I was saying good-bye to my grandsons late one evening when I noticed a neon blink in the back yard. “Look!” I said excitedly. “A firefly!” We froze in place and waited. Blink.
“I see it!” Drake squealed.
“Me, too!” said Brock. “There’s another one!”
And of course we were off to chase them, grabbing handfuls of air and laughing as they appeared and disappeared, eluding our best efforts at capture.
Fireflies must have gotten quicker, because I used to catch them with ease.
It was a big thing when I was a child, catching fireflies. (We called them “lightening bugs” back then.) At day’s end, when our farm chores were done, my sister and I would take Mason jars out into the gloaming and wait for those spots of light to brighten the night. Then, quick as a wink, we’d nab them and put them into jars.
Later, in our room with lids securely in place (we punched “air holes” for the bugs), those jars became our nightlights. Blink. Blink. The bugs crawled around inside the glass, sending out what I am sure was some kind of lime-green Morse code. I watched until my eyes refused to stay open.
Next morning, I’d take the jars out to the garden and set the lightening bugs free. “See you tonight,” I’d whisper as they disappeared into the sun-drenched day.
Several years ago, when my allergies were especially bad, I opted to stay home while my husband Gary took our kids to see the annual fireworks display. Wrapped in a soft sweater and plenty of self-pity, I curled up on our patio, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of the glorious color I knew would soon be soaring heavenward.
I don’t remember seeing many of the fireworks, but what I do remember is the amazing show put on that night by the fireflies. In swirling masses, they danced in the bean field next door. Like neon specs of dust, they filled the air. I felt as though I had a front-row seat to the best light show in town!
I’m planning to take in the fireworks display this year. My great nephews are here from Birmingham, and it will be fun to share the spectacle with them. (At 2 and 3, they will be entranced!)
But I’ve realized I’m actually more partial to fireflies than fireworks.
Maybe that’s because, while I can’t dazzle the masses, I can make the world a little brighter with (blink) every act of kindness and love. And that’s something to celebrate!
There are about a gazillion things I love about being a grandmother (aka: Nina). But one of my faves has to be reading books to Drake and Brock and Mace and Isabelle Grace. I have always loved children’s books, and now I can actually justify tossing down a twenty dollar bill for a picture book that catches my eye.
I have a bookshelf in my sunroom that holds these titles—an entire series of Pooh books, some “I Can Read” titles (although none of my little ones can yet), lift-the-flap books and poetry books and books filled with bright pictures and happy plots.
Isabelle, who will be two next month, is still in the board book stage. When she visits, Isabelle picks a book and then we snuggle into the big story-telling chair. These sturdy books are short and simple, with thick pages perfect for little fingers. Her favorite? Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed. (Piece of advice: Do not read this title to a child twelve times and then put them to bed.)
Sometimes I read Isabelle longer books, with more text and detailed pictures. But usually there are too many words for her liking, and she turns the page before I’m ready. Occasionally, though, a picture intrigues her and she stares at the page long after I’ve finished reading. But one thing is certain: Isabelle Grace is in charge of turning pages. If I forget and flip forward, she emits a squeal (as only a two-year-old can do), “Isbee do! Isbee do!”
A few days ago, after Isabelle had gone home, I began picking up toys and books. I held the book we’d been reading and thought about how much Isabelle enjoys being the one to set the pace, the one to say when it’s time to move forward in the story, the one who determines when a new scene comes into play.
In Psalm 139, David lauds the hand of God in forming and directing his life. Verse 16 proclaims: “All the days ordained for me were written in your [God’s] book before one of them came to be.”
I’ve taken refuge in that verse on dark days. God knew this was coming. He is already here.
But often I behave like Isabelle Grace, wanting to set the pace for my life. I complain that good times go by too fast. (Is it really the end of June?) I pray and pray, questioning why the hard times linger. Hurry up, God. Get me out of this. I want the sunshine-filled pages to stay open forever—and those fearsome storm-filled ones to whiz by in a blink.
Of course, I’m not the one turning the pages.
I’m old enough to know that grief and illness, disappointment and rejection have their merits. I learn more in shadow than sun. Still, it’s a challenge to keep my hands off, to surrender control.
Yes, reading to my grandchildren is a great joy.
But the greatest joy any of us can know is to embrace the pace set by the Author of our lives…and cheerfully let Him turn the pages.
A few weeks ago my grandsons Drake (5) and Brock (3) went to church with me. I took pencil and paper so they could have something to occupy them until it was time for the children’s sermon and their exit to children’s church. The service began with upbeat praise choruses, then announcements. After that came the “prelude” of softer music as candles were lit and we prepared our hearts for worship.
Drake stopped working on his smiling-stick-man drawing and whispered, “Nina, is this a song without any words?”
I’ve been thinking about Drake’s comment lately.
The music of life seems to be at full crescendo with my family—both the bright melodies and the dark.
In March, my brother-in-law died, after decades of dealing with a plethora of illnesses. We buried him in a peaceful place, with trees and birds attending the gravesite. (I’ll fly away, oh glory! When I die, hallelujah by and by, I’ll fly away!) Now my sister is learning the unfamiliar tune of widowhood, one stanza at a time.
Summer is birthday time in our family. My husband entered his sixth decade earlier this month. Last week we celebrated my great nephew Finn’s second birthday. In July, my great niece Lily and my granddaughter Isabelle Grace also turn 2. August will bring candles and cakes for my son Brett and my grandson Mace (his first birthday). I’ll be getting a new grandchild that month, too, when my daughter-in-law Stacy delivers. We close out summer with grandson Brock turning 4 in September. (Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you!)
My niece Scarlet just gave birth to a baby girl. Hers was a "high risk" pregnancy that ended beautifully (literally!). Lexi will join her big sister Lily when Scarlet and Ryan bring her home later this week. (Hush little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.)
Of course, it’s been harder to hear the lyrics for some of the songs we’ve been given.
My nephew Lew, after complicated surgery for an aortic dissection, is dealing with paralysis. He negotiates life from a wheelchair now, going to therapy twice a week. Lew is 34 years old.
Two weeks ago, we found out that my mother-in-law has cancer in her sinus cavity. We went to Loyola Hospital in Chicago for surgery yesterday—only to be told that the cancer has broken through the bone and into the roof of her mouth. The surgery now must be done at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee…and is very serious, difficult. Mom is 82.
Somber notes, indeed.
It was Emily Dickinson who said: “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.”
Births and deaths. Sicknesses and treatments. Challenge and celebration. Yet under it all is the sure cadence of God’s providence, His love.
And when I can’t sing, I pray for the patience to hum…and hope.
I wish you could meet Rachel Laurel Clark. She is bright and bubbly, a prolific reader, a joyful dancer, and a compassionate friend. (Rachel and I have rings we bought on a recent shopping trip to Claires—matching silver bands with words etched in black. Hers says “friends” and mine says “forever.”) She has a fresh, flamboyant sense of fashion—think leggings and leather boots and anything with hearts on it.
Rachel is also a deeply spiritual person. And she just turned 10 years old.
Last Sunday was an important day for Rachel and her family. She professed her faith in Christ and was baptized. Rachel has spent the last month attending Pastor’s class (she was the youngest member), learning more about Christianity and our own church traditions.
In my role of “mentor” I had the pleasure of presenting Rachel to the congregation while she and Pastor made their way down into that warm, sacred water. Then came the most important of all questions: “Do you take Jesus as your personal Savior and will you make him Lord of your life?” An affirmative answer; the immersion. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Amen.
Rachel is strikingly lovely. Her eyes sparkle, her skin glows, and her silky blonde hair is (this really is the right word) enviable. But there is a radiance about Rachel that is more than youth and good genes. A kind of glory.
Rachel has another friend named Sarah. She goes to Rachel’s school. Two years ago, Sarah was diagnosed with cancer. She has struggled through repeated rounds of chemo; she has lost all her hair. So Rachel has been growing her own hair. Later this summer, she will cut it and donate those gorgeous strands to Locks of Love, a non-profit organization that makes wigs for children.
“I just thought if I didn’t have hair I’d want hair like this,” Rachel says, flipping her fingers through her long tresses. “So I’m going to cut it off and let Sarah have it.”
Such simple logic: I have it; she needs it.
To celebrate her baptism day, I bought Rachel a small gift. It is a tiny white porcelain box, shaped like a Bible, with a teeny gold-heart clasp. HOLY BIBLE glistens on its top. I deliberately left the box empty, knowing Rachel would have some childhood treasure to tuck inside.
“Oooh! I love it!” she squealed. “Thank you! Thank you!”
“What will you put inside?” I asked. “A cross necklace? Earrings? Birthday money?”
Rachel looked thoughtful. “I…I think I’ll put my prayers in it.”
Of course. Your prayers.
It was Anne Lamott who said, “Laughter is carbonated holiness.” I think that’s true. But I think children are carbonated holiness, too. And we adults need to stand as close to them as we can, soaking up the bubbles that fall from their shoulders.
I have pledged myself to Rachel, to be her mentor and counselor as she makes her way toward adulthood. But I’m fairly certain she will have plenty to teach me along the way.
For some time I’ve been wanting a small chair, something I can set on the little stoop by my patio door. The door faces west, and the afternoon sun is positively delicious. Often I take my lunch out there and linger with a good book.
But everything I tried was too big. Or too uncomfortable. Or just too ugly.
Then, a few days ago, I wandered back to my husband’s barn. My son Brett, whose construction jobs involve rehabbing or even tearing down old structures, often drags home items he finds in abandoned houses. Mostly these things end up in the dump. But as I came in the door, something in a pile of rubbish caught my eye.
A chair. A little chair that looked just perfect for what I needed. I pulled it out of the clutter and, gingerly, sat down. I laughed aloud. It was as though it had been made for me!
Only thing was, it was badly in need of a paint job. And some of the slats were pretty dinged up. Entire chunks were missing from two of the wooden legs. Still, it had great lines. It was sturdy. And it was just the size I needed.
My sister, who was visiting, was as enthused as I was about this find. We hustled up to Ace Hardware, picked out a sweet shade of paint (“Maid Marion”—who gets to name these things?) and broke out the brushes.
Within hours, the chair was reborn. Then for the finishing touch: green tatouage leaves climbing up the center of the back.
(Tatouage is way cool and way easy—sort of your mother’s stenciling upgraded and simplified. You rub it on with a Popsicle stick!)
I had lunch in that chair today. I sat there contentedly munching on my wheat crackers and hummus, soaking up the sun, wondering where the chair had been when it was unmarred, new, fresh.
My niece Scarlet and I are doing a Bible study. Every Wednesday evening we meet and, in a leisurely way, make our way through the book of John. (We spent three weeks on chapter one.) We soon realized that, in addition to various versions of the Bible and a few commentaries, we needed a dictionary, too. One of the words we looked up last week, as we discussed Jesus’ first miracle in chapter two, was “restoration.”
Restoration is a swell word. It has to do with “bringing back into existence or use; bringing back to an original condition.” It means to “revive—to impart new health, vigor, or spirit to.”
When I decided to show you my chair, I regretted not taking a “before” picture, so you could appreciate its transformation. But then I realized: It doesn’t matter what it was before. It matters what it has become. What it will be to me for many summers to come.
In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.” It doesn’t matter how scarred or banged up we are, how unsightly or unholy. God sees us for what we can be, for what He can make of us.
He pulls us from our own rubbish pile and restores us.
Yes, I think I’ll really enjoy my new (old) chair. It will be the perfect place to sit in the sun…and count my abundant blessings.
Yesterday, my son Brett had knee surgery—a three-hour ordeal to repair a badly torn ACL and some cartilage damage.
It all started last month. The rest of the family was at my house for dinner. Brett was going to join us later, after his volleyball game at the YMCA. Mid-main course, the phone rang. “Mom,” Brett said, his voice tight and strained. “Get two ice packs ready. And do you have any pain pills?”
Beside me in the waiting room yesterday sat my daughter-in-law Stacy. Little Isabelle Grace played nearby. Over and over, she wrapped her doll in a blanket and then, spreading her hands, asked, “Where baby?” She pulled back the covers and laughed in delight. “There she is!” Isabelle is 22 months old and this is her favorite game. My sister was there, too—a payback for the trips I made to sit with her during her late husband’s hospital stays.
I’m not much of a worrier, but the night before the surgery fear began to creep into my heart. Brett owns his own construction business. He frames and rehabs houses. He does hard physical work, clambering over stacks of lumber and walking across roofs, jumping down from tool trailers and climbing ladders. He needs to be well, whole. His business—and the livelihood necessary to support his family—depend on it. I woke several times in the night to pray. Again yesterday morning I asked God to let the doctors be skilled and Brett’s recovery complete.
Still, I was feeling anxious when into the hospital waiting room walked my pastor—and friend—Victoria. Her smile was bright. She greeted us all cheerfully. “I have come to see you. And to say a prayer. Is that okay?” It was more than okay. We all huddled close, little Isabelle pausing in her play to see what was going on. Victoria’s prayer was quick, simple. But it flowed over me like soothing water. She cared. The nurses and doctors working on my son cared. My sister who had traveled so far to be with me cared. And God cared. A lot.
Hours later, the double doors opened and a doctor—still in surgical garb—said, “Carney.” Stacy and I rushed forward for the news. “All went well. He should be fine. For the next two weeks, therapy will be his full time job…”
I know Brett has a long road ahead of him—six to nine months for full recovery. Lots of therapy to get that knee going again. But he is a hard worker. Stacy will make sure he has everything he needs. And Isabelle Grace is very entertaining.
Brett will be surrounded by prayer, too. My family, my friends, my pastor will make sure of it.
And prayer is the real key to healing—whether it’s your knee or your heart that’s been torn apart.
I spent last weekend weeding my flowerbeds. Pulling dead lily leaves from under fresh growth. Hacking down brown spikes on my fountain grasses…and being rewarded with cheers from the slender shoots of green underneath. Thistles, dandelions, creeping Charlie—all met with the rough justice of my garden gloves. It was hard work, and more than once I sat back on my heels to rest, wiping my brow with a slightly-muddy forearm.
My perennial beds are filled with hardy fare: black-eyed susans, day lilies, flocks, knock-out roses, cone flowers, salvia, sedum “autumn joy.” Flowers that can stand up to the Midwest winter’s wind chills and snow drifts.
I had two surprises while I was weeding.
The first surprise I found under my Miss Kim lilac bush. It was a pale pink plastic egg, a renegade from our Easter egg hunt. It had been lying there for weeks. Undetected, unmissed, unaccounted for. What could be inside? Carefully I slid it apart, and three slightly-worse-for-the-wear jellybeans fell onto the ground. I laughed and promptly buried them. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll discover an entirely new species — a flower that blooms in the spring and gets stuck in your teeth if you eat it. :-)
The second surprise burst into sight when I rounded the corner of the sunroom to weed my back bed. A full one-third of that area is occupied by a collection of irises. Irises that had failed to bloom for the last three years. I’m ripping them all out, I thought as I crawled on my knees toward the end of the house, tossing weeds in my wake. No sense keeping something that’s a disappointment year after year. I was wondering if I could dig them up myself or needed to enlist the muscle of my husband when—oh my! The iris bed was heavy with buds. Dozens of them. Plump purple pods promising plenty of color. I stood up and stared, taken aback by this gift for which I had not even dared hope.
My irises were going to bloom.
I’d like to say it was because I gave them some special fertilizer. Or tended them lovingly. Or mulched them excessively. Nope. I hadn’t even nourished them with hope. Yet here they were, resplendent with buds. Tall and happy and oh-so-proud of themselves.
I always seem to come away with a spiritual lesson or two when I work in my garden.
The egg reminded me of being lost…and found. I’d rather be found.
And the irises, in their flamboyant way, told me not to be too hasty. In severing a friendship, in offering unsolicited advice, in giving up on someone (including myself).
Yes, I always seem to come away with a spiritual lesson when I work in my garden. Maybe it’s because I do so much of it on my knees…
My nephew Lew can wiggle the toes on his right foot.
He can lift his right knee off the bed a few inches. And he can, ever-so-slightly, move the entire right leg from the hip.
BIG NEWS.
Those of you who have been following my blog know that Lew came very close to death several months ago when he suffered an aortic dissection. After multiple surgeries, a drug-induced coma, and weeks in the cardiac critical care unit, Lew finally stabilized. But our joy was pierced by a terrible realization: All of this had left him paralyzed. He could not move the lower part of his body.
The doctors officially diagnosed him with “permanent paralysis.” They transferred Lew to a rehabilitation hospital so he could learn how to live his life from a wheelchair
.
Lew is 34 years old. His lovely wife Elise has become his caregiver. They came home to a hospital bed and oxygen tanks, to a hoist that gets him out of bed in the morning and a handicapped shower he uses each night.
But, oh, the happiness they have at being together! At being home.
Their problems are mountainous. Prescriptions. Medical supplies. Loss of income. Lew had just started a new job, so there was no insurance. Yet their faith has never wavered. “Every day I thank God I’m still here,” Lew told me.
Then came the movement. The rejoicing. My sister called me from Lew’s bedroom, crying. Movement.
Lew’s continued rehab has been tied up in bureaucratic red tape. Day after day he lies in bed or sits in his wheelchair while Elise makes phone calls and doctors fax orders. His recovery is at a standstill…and there is new movement.
I don’t understand prayer, even though I’ve spent most of my life doing it. I’ve read books about it, heard sermons about, listened to (and taught) Sunday school classes about it. I even went to a monastery and spent three days with the monks, studying prayer. I do know that God is not a Santa Claus in the sky, waiting to toss down every thing we ask for. I know he is not an egocentric being who sends down answers to our payers based on how loudly we wail.
What I do know is that Jesus promised, in Matthew 18:19, “If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.”
So I emailed a handful of good friends and asked them to pray. Together, we visualized Lew’s file on a piled-up desk. It would be on top. The hand that reached for it would be attached to a compassionate and efficient person. Lew would be approved for therapy. Now.
That was one short week ago—and it has happened. Lew will go back to the (fabulous) rehabilitation hospital twice a week for 12 full weeks. He will get expert help. He will get better.
It was Norman Vincent Peale who said, “Think big. Pray big. Act big. Believe big.” So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to think about Lew whole and happy. I’m going to seek God’s will while believing that Jesus is still in the miracle business. I’m going to pray and pray and pray.
Usually the mail brings me the predictable pile of sale fliers, unwanted credit card applications and (of course!) bills. But a few days ago it brought me something different…a “little happy.”
The box was big and square and brown. I checked the return address and saw it was from my young friend Megan, who lives in Washington, D.C. Megan has just finished law school and is now making her way through the avenues of life in the big city. (She’s a Tennessee girl by birth and breeding).
I opened it carefully and found a layer of green tissue paper. Before I’d even pulled it back, I could smell it. Lavender. Nested in that box was a wreath made of fresh lavender. Megan’s note said simply that she was thinking of me and wanted to send me a “little happy.”
I lifted the wreath from the box, its fragrance filling the air around me. So lovely. A small card under the wreath told me that I was holding “the finest organic lavender” that had been grown on a family farm where 40,000 plants grew in all their colorful glory.
But when I looked closer, I was distressed to see that it had not been an easy trip for this fragile circle of lavender. Dozens of loose flowers littered the bottom of the box, blossoms that had fallen off during the passage of hundreds of miles. How sad, I thought.
Something else was in the box, though. A tiny purple organza bag with a ribbon closure. I looked again at the information card and found these words: “Because of the delicate quality of lavender, it is not unusual for some of the lavender buds to fall off during shipping. We’ve included a small pouch so that you can create your very own certified organic lavender sachet with the loose buds.”
So I gathered up those loose bits and soon had a lovely sachet bag to tuck into my dresser.
I placed the wreath in my walk-in closet—high on a shelf with some other lovely items: a hot pink straw hat adorned by a giant sunflower, a pair of white satin boots, a faux leather hat box, and a sign that encourages me to buy shoes (like I need encouragement!).
I love my new wreath and enjoy it every day. But I think I’m most appreciative of that tiny bag. That bit of fragrance and beauty made of scraps, of things someone could have easily thrown out. The remnants of rough handling that have found a second chance in my sock drawer.
Yes, Megan’s gift did make me “happy.” I’m hoping it made me a bit wiser, too.
Last weekend I took three of my grandchildren to see Elmo Live! A theatre buff myself, I was excited to be introducing them to “legitimate theatre.” Turns out, it wasn’t quite what I was used to…
For starters, most of the patrons were under three-feet tall. And noisy. Cameras were flashing everywhere. Plus, vendors roamed the rows hawking everything from GloSticks to giant helium balloons. (This latter offering was a close-up of Elmo’s face and cost 8 dollars! As dozens of them hovered overhead, it had a bit of a nightmarish quality to it. Where was Elmo’s body?)
My grandchildren—Isabelle Grace (almost 2), Brock (3) and Drake (5)—were excited at the prospect of seeing in-the-flesh (or in-the-fur, as it is) the characters who kept them company in the morning while they ate their cereal.
“Is this the real Elmo?” Brock asked as we joined the swarm of wiggly kids and hand-holding parents headed into the theatre.
“Uh, sure. Yes. Yes it is,” I replied.
“Where does Elmo live?” Drake asked. At 5, he has begun migrating to the outer edges of the Elmo groupies.
Ah, this question was easy! “Sesame Street,” I laughed, kissing the top of his head.
Isabelle and Brock were thrilled when the curtain opened and Big Bird stepped out. Drake, reserved at first, was soon laughing and taking part in the designated audience-involvement activities: clapping and stamping and singing.
All in all, it was a glorious time.
When I feared we had reached the limits of pre-school attention span, I heard the music swell and knew we were heading into the closing number, the big finale.
Just then, a “disco ball” began throwing lights all around the upper edges of the theatre. In front of us, above us, behind us. On stage, Big Bird and Count Dracula and Bert and Ernie and an assortment of other bright characters went into their routines.
But Isabelle never even looked their way.
Instead, she leaned her head back against the seat, watching the lights dance across the dark expanse of the ceiling. “Wow,” she said, her little voice somehow carrying over the mayhem and loud music. “Wow.”
Again and again she said it, until the curtain had closed and the only sound was the clatter of tired little feet as children filed out of their rows.
Wow. It was the only word that could express the wonder, the joy, the awe Isabelle felt as she looked at those flitting colors above her. Even Elmo (live!) couldn’t compete with that.
When I get to heaven, I don’t think the word I will use most is Hallelujah! I don’t think the phrase that will spill most repeatedly from my mouth will be Praise God! or even Thank You, Sweet Jesus! I think the word I’ll use most will be simply, “Wow!”
Wow, wow, wow!
The Bible tells us, "No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him" (1 Corinthians 2:9). Heaven is going to be a swell place. I’m hoping it will be filled with lilacs and twinkling white lights and homemade cornbread. But if it’s not, I’m sure it will be filled with something I’ll like even better.
Perhaps there’ll be a marquee over the entry gate that says: Jesus, Live!
