I’d like to say that age has rendered me an expert at sniffing out the fake things in life—the friend who will desert you just after you tell her your dearest secret, the “designer” blouse that will fray the third time you wear it, the weight loss program that SO doesn't deliver results. I wish I could readily spot the legit things, too. Like that one jacket at the GoodWill store that actually is mink.
But I have learned to cling tightly to those things that have proven themselves good and true and real. My husband, Gary. My family, My closest friends. And, most of all, my faith. Nothing faux or fleeting about the way God has seen me through the traumas and temptations of my life.
Jesus says, “I am THE way, THE truth, and THE life.” In other words, I am “THE REAL THING.”
As I write this, I have a pumpkin sticker on my pants and a ghost sticker on my shirt. That’s because I spent the morning hours with my two grandsons, getting them up and fed and off to preschool (while their parents went into Chicago for an early business meeting.) And nothing would do but for them to “decorate Nina” for Halloween before we could leave the house. (Check out the cute pics of them in their “pumpkin shirts” in My Photos.)
I arrived at 5:30 a.m. and waited downstairs by the baby monitors for the boys to stir. Drake (who’s 3 ¾ years old) was the first to wake up. I came into his room and he burst into a grin of surprise. “NINA!” I shushed him so his younger brother Brock could keep snoozing in his room across the hall. Drake slipped off his pj’s and I reached for the clothes his mother had laid out. “You bought me that shirt!” he said, pointing to the bright yellow tee with a taxi cab and “NEW YOK CITY” on it.
“Yes, I did.”
He scanned the room. “And you bought me this train table and that Elmo lamp, too.”
“That’s right. And I bought you that little heart-shaped nightlight. And lots of those book on your shelf.” I pulled his shirt over his head and asked playfully, “Do you think I give you too many things?”
To my surprise, Drake stared seriously into my face, his eyes intent and thoughtful. “Yes, yes you do, Nina. I think you should take some of them back!” I laughed and assured him that I was not about to do that. That, in fact, I could guarantee that he would keep receiving gifts from me!
I thought about that conversation this afternoon when I went for a walk. The weather was stunning—warm and sunny and summer-like. Golden leaves whispered above me and tumbled down gently around me. Black birds—in droves—crossed the sky. Two deer feeding near the path bounded as I approached, and I paused to watch their white tails bounce out of sight. How wonderful to be here in the midst of such bounty! I am so very blessed. I have been given so much! My health, my family and friends, my home, meaningful work to do.
Should I take some of it back?
I spent the rest of my walk in prayerful gratitude, naming one-by-one the things I was most thankful for. (I went through the entire alphabet—from “apples fresh from the tree” to “zebra-colored carpet in my office.”) It wasn’t that I was afraid my blessings would be taken from me if I didn’t put on a show of gratitude. That’s not what a loving Heavenly Father does (anymore than it is what a doting nana does). But, if you’re paying attention, God’s unfailing love and continual generosity must bubble over into articulated joy.
Especially on a perfect fall day when you’re wearing two lovingly-placed Halloween stickers.
Last Sunday I did the children’s sermon at my church. And, remembering the #1 rule of public speaking (KNOW YOU AUDIENCE), I opened with a reference to Bob the Builder. I don’t know if you’re familiar with this pint-sized force, but I truly love him. I mean, really, what’s not to love? He’s got lots of tools (check ‘em out!) and lots of friends and lots of meaningful work to do. He’s even got a cell phone that rings constantly. But the thing I like best about Bob is his positive attitude. (He seems like the kind of guy Norman Vincent Peale might have had in his Rolodex.) Bob never faces a challenge that intimidates him. His song says it all: Bob the Builder. Can we fix it? Bob the Builder. YES WE CAN!
Since I could not produce Bob the Builder in-the-flesh (I don’t actually think Bob the Builder has flesh…), I asked my son Brett the Builder to come. He strode in with hard hat, tool belt, biceps, and—of course—cell phone. He showed the kids his tools and let them name them and guess what they were used for. Then (dramatic pause) his cell phone rang. In church! The kids loved it. “Yes, yes,” Brett said, in true Bob style, “I’m on it!” Then he told the kids that he had to go, that his truck and dozer were double-parked outside.
You might think this would be a hard act to follow. But I waded right in, pulling out my own small, dented toolbox. “In this,” I told the kids, holding up the pitifully colorless piece of metal, “is a tool more powerful than any that Brett—or Bob—owns.” Now I had their attention. I reached in and (BIG dramatic pause) pulled out a Bible. The kids were still interested. (Good kids!) “This is the most important tool anyone can have. It doesn’t help you build a house or a shed or even a chicken coop. But it does help you build a life that is pleasing to God.” The kids got it right away. (Did I mention that they were smart as well as good?) And, to show that positive thinking was just as important in this endeavor as it was in any of Bob’s, I sang for them: Holy Bible. Can we read it? Holy Bible. YES WE CAN!
Okay, so it’s a bit derivative. But you can’t argue with the sentiment. And when I sang it a second time, the kids all joined in.
On my desk sits the last bouquet of summer. I scavenged it yesterday from my fading beds. Slightly droopy black-eyed Susans, purple Sweet Williams, a coral geranium, a single red rose bud. And a fuzzy lavender stem I’m fairly sure is a weed. But it was growing alongside the others and seems to be getting along well with its better-pedigreed vase mates.
The season is changing. My flowers tell me that. The calendar tells me that. The yellow leaves mixed with the green outside my window tell me that. Change. Doesn’t it seem that, often, that should be a four-letter word? I think it was one of the Marx brothers who said: “Nobody likes change except a wet baby.” Okay, so that’s extreme. But change is hard, whether it’s saying good-bye to a season your love or a job you love.
This summer was a summer of change for me. Some of it good. I was gifted with a new granddaughter, a new great nephew, and a new great niece. (Check out “My Photos” for pics!) But I also closed the door (or, rather, watched as it was closed) on my job, my co-workers, my amazing office space. Most of the women I worked with have found other employment. I was fortunate to land this truly terrific part-time work-from-home job. Still, there are many things I miss about those people and that place and the product we produced. When they learned of my situation, most of my friends were eager to offer words of encouragement. “Oh, you’ll be fine!” or “Can’t wait to see what God has in store for you next!” And even “This will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.” But a thoughtful few knew change takes time to process. One even said, “I am sorry I rushed to the good things I’m sure are waiting for you. I needed to sit quietly with you in this gestational period as you grieved for what was over.”
Do I have good friends or what?
Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, co-founder of Guideposts, said: “Every problem has the seeds of its own solution.” I believe that. I also believe that every change has the seeds of its own acceptance. And that those seeds, properly nourished with optimism and creativity, blossom beyond acceptance into joy. Change is hard, but it is also the only real path to growth.
So I’m going to embrace this change of season. Applaud the cool, colorful, crispness of autumn. Yep. I’m going to clap like crazy…tomorrow.
But today, I’m going to bury my face in the sweetness of this last bouquet picked from my garden…and kiss summer a slow good-bye.
Our early church service during the summer months is an intimte outdoor one, held in the woods just behind the sanctuary. A cozy fire and birdsong accompany every gathering. Ancient trees reach heavenward, creating a green canopy that shelters our only-slightly-sleepy congregation. Each Sunday, we take communion while guitars strum the old, familiar hymns. A giant cross forms the backdrop for our speakers, church elders who bring us the kind of variety and homey insight that only lay folk can. (Sorry all you seminarians…)
But last week, it was the elderly lady sitting across from me who really preached the sermon. And she did it without opening her mouth. The dress code for this early service is casual—capris for the gals and Docker shorts for the men are not uncommon. T-shirts are welcomed, too. Still, I was surprised to see this gray-haired woman sporting a shirt that said: Jesus loves you. But I'm his favorite.What? I thought, just slightly offended. Then I began thinking what that might really mean. (Apologies here to whomever was speaking…I’m sure whatever you said was inspiring. I just didn’t hear it.)
If I had that T-shirt, I’d wear it, too. Because I’m the one Jesus really does love best.
And so are you.
Jesus loves each of us as though there is no one else. His love doesn’t have to be divvied up—like a nana at Christmas when all the grandkids clamor for a piece of her lap. You are the center of his universe. And so am I. You are of utmost importance to God. And so am I. Which is why it is sheer nonsense (lunacy?) when we refuse to value each other, to affirm each other, to help each other. We are all one in the most lavish love affair of all time.
The Creator of the universe loves me!
Oh, and you, too, of course. So hold your head high today and accomplish great things. You are loved. Greatly.
BTW: If you spring for one of these T-shirts youself, send me a pic of you wearing it and I'll post it.
I don’t remember when I first read To Kill a Mockingbird. The summer after I turned 12, perhaps. (That would have been the year it won the Pulitzer Prize.) I know that’s when I discovered Huckleberry Finn and found out there was a list of “classic” books I should begin reading if I wanted to go to college. For sure I read it in high school, where it was no doubt dissected by my well-meaning English teacher, Mrs. Ridpath. And, of course, that wonderful 1962 black-and-white movie with Gregory Peck made Atticus and Scout and Boo come alive for me. I lived in a farming community so white that even our hens didn’t lay brown eggs. So these themes of prejudice and courage and justice were both revelatory and revolutionary for me. (A few years later the 60s arrived in full force, with issues of segregation and Black Power and equal rights finding their way even into our small town.)
When I grew up and became a teacher and later a writer, I was intrigued by the almost reclusive behavior of Harper Lee, the author of this wonderful book. She avoided interviews; she shunned public appearances. Genius shrouded now in mystery, at least for me. That’s why I was so excited a week or so ago when I was reading USA Today (August 22) and there, on the front page of the LIFE section, was a small sidebar headline: “Words of Wisdom from Harper Lee.” Harper Lee speaks! What would she say? The woman who won the Pulitzer Prize, who created such great characters, such wonderful dialogue, who dealt with such timeless themes. Eagerly, I began reading the small piece. The occasion of her broken silence was a ceremony inducting new members into the Alabama Academy of Honor. Supposedly, someone pressed her for a quote, a snippet of wisdom. Now 81, she is no doubt as wise as she is venerable. I held my breath as I read her (fresh!) words: “Well, it’s better to be silent than to be a fool.”
What?That’s it? I read it again. And then I got mad. I mean, surely she had some great/deeper thoughts she could have shared! What is she saying here? That there are only two options: (1) be silent or (2) be a fool. Silence is golden and speaking is stupid. Puh-lease! Sometimes silence is the right response. Like when someone says, “Do I look stupid?” But most often (I really do believe this) thoughtful, kind, and occasionally witty words are the course of action called for. I mean, where would we bloggers be if we valued silence over rambling…er, I mean writing?
So go on. Talk. Speak. Gab. Enjoy the sound of your own voice. You can start right now, by leaving me a comment on this blog. (I hope Harper reads it and does the same!)
Beside me on the table lies a book I absolutely love: Eat. Pray. Love. I don’t love it because it’s selling like hotcakes. (I’ve been burned by bestsellers before.) And I don’t love it because it’s brilliant and engaging writing. (I wouldn’t know; I haven’t begun reading it.) So why do I love it? Because my friend Elizabeth gave it to me—in an effusive act of spontaneous generosity and self-sacrifice.
Elizabeth and I are good friends, mostly in spite of things rather than because of them. For starters, she lives in New York. City. As in apartment/subway/sidewalks. In fact, she’s never lived in a building without an elevator and a super. I, on the other hand, live in Indiana. Was born here. And although I’ve lived a few other places (like Illinois and Georgia and Kentucky and Kansas), I have spent most of my life looking out at Indiana cornfields. Her bright lights are Broadway; mine are fireflies. She’s tall(er) with reddish/auburn hair; I’m short with blondish hair (of course, if we both stayed out of salons, our hair might be the same color…) And she’s a card-carrying Unitarian. While I’m a semi-conservative Christian, a member of the Christian Church Disciples of Christ (but with evangelical underpinnings). Of course, we have some things in common. We work for the same company (Guideposts). We each gave birth to two children. Sadly, Elizabeth lost her son Adem to ALS a few years ago. We are both gregarious and verbal and…well, witty. But perhaps the thing that binds us most closely is our love of books.
I was in New York on business last week. It was a quick trip and, given my meeting schedule and Elizabeth’s already-on-the-calendar-in-ink commitments, we weren’t going to get to do any of our usual fun things together. No dinner. No theatre. No walk down 34th street late at night to my hotel and her train. I stopped by her office suite for a quick hello.
She was in a (rather large) meeting. When Elizabeth saw me through the glass door, she jumped up at once and came into the hallway, throwing her arm around me. “Hey, Girlie! How’s it going?”
We did the quick family-catch-up and then I asked, “What are you reading?” Elizabeth is a voracious—and diverse—reader. She had steered me toward some fascinating books. (Ahab’s Wife is remarkable, really.)
“Eat. Pray. Love.,” she said.
“Never heard of it,” I replied. (I’d been living under a rock, okay?)
“Oh!” she said as she sprinted off to her office. I followed and arrived in time to see her fish the book out of her backpack. “Here,” she said, thrusting the book at me. “Take it. You must read it.” I noticed a bookmark sticking out of the top, just shy of midpoint.
“But you haven’t even finished it!” I protested.
“I’ll buy another one,” she said as she gave me a quick peck on each cheek and headed back to the meeting. “Safe travels!”
So here I am, back home with Eat. Pray. Love. Perhaps, like Elizabeth, I will think it a delightful and insightful read. Perhaps not. But it will always be one of my favorite books.
BTW: Check out the pic of my pal Elizabeth in "My Photos"!
My niece Scarlet got married a few weeks ago. It was on a Tuesday morning at the county courthouse. She wore a flowing white dress trimmed in flat, white sequins and satin flip-flops on her feet. She looked happy, radiant. Also puffy and a bit miserable. That’s because she was pregnant—very pregnant. In fact, she was scheduled to have her baby by C-section the next morning.
As I walked s-lo-w-l-y up the long flight of stairs with her to the courtroom, she said, with apprehension in her voice, “Aunt Mary Lou, I hope my water doesn’t break!.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but I agreed quickly. “Yeah, I hope not either.”
“Of course,” she smiled, knowing my love of a good tale, “it would make a great story.”
“Honey,” I said as we rounded the corner where all the family—including father-to-be Ryan—was waiting, “it already is a good story!” I handed her off to Ryan, who was looking at her as though she were the most beautiful bride in the history of the world. (See "My Photos" section for a pic of me, Scarlet and her sister, Christine at the wedding.)
I’m not sure why Scarlet decided to get married (at the last minute!) before she gave birth to the child she and Ryan had conceived. They both have friends—couples—who have had children outside of wedlock. (Do they even say “outside of wedlock” anymore?) And Ryan and Scarlet have already set a date next May for a big wedding, already reserved a gorgeous hall and a church. So why the last minute justice of the peace (do they say that anymore?) event? I’m not sure, but I’m glad. It makes a strong pro-marriage statement. And I’m in favor of marriage.
Gary and I just celebrated our 38th anniversary. (I was 5 years old when we wed…) It’s not easy living with the same person for…well, forever. But I like the challenge. And the satisfaction of honoring those vows. Sometimes, of course, marriage doesn’t work out. Two of my very best friends are divorced. So are some close family members. But, still, the two-by-two thing seems worth a sincere shot. And when it doesn’t work out, I think God honors the effort made to keep it together. My mother was in a difficult marriage most of her life. (She was a widow for the last 20 years.)
Gary and I attended three weddings last month. And I cried at each one. Because “a man will…cleave to his wife and they will become one flesh” is not just a cleverly worded string of words. It’s God’s word on the subject. And, I think, something to celebrate. And cry over.
BTW: Scarlet gave birth to a perfectly beautiful baby girl, Lillian Christine. As I stood outside the nursery window, watching Ryan touch Lily for the first, I looked at his newly-placed wedding ring and knew that Scarlet had truly found herself a good husband.
Don’t you just love, love, love the names new parents are bestowing these days? Caleb. Truman. Emily. Sydney. None of those tired ones I (we) grew up with. Carol and Sue, Bob and Larry. Darlene and Sue. How long since you ran into a Debbie or Mary who was under 40? And, since this has been a summer of babies for our family, I’ve been especially attentive to baby names.
In July, my neice and her husband arrived from Birmingham with their newborn: Finn. His 14-month-old brother, Aiden, was still trying to decide how this new addition was going to effect his reign in the household. While they were here—July 2, to be exact, my (first!) granddaughter was born. Isabelle Grace. Now, that’s a lovely name! Next came my niece Scarlet’s baby: Lillian. These, along with my grandsons Drake and Brock, are sure to put the “din” in family dinners for years to come!
My daughter-in-law, Stacy, has already begun to play “baby-friendly” versions of hymns for her wee-one. “Isabelle’s favorite song is ‘Amazing Grace’,” she told me recently. “She always gets quiet when it comes on.” Coincidence? Perhaps. Genius? I’d be partial to that theory. But why shouldn’t grace, that follows and sustains us, that is the lynch pin on which all of our life—both now and hereafter—hinges, begin as soon as we’re born? When you hold a newborn and look into their eyes, how can you keep from believing in a Divine Plan, a Divine Sustainer? And isn’t that what grace really is? Unmerited favor. From the Creator of the universe. From the minute we’re born. WOW! He likes us… Maybe Isabelle Grace, so fresh from those mysterious realms, knows this in a way we don’t. Or can’t.
Grace. What’s so amazing about it? Everything. How blessed I am that my new granddaughter will help me remember that. Every day.
(Visit my photo album to see some of our family’s not-so-small blessings!)
