I have just returned from a walk in the woods. The forest floor was dotted with patches of pale lavender flowers. An occasional deep purple violet peeked through the dead leaves. I closed my eyes and breathed in the dank greenness that surrounded me.
Suddenly, I am 10 years old again. Mother—alive and lovely, with an apron tied over her work dress—is talking to me.
“I think we could grow some violets here,” she says, pointing to a shady spot beside the house.
I stare at the foundation of giant rocks that holds up our old farm house. At the bare patch of ground near its corner where Mother is pointing.
“We could dig them in the woods.” Already she is moving toward the tractor shed for the shovel.
Soon Mother and I are headed through the gate toward the back pasture and the woods that border it. I am not sure how much help my small hands will be, but I like being with Mother. Being a part of whatever she suggests we do together.
We easily find a patch of violets, and Mother begins to dig. Carefully I wrap the plants in the newspaper we've brought, nest them into a small basket.
“I think that will be enough, don’t you?”
I nod. I think what Mother thinks. About these violets. About pretty much everything.
I was tempted to pick some of those violets as I walked this morning. But I was on a path in the National Lakeshore, where picking flowers is strictly forbidden. Who would know? I thought. But I laughed aloud as Mother’s voice came back to me. “You would know!”
The month of May is a difficult one for me, holding as it does three “designated” days to miss my mother. Next Sunday is Mother’s Day. A week later, it’s her birthday. And the end of the month brings Memorial Day. Those first few Mays after Mother’s death, I could scarcely comprehend how one small set of squares on the calendar could hold so much potential for sadness.
My grief for Mother has mellowed over the last decade. The hurt is more like a tender spot than it is a gaping wound. Life has gone on.
The violets Mother and I dug and replanted that spring day took hold and bloomed every year until we sold that farm and moved to another. I like to think they might be blooming still.
After all, some of God’s sweetest flowers are flourishing just beyond our limited vision…
My daughter — and my three grandsons — live only a mile away. It is, literally, a 2-minute trip from my front door to theirs. Left out of my drive onto a country road. Over the railroad track. Right at the stop sign for a scenic drive past the country club golf course. And—wah-la!—I am there.
But not anymore.
Now a giant sign and orange-striped barricades proclaim that the way to Amy Jo’s house is “closed to thru traffic.” They are working on the railroad track.
So the distance is more than doubled when I want to visit her. And the route is complicated by stop lights, four-lane highways, and way more traffic!
This longer drive has me thinking about roads. Particularly the roads I’ve traveled in my life.
The house where I grew up was adjacent to a gravel road…and back a half-mile lane. How many thousands of steps did I walk down that lane to catch the school bus? How many times, in my early days of driving, did I misuse the clutch and stall out the family car on that gravel road?
Roads have taken me to places and from places. I followed that gravel road north to hard pavement and on to college. So many roads led from that tree-lined campus! Marriage, children, career, career change, grandchildren.
I’ve navigated potholes of disappointment and grief. On occasion, I’ve taken the wrong road and had to do a U-turn. I’ve slowed down for speed-bumps of sickness. I’ve detoured around danger — and sometimes I haven’t.
But always, with God’s help, I’ve arrived.
Yes, it takes me a bit more time to get to my daughter’s house. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. The more roads I travel, the more I realize: It’s not just the destination that’s important. The journey is important, too.
And these days I have a bit longer to ponder this great truth.
It’s spring. How do I know? Daylight comes earlier and stays longer. I’ve had my first pedicure in months (sandal season approaches!). Last night I kept my window open a wee bit and fell asleep to the nocturnal musings of frogs.
But the most definitive sign of all? My yard is filled with dandelions!
Yesterday my grandsons, Drake (5) and Brock (3), spent the day with me. As I was driving from their house to mine, they spotted a spattering of blooms beside the road.
“Look, Nina,” Brock said. “Flowers!”
“What kind are they?” Drake asked. We’d been discussing tulips and daffodils and the miniature iris we’d found in the park.
“Well, those are dandelions. Technically, they’re not a flower. They’re a weed.”
Brock laughed. “Nina, they can’t be weeds. They’re pretty!”
I glanced in the rearview mirror at his fresh face, framed by a lock of blond hair that had fallen across his forehead. How simple things were for Brock.
“Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “Perhaps they really are a flower—just a flower not many people like.”
“Do you like them?” asked Drake.
I pictured my front lawn. An entire acre which, at this very moment, sported hundreds of fuzzy yellow circles. “Sure,” I said. “I like them. When we get home, you can pick a bouquet for me. How’s that?”
The boys could hardly wait.
I took one of my crystal vases out of the china cupboard. With its wide mouth, I knew it could accommodate many blooms. I stepped out onto the front porch while the boys ran into the yet-to-be-mowed grass, laughing at the sheer joy of being young and free and surrounded by flowers. Then the picking began in earnest.
Soon the vase was filled. “Well, aren’t these petty?” I said, supposing it was time to move on to other things.
“We need to pick more!” Drake said, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “Get another vase, Nina!”
I returned with a medium-sized glass bowl, a pretty piece of stemware. Again and again the boys ran to me with handfuls of dandelions. By now, I could hear my husband mowing in the back yard.
“We have to pick them before PaPa comes!” Brock said.
“We can’t let the ‘Dandelion Eating Monster’ get them!” Drake said, pretend horror in his voice.
So this was the game.
Before long, I returned to the house yet again. This time I came back with a punch bowl full of water! And handful-by-handful, my grandsons filled this container with the fuzzy yellow blooms.
Exhausted at last, the boys sat with me on the porch, sun warm on our bare arms as we watched Gary mow the front yard.
“I think we got most of them, don’t you?” Drake asked.
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” I said, eyeing the hundreds of flowers floating in containers beside me.
“We saved them,” Brock said simply.
And in that perfect moment, I longed to save more than dandelions. I longed to save this time of innocence for my grandsons. To save the joy they found in simple games of pretend. To hold forever the little-boy love that prompted this profusion of dandelion bouquets.
The moment passed, as did the rest of the day.
Now, the dandelions are looking faded and frail, floating in stagnant water. I must toss them out. Soon.
Drake and Brock will grow and change, just as surely as new dandelions will sprout from where these were plucked. But the love I have for them—and they for me—will grow, too. In ways I can’t yet imagine.
I’m not sure I meant it when I told Brock I liked dandelions.
But today…I really do.
I have just returned from Georgia, where I spent several days in the shadow of God’s thumb.
Okay, so it wasn’t really God’s thumb. It was Stone Mountain—a huge, stark granite structure that is 825 feet tall and covers 583 acres. But, being more poet than geologist, it struck me immediately as the tip of God’s thumb, giving a ginormous sign of approval.
After a few days spent soaking up the beauty of the profuse azaleas, taking in the blue of the high-domed sky, and sitting in a well-worn rocking chair on the hotel’s front porch, I could see many things that could prompt a divine “thumbs-up.”
But Stone Mountain’s real claim to fame is not nature or even Southern hospitality. It is the massive carving that graces its face. Three Confederate leaders of the Civil War— President Jefferson Davis and Generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. "Stonewall" Jackson—sit astride their horses. The trio prances in place, perpetually, a full 400 feet above the ground.
I looked at this carving every day I was there at Stone Mountain. I thought about the treacherous conditions the carvers endured, the years (literally) it took to create this masterpiece.
Carved in stone.
How often had I used those words to signify just how serious and permanent something was? Unchangeable. Forever.
That’s why I was intrigued when I hiked over to the museum and saw a film about how the sculpture was created. Guess what? At one point, disappointed with how things were shaping up, the sculptor blasted all the work to kingdom come. KAA-BLOOIE! Good-bye carving; hello blank-faced mountain! Time for a fresh start.
This gives me hope that I can blast away some of the things I thought were a permanent part of my life. The self-deprecating way I always hate how my hair (or something else about me) looks. That hurtful memory from decades ago that resurfaces with remarkable clarity. Old prejudices that hide but don’t really disappear.
So I’m praying for strength to confront things that keep me from being the very best person, the very best Christian, I can be.
I know God’s eager to help—and to give me a “thumbs-up” for my effort.
It is two days after Easter, but I am still finding shreds of plastic grass in my carpet. I’m still pawing through leftover ham and corn casserole. I’m still peeling dinosaur stickers off my sunroom floor and coming upon the occasional “unfound” plastic egg.
And I’m still pondering the meaning of it all.
I always begin Lent with the yearnings of a mystic. This year I’ll meditate. I’ll immerse myself in Scripture. I’ll light candles, take long walks and talk to God. I’ll become deeply spiritual through sacrifice and sincerity.
But by Holy Week, I’m usually woefully aware that my life has left footprints all over those noble aspirations. Maundy Thursday I spent most of the day gathering food to feed the 20 people I had coming for Easter Dinner. Good Friday I spent the afternoon coloring eggs with my grandchildren. On Saturday, all was baking and making salads. And, of course, Easter baskets for all the kiddies! I even had to chide myself Sunday morning as I sat listening to the lily-flanked choir. All I could think was Did I turn on the ham before I left home?
Of course, I have done some of those things I aspired to. Walked. Talked to God. Gave up something I loved for Lent. Read the Gospels. Still, I don’t feel quite as new as I’d hoped, quite as transformed by the whole Lent experience.
I suppose newness is really what Easter is all about. And there was plenty of that in my life this year.
It was baby Mace’s first Easter. My daughter dressed all three of my grandsons in matching shirts. (That's us at church in the opening pic.)
My granddaughter Isabelle Grace topped off her new Easter attire with a darling yellow hat. (Amazing what you can find at the Dollar Store!)
My sister, who buried her sweet husband three short weeks ago, came for a visit. It was the first time I can remember her being with me for Easter. She had been his caregiver for so very long. Libby arrived with a packets of dye and stickers, ready to color eggs with the kids. Another first. She is at the front of a new life now and must learn—day by day—how to live it.
On the day before Easter, my sis and I went to help my friend Barb decorate our church. As we were putting away the ladder from draping the cross, Barb said, “What if we don’t put it away? What if we cover it with lilies?” So we did. We liked it so much that we found a smaller ladder and did a “mirror” version in the baptistery area. A new idea. A new approach.
I was up early on Easter. Early enough to see the sun split the night sky, its apricot-colored rays piercing the grayness of dawn, giving promise to what was to come. A new day. The day that changed everything forever. Easter. New life. New hope. New me.
It is two days after Easter, but I’m hoping I’ll still come across a stray jellybean from time to time. It will remind me of the sweetness of family, the wonder of forgiveness, the promise—new every morning—of God’s great love.
It is Good Friday, a day when we think about Christ and his suffering. A day when we attend services and say prayers. A day when crosses are very much on our minds.
Not long ago, I wrote about the crosses that stand—tiny and silent and full of sorrow—in front of my church. (See March 31 blog.) One cross for each child who died violently last year, victims of child abuse in my home state of Indiana. The crosses wear little shirts, poignant reminders of a childhood cut short.
Victoria, who is co-pastor of our church, read that blog and sent me this comment:
I like the blog about the Child Abuse crosses, and the color photo looks great—it was a sunny day when you snapped the photo and the shirts on the crosses are colorful and bright..... I went outside again this morning and corrected, stood up, fixed, straightened, tweaked about 5 or 6 of the crosses. It is very gray outside now and rainy. Each rainy morning I wade out in the water—up to my ankles—and pick up the crosses that the winds have knocked down. Today I did not have a coat. It was very cold. The wind ripped through my sweater as I re-clothed the crosses. Then I started to cry. It is hard to imagine that these Hoosier children were killed by hands which knew them.
My tender-hearted friend Victoria knows about crosses. She’s spent the last year bearing a heavy one of her own. Cancer. These last 12 months have been a tedious whirl of chemo and radiation, of trips to Chicago for doctor’s appointments, of wearing hats and scarves when her hair fell out. She continued to minister to others, even when her strength was waning. But her faith, well…that never wavered. And her resolve gave the rest of us the courage to believe, too. To pray for and expect health.
It is a new spring, a new Easter season. And Victoria is well. The doctors can find no more cancer. (And believe me, they’ve looked!) Her hair (as you can see) has grown in nicely. Her smile looks the same. But Victoria is changed. She’s wiser, deeper for having carried this cross.
Yes, it’s Good Friday. A time when we focus on the cross of Christ. A time when we acknowledge that we are sinners in need of a Savior. But when this holy weekend is past, there will still be crosses to bear.
When you have grandchildren, it’s interesting to see how they “take after”’ you. Will they have your hair? Your eyes? Your (giggle, giggle) sense of humor?
I’ve discovered that my granddaughter, Isabelle Grace, is taking after me in a surprising way. She loves shoes.
Ah, shoes! You know what they say: New shoes cure the blues. I’m not sure about the veracity of this, but I’m willing to give it a try. Time after time after time...
I have boxes and boxes of shoes, piles of boots, stacks of sandals. Why, just yesterday I bought a beautiful pair of ankle boots—soft brown leather with brass buckles…and a cute pair of black flats with round toes and a red leather strap. I got them at the Goodwill store for $3 a pair. They seem perfectly content in my closet, snuggling up against shoes that cost way more!
But it isn’t just her own shoes that captivate Isabelle. She loves anyone’s shoes! When she visits, she scours the house for shoes she can slip her feet into—from scuffed work boots to fuzzy slippers. She will point at the footwear and proclaim its owner. “Papa shoes,” she’ll say as she steps into muddy tennies. “Nina shoes,” she smiles, trying on a pair of abandoned Mary Janes beside my bed.
I stopped by Isabelle’s house yesterday and, because it is STILL NOT SPRING, I was wearing some fun winter boots with laces sporting fur balls. Isabelle has boots very similar to these, and always claps with joy when she sees me wearing mine. I slipped them off inside the door and, at once, Isabelle wanted to wear them. She managed to get them on…but couldn’t do much besides stand on the rug with her tiny legs buried inside my tall boots.
I watched her standing there, early spring sun coming through the window and lighting her with a kind of glory only young children have. So innocent. So eager. And I couldn’t help but wonder: What will her life be like? What can I do now to help set her tiny feet on the right path, the one that will lead her closer to her Creator?
Difficult questions. I am still pondering them when Isabelle looks at me and laughs, the musical sound breaking through my reverie.
“Nina shoes,” she says. I bend down and scoop her into my arms—praying that the footprints I am leaving for her to follow are holy ones.
Do you remember the old riddle that asks: Which is better—a watch that runs 10 minutes slow or a watch that doesn’t run at all? The answer (as some of you may know) is the second option—a watch that doesn’t run at all. Why? Because it will display the correct time twice within a 24-hour period. The simply slow watch will never give you the correct time.
I have been thinking of this lately because the small clock in my bathroom is losing time. Its battery is, apparently, not dead…just very, very tired. This is one of the more important clocks in my house. It tells me how much time I have to spend curling my hair and brushing my teeth, applying my eyeliner and generally primping before I must be out and about and on with life.
At first, I didn’t know anything was amiss. I’d think I was ahead of schedule. But once I exited the bathroom and caught a glimpse of my bedside clock, I would realize (gasp!) that I was late. Tardy. Behind.
I’m not sure when clocks and watches became dependent on batteries. I remember my mother winding up the “Big Ben” alarm clock that sat on the small table next to my bed. It tick-tocked me to sleep and woke me with a thrillingly shrill twwwwinggggg! I can remember winding my first wristwatch—a small faux gold Elgin my grandmother bought me for my 8th birthday.
Now I have a drawer full of cheap watches. Most of them are right twice a day. (Translation: They aren’t in running order.) My favorite one, the one I always make sure has a strong battery, has a picture on its face of a charmingly dressed little girl skipping through high grass. Above her, in rippley rows of letters, it proclaims: TIME FLIES—WHETHER YOU’RE HAVING FUN OR NOT.
Ever notice that’s true? Sure, some days drag. But mostly I’m surprised when it’s time to rip off last month’s calendar and fill this month’s with deadlines and doctor’s appointments and deacon’s duties and dozens of other commitments. Time flies—whether you’re having fun or not.
The Bible, in Ephesians 5:16, talks about “redeeming the time.” I like that idea. No one can control time. I can’t slow down those summer days at the beach, helping my grandchildren build sandcastles. And I can’t fast-forward through days of sadness or grief or suffering. But I can “redeem” these days. I can live each one fully, looking for lessons to be learned, sorting out memories for my storehouse. I can thank my Creator for the rhythm of life, for the rich symphony of lilting melodies and somber stanzas. I can seize life, minute by minute.
In my hallway hangs a clock that belonged to my mother. It chimes every 15 minutes, with those dongs accumulating from four at quarter past the hour to a full 16 on the hour itself. This chiming corresponds to a four-part prayer, one I learned at an early age, listening to that clock:
Lord through this hour,
Be thou our guide.
Kept by thy power,
No foot shall slide.
A wonderful prayer, a powerful truth. Brought to my mind hour after hour as long as I make time to do one small thing:
Every spring, tiny shirt-clad crosses appear on my church’s front lawn. They are displayed in full view of passing traffic on the busy street. They are also hard to miss by anyone entering our church. Some years there are more than others. Last year there were 52; this year there are 36.
Why are they there?
Because we live in an imperfect world. Because good people, tiny people, suffer. Because every year, children are killed—killed—by child abuse. Last year 52 children in the state of Indiana lost their lives. This year, 36 died.
April is national Child Abuse Prevention Month. The first time I became aware of this monthly emphasis was several years ago, when I was shopping in downtown Chicago. I was meandering down Michigan Avenue, swinging my shopping bags and no doubt planning what to make for Easter dinner. A bevy of blue ribbons caught my eye. In front of the Fourth Presbyterian Church, every tree sported sapphire bows. I crossed the street for a closer look. The church courtyard, too, was filled with ribbons. How festive! I thought. But then I read the sign telling about the ribbons. Every one represented a child in the Chicago area who had been beaten, bruised, battered by an adult. Every one.
Last year, 905,000 children nationwide were victims of “child maltreatment.” A shocking 1,530 of those children died—that’s an average of four children every day.
Before I went into church last Sunday, I paused to look at these small crosses. To let my eyes rest on them one-by-one. This was a tribute to 36 children who would not be getting Easter baskets, who would not hear stories at Vacation Bible School this summer. They would never again blow out birthday candles or run barefoot through a sprinkler.
Lent, in ways large and small, is about suffering. About acknowledging the human condition—and the human need to be delivered from it. These crosses remind me—remind all who see them—that evil is still present. God’s Kingdom will not come while we passively wait for Lent to end so we can go back to our self-indulgent lives.
Elie Wiesel, Holocaust survivor and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, knows about evil. He also knows about hope. “Just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.”
There is nothing to be done for those 36 precious children. But what about the people I meet every day, people who are inwardly dying for lack of a kind word, a gentle touch, a loving gesture? Each day I (and you!) have the opportunity to save someone from despair.
Got hope? Share it! It will be an arrow flung full-force into the heart of evil.
You can find out how to help children in your area by visiting the Prevent Child Abuse website.
When my friends in Alabama and Georgia and Tennessee are regaling (annoying) me with tales of daffodils blooming and robins dancing on the lawn, I’m usually still scraping my windshield and shoveling my walk.
But, toward the end of March, one can almost hear winter sighing in resignation. We’re due for one more spat of snow this weekend, but it will be a toothless tantrum, ruffling the (recently bloomed!) crocus but doing little damage.
I’d like to tell you that this purplicious picture is an iris blooming in my own garden. Alas, my irises (which were every bit this lovely) have not bloomed in two years. Maybe I’m due…
My tulips, however—snuggled at the base of my mailbox post at the end of my driveway—are lookin’ good. Their hearty green leaves are growing taller every day. No buds yet, but tulips are a bit too shrewd to bloom in the shadow of Lake Michigan before the calendar is flipped to April.
When I think of tulips, I often think of my friend Lurlene. And that October day when we had so much to celebrate.
Lurlene had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was scheduled for surgery. I drove down to Chattanooga and stayed by her side through the ordeal. Later, at home, we waited for the call from the doctor, the word about whether the lymph nodes they removed were cancerous. Then—the good news. All was clear! I loaded Lurlene into my car—with her bandages and drainage tube still attached—and went to K-Mart. I bought a variety of tulip bulbs and, as we made our way back to her house, I said, “Since you’re going to be alive in the spring, you might as well have flowers!”
Dark humor for a dark time.
Spring came. The flowers bloomed. Lurlene was healthy. In fact, she has seen a dozen healthy springs since then.
If you’ve ever planted bulbs, you know that you’re supposed to plant them with the pointy end up. The flat end, where roots grow, goes down. But sometimes, it’s hard to tell. A bulb often looks like a shriveled, caramel-colored, papery blob. What’s a gardener to do? Plant the bulb sideways. Really. Bulbs are pretty smart; they want to grow. And they will find their way out. In that cold, dark, damp earth…they right themselves. And then they bloom.
I’m going to take a lesson from those tenacious bulbs. I’m going to remind myself that growth is essential to life. I’m going to try some new things this spring, befriend some new people. I’m going to turn my face toward my Heavenly Father…and bloom!
