I saw my mother’s nose yesterday. In fact, I see it often these days.
That’s odd for several reasons. For starters, my mother has been dead for 12 years.
But suddenly my mother’s nose is showing up on my face. Not every day. But more and more often, as I lean into the mirror to floss my teeth or pluck the stray eyebrow, I catch a glimpse of it. And it surprises me every time.
I never looked like my mother. She had dark hair and eyes, a shy smile, a round face. And a nose that was nothing like mine. Until now.
In my own family, the resemblance is more pronounced. Since she was 12, my daughter has been told how much she looks like her mother. (Quite a burden during her adolescent days.) Even last week when we were buying mums at Lowes, the clerk remarked on the similarity between Amy Jo and me. People used to tell me that my son Brett had my eyes, although he actually got those startling blue peepers from his dad.
Genetics are a funny thing. I remember when I was in junior high school and kept waiting for a growth spurt that would turn me into the tall, lanky girl I longed to be. Then one night at dinner, as I sat between my 5’5” father and my 5’3” mother, I realized that I was as tall as I would ever be. Good-bye long-legged dreams!
A few days ago my grandson Drake was here, and I was putting on my makeup. He stood beside me, fingering the brushes, waiting for me to finish. “Do you think we look alike?” I asked him as our side-by-side reflections gazed back at us. Drake studied the mirror for a moment and burst into a big grin. “Yes. Yes I do.”
I enjoy the family resemblances I see when we all gather for a meal or a celebration. And it gets me to thinking about an “unseen” relative—my Heavenly Father. In what ways am I like Him? Let’s see…I’m not omnipotent or all-wise. I haven’t walked on water lately. Or healed any lepers. And if all those Sunday School pictures from my childhood are right, I bear no physical resemblance to Him at all!
Still, I am a child of God and called to act like one. How? By being charitable and kind. By shelving my judgmental tendencies and leaving revenge to Someone else. By being faithful, even unto death. Oh! And by loving. That’s one of my Father’s most definitive characteristics.
Yes, it’s fun to flip through pictures to see if baby Mace looks like his brothers did at his age. Or to check out how much cousins look alike. But the only family resemblance that really matters is the divine one. Can people look at me and know who my Father is?
The best investment I’ve made in a long time cost $15.95.
It wasn’t shoes. Or a new hardback book. It wasn’t a big pot of fuzzy purple mums (to match my front door). It wasn’t lunch at a fancy restaurant. And it certainly wasn’t stock!
Nope. The best investment I’ve made recently is a tacky neon PARTY light from Big Lots. Every letter is a different color. And when it’s plugged in, it gives off a glow somewhere between an electric rainbow and the Las Vegas strip.
I’m always making big dinners for my family—my daughter and son-in-law and my three grandsons. My son and daughter-in-law and lovely little Isabelle Grace. My mother-in-law. My husband and myself…and any friends or vagrants who may be hanging around outside.
We began calling these events “parties” for the little ones. “Nina, are we having a family party tonight?” my grandson Drake would often ask if I stopped by his house. And his little brother Brock would join in. “Party! Party!”
So when I saw the light, it seemed the perfect finishing touch for these gatherings. Once everyone has arrived, the grandchildren always gather round while I plug it in.
Last night my daughter Amy Jo called to see if I could take the boys for a few hours. Her husband was working late in Chicago and, in addition to taking care of 9-week-old baby Mace, she had paperwork of her own to get done.
“Sure,” I said, picking up my car keys for the brief 5-minute drive to their house.
Drake and Brock and I dined alone. Spaghetti and meatballs I’d pulled out of the freezer. Applesauce and garlic bread finished the meal. As we settled down to eat at the table, Drake suddenly sat up and pointed. “The party light, Nina. We forgot the party light!”
“But it’s just the three of us…” I began.
Drake smiled. “But it’s still a party!” Then he giggled and forked another meatball into his mouth.
So I plugged in the light. And in the October twilight, it glowed soft and inviting. We ate in silence, the only sound the slurping of spaghetti into small mouths. Often the boys looked at the colorful illumination in the corner. Contentment. All was well in their small worlds.
In Matthew 18:20, Jesus tells us, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” I think that applies to lots of things. Bible studies and prayer sessions and high church services.
But I also think it applies to those quiet family times when we find ourselves standing in a small oasis of gratitude. Where, in a flash of insight, we recognize how blessed we are. That we are not alone on this earthly trek. Truth is, the future holds as much potential for wild happiness as it does for tragedy.
So perhaps the best thing we can do in these troubled times is click off CNN, gather our loved ones around us…and P-A-R-T-Y.
September was a busy month. I know this because I have just ripped off “September” from my big deskpad calendar—and most of those squares have writing in them.
I started the month with a holiday (you did, too). I celebrated Labor Day by working in my flowerbeds all afternoon and watching fireworks with my grandsons that night.
On September 2, my “bug guy” came and did my quarterly spraying for insects. Fall means it’s spider time here in Indiana—which I actually don’t mind. I like spiders. Always have. But spider time is followed rapidly by mouse time when the corn is harvested and all those nasty little rodents notice my house at the edge of the field and say, “Looks like a good place to hole up for the winter.” Bring on the poison!
On September 3rd I had dinner at 6:30 with…hmmm…I can’t remember. I got my nails done the next day and my hair cut the day after that. On Sunday the 7th I was a greeter at my church. I had a doc appoint on Monday. On Tuesday I went to a “Needle Nuts” session at my church. As some of you faithful readers know, I’m trying to learn to knit. Strange—I don’t seem to be making much progress. Guess you actually have to PICK UP those needles to see a garment forming and the skeins shrinking. So for almost two hours I sat at a table in our church library, knitting, while other ladies worked on quilts and prayer shawls and even “angels” made of handkerchiefs. Conversation flowed freely and it was so very Little-House-on-the-Prairie. I loved it. (Of course, I haven’t touched my needles since…)
On September 10th I went BACK to the beauty shop because the stylist had left my bangs too long. Every time I put on a hat I found myself peeking through a thick fringe of hair.
Other things are written into those last two weeks of September—and some things are crossed out, too. I volunteered at my grandson Drake’s preschool-in-the-woods (you may remember the blog—he wore blue on Red Day). I went to a local art fair and fingered a lovely necklace I didn’t buy. I missed a “Quiet Day of Reflection” at a nearby retreat center. I talked with my financial adviser. (Who didn’t????) I mailed my grandson Brock a “Happy 3rd Birthday!” card. I gave the children’s sermon at church on Sunday the 21st. I met a few deadlines for work. I joined my book group the last Tuesday of the month to talk about how much I hated the book we’d read for September. (We all hated it. The book? Running with Scissors.) I forgot to make my eye appointment—but I did make it to the grand opening of our new Dairy Queen. ☺
And last weekend I took the train into Chicago with my good friend Desila, where we saw the pre-Broadway premiere of Dirty Dancing. (We had great seats!)
Ordinary things. Extraordinary things.
I am a visual person, and this large calendar is the way I keep track of my life. I use colored markers and stickers and the occasional doodle. It’s always in front of me when I sit down at my desk. Each month I struggle with the urge to fill in every square. To make sure there are no “down times” in my month. Go, go, go. Do, do, do. Rah, rah, rah!
Now I’m looking at October, with its rows and rows of pristine squares waiting to be filled. Or not. Perhaps I should pencil in “solitude” or maybe “indolence.” How about “leaf watching” or “sucker-licking with grandchildren.” Important things, certainly as life-altering as a haircut(s) or a work deadline. I have a Mary Engelbreit watch that playfully proclaims: “Time flies…whether you’re having fun or not.” So true!
Before I know it, I’ll be ripping off October’s page, filling in a plethora of holiday commitments, shopping for a 2009 calendar. Time is the greatest gift God has given me (us). I don’t want to confuse clutter with purpose, busyness with holiness.
“Be still and know that I am God.” I think I’ll just write that in the “reminder” section of my October calendar. And my November calendar. And my December calendar…
You know those days when every puzzle piece of your life seems to be clicking perfectly into place? When you find you have a bounce in your step and you’re humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!” under your breath? Those days when you feel confident and companionable and (gasp!) almost thin?
Okay, so I haven’t had a day like that recently either. But I HAVE had those days. When I felt lucky and loved and special, special, special. Like one in a million!
That’s why I was intrigued when I came across a website that boldly asked: How many of me?
Here are a few stats to get that left side of your brain going. There are 305,045,665 people in the United States (give or take a few births/deaths). Over 50,000 of them are named John Smith. Over a hundred of them are named Harry Potter. And 32 are named Emily Dickinson.
But how many sign their name Mary Lou Carney? Is it possible that I’m really one in 305 million?
Actually, no.
There are 19,828 people in the U.S. with the first name of Mary Lou (Marylou) and 39,656 people with the last name of Carney.
And there are (drumroll!) 3 people named Mary Lou Carney. Not too bad…
My new grandson is named Mace Carney Redman—a mouthful that he’s busily trying to grow into. (That’s him in the pic. Seems he’s the only one with that name…so far.) His parents thought about that moniker for a full nine months.
God, too, knows the importance of names and, throughout the Bible, offers a smorgasbord of names to try and help us lowly humans understand just who He is. Among these are Elohim (Strong One), Yahweh (To Be), Adonai (Master), Kurios (Lord) and—my favorite—Father.
Father is distinctively New Testament. Through faith in Christ, God becomes—literally—our Father. (We’ll pause now to reflect on this mind-boggling truth…) “Father” is used of God in the Old Testament only 15 times while it is used of God 245 times in the New Testament!
Yes, names are important. But most important is the fact that God (Elohim, Yahweh, Adonai, Kurios) knows us each by name. And calls us His beloved sons and daughters.
I just hope those other two Mary Lou Carneys, wherever they are, know and appreciate that great truth!
Find out just how unique you are (or aren’t!) at howmanyofme.com
I used to have three guardian angels, but now I have only one.
I’m not even sure how the reduction in force took place. How my trio of protection dwindled to a solo act.
Not that I’m knocking the one that’s left. She’s lovely, really. A soft white with just enough rust to make her approachable.
The metal angels were a gift last Christmas from my friend Elizabeth. She mailed them from New York, nestled wing tip to wing tip in a sturdy brown box. “These are for your yard, to watch over your family,” she had written inside the accompanying card.
Forrest green.
Old-barn red.
White.
As soon as weather permitted, I hung the angels (using fishing line I found in an old tackle box) from a limb in my “windchime tree.” How I loved watching them dance while the windchimes on either side of them clanged merrily! Spring came. And summer. My grandchildren played under them, bouncing balls and blowing bubbles and licking Popsicles. I often pulled a chair close on warm afternoons and read.
Then, one fateful day, I noticed that the red angel was missing. Gone. Vanished. The line that had held her blew crazily in the breeze. Where was she? Later in the day, I found out. Bending over one of my flowerbeds to pull weeds, I noticed something…red…in the grass. I picked it up and there was my angel—bent, battered, and (gasp!) headless. It was all too obvious that she had been mauled by the lawnmower.
Okay. That’s okay. I still had two angels.
Only, a few weeks later I didn’t. The green one, too, was gone. I didn’t have the heart to comb the grass looking for her. But that afternoon I did see the dog gnawing on something…
So, I’m down to one. The white one. I’ve secured her with wire—taut copper stuff that fairly screams strength. She doesn’t dance quite so freely, but I think we’re both breathing a bit easier since her attachment to that branch has been upgraded.
When it comes to angels, I’m not sure more is better. Surely one powerful celestial creature should be enough to guard my yard and family. After all, it was a single angel that led the Israelites on their quest to drive out the Canaanites, Amorites, Hittites, and all those other “ites” from the Promised Land (Exodus 33). Then there’s the (singular) “angel of the Lord” who put to death 185,000 wicked men in the Assyrian camp (2 Kings 19). On a happier note, Gabriel (all by himself) brought Mary the news that she would bear the Messiah (Luke 1). And it only took one angel to bring Paul safely out of prison (Acts 5).
So, dance away my lovely, solitary angel. All of heaven has your back when it comes to protecting my brood.
I have faith in that premise—and in the strength of that thick copper wire holding onto your halo.
Not on popcorn or sweet corn or warm dinner rolls.
This small quirk certainly puts me in the minority. I’ve spent my life scraping butter off pancakes and baked potatoes, even when I ask for them plain. Guess waitresses can’t believe someone actually means that kind of request.
I think my sans-butter existence is perhaps simply a palate preference. I don’t like many “goopy” things. Not sour crème or chip dips or ranch dressing. Not cake icing or mayonnaise.
Or perhaps the reason lies in my childhood. (Isn’t everything a result of our childhoods?) I was raised on a farm and one of my (many!) chores was churning butter. No, I’m NOT that old. And I wasn’t raised Amish, either. My family just took their time moving into the 20th century. We didn’t have indoor plumbing (translation: our “bathroom” was in the small wooden building at the end of the garden path) or hot water until I was 12.
But back to the butter… Mother would bring me the milk fresh from the cow (her name was Candy—the cow, not my mother) and dump it into a large glass churn. On the top was a crank, attached to wooden paddles. Also on the top was a tiny round sieve. As I turned the crank, the effort became progressively harder. Harder was good. It meant the butter was rising to the top, coming up out of the milk where it had been floating helter-skelter. Soon, rich yellow flecks bounced up onto the screen. Getting close now. And, finally, I would call Mother over and she would remove the lid and check.
If I had not been premature in my summons, the butter would be ready. Mother would skim off the smooth, thick substance, put it into a butter press, and set it inside the refrigerator. The remaining milk was poured into a silver pitcher and placed beside the newly-churned butter to cool.
I don’t remember hating this job. In fact, I think I liked it. The results of my labor were immediate. Not like planting the garden or even bottle feeding the calves—both of which seemed to take forever to grow. A few minutes of (my) labor and butter appeared on the table for the whole family to enjoy. And me? I enjoyed being part of the process…and passing the plate when it came by me.
This week I’ve been working on a project that is taking more time than I’d planned. I’m finding it’s not as easily completed as I’d hoped. I’m not even sure the end result will be, well, palatable. But I’m keeping at it, being faithful to the task at hand. Why?
Because butter does rise and gardens do grow and good things do come to those who bend their backs to the work at hand. I was raised on that philosophy…that and (bleeck!) country butter.
I went to school yesterday afternoon, and I was the biggest kid there.
I was also the bluest. Well, one of the bluest.
Yesterday was my day to be “parent volunteer” (aka: nana volunteer) at my grandson Drake’s preschool. The school is wonderfully “granola” and “green.” Housed in an old barn, the curriculum centers around nature. And every session ends with all the kids taking a hike in the woods.
Drake, as you may remember, has two younger brothers. One of whom is only 6 weeks old. So his mother is running on very little sleep—and running around taking care of her real estate business when she is awake. So I was glad to help out.
When I arrived with Drake, kids were already beginning to cluster around the building. “Keep them outside for nine more minutes!” one of the teachers said, closing the doors of the barn…er, I mean school.
“Okay!” I said cheerfully to the little brood around me. “Let’s look for bugs!” So we bent over the tall grass and immediately found plenty of grasshoppers and even a few small frogs. More children arrived and joined the hunt.
Slowly, I began to notice that they were all wearing red shirts. A few sported white shirts with red logos. One little girl wore all pink—with red socks. Every child was “red”—except Drake.
He wore a blue polo shirt, blue jeans, and hat with a blue stripe. Not even an embroidered red polo pony broke the very blue of his shirt. Coincidentally, I was dressed in all blue, too. A long light-blue linen skirt and a darker blue sleeveless top.
I wasn’t sure if the realization that his mother had missed the “wear red” memo would upset Drake. “Look,” I said. “You and I are blue…and everyone else is red.”
He glanced around. A small wrinkle appeared in his forehead, but was gone in a flash. What’s so great about red? he seemed to be thinking.
Of course, what was so great about red is that they painted red cardinals and made “stamp” prints with red apple slices and heard books about the color red and (sigh) even had English-muffin pizzas with (you guessed it!) red sauce.
The school is a co-operative, so when you work as a parent volunteer, you really work. I swept floors, shook rugs, cut four dozen blue ribbons (let me guess—tomorrow is blue day?), washed a gazillion paint brushes, wiped down counters, refilled soap dispensers. Through it all, I kept a watchful eye on Drake. He was easy to spot—he was the boy in blue.
But you know what? It didn’t matter. Not to Drake. Not to the other 20 kids. He laughed as he did the hand-clapping rhymes, listened closely to the story of the little girl who wore only red boots and red mittens. At the end of the day, he tied a red gossamer ribbon on his tote bag along with the red-clad children.
As we walked down the wooded path toward my car, Drake looked up at me—his eyes made even bluer by his very blue shirt. “I had fun today,” he said simply.
“Me, too.”
And as I pulled out of the parking lot, I prayed that Drake would always be comfortable being himself. That he would never feel the need to conform. That if all his friends someday decided to jump off a bridge (or drive over the speed limit or engage in underage drinking or bully the new kid) Drake would have the courage and dignity to be his own man.
It is black and lustrous—and about one-half inch long.
Victoria debuted her locks at church last Sunday morning. No one has seen her hair since Easter Sunday. That’s because that was the last day Victoria had hair.
As some of you faithful readers may remember, I blogged (March 13) about my dear friend Victoria being diagnosed with cancer. It has been a long, hard, needle-filled summer for her as her body was doused with a barrage of chemicals to kill the cancer cells.
Victoria is a woman of extraordinary strength and faith—both of which were tested during this ordeal. I took her a few boxes of hats (I had enough to share) and others gifted her with bright scarves. Co-pastor of our church, she appeared before the congregation every Sunday in her ecclesiastical garments—and a straw hat. Usually with a flower pinned to it. She even married my niece in May wearing a floppy salmon-colored hat with matching ribbon.
She inspired us. And, sometimes, she made us laugh. Like the Sunday she preached on having a positive attitude and used this illustration:
There was a woman who got up one morning and looked in the mirror. She had three hairs on the top of her head. “What shall I do?” she said. But then she had a great idea. She braided the three hairs. Next morning, she looked in the mirror, and she had two hairs. “What shall I do?” she said. “I know! I’ll part my hair down the middle.” So she did. The next morning, she got up and saw that she had one lone hair. What did she do? She made a ponytail! Finally, she got up one morning and saw that she had NO hairs left on her head. And you know what she said? “Well, at least I don’t have to think about how to wear my hair today!”
Dark humor, perhaps. But sometimes it’s the dark things in life that give us something to bounce the light off of. Sickness. Unemployment. Divorce. Dreams deferred. Fights with those we love…and those we don’t. Death. These shadows spill around us and make us long for the light of peace and resolution.
If there were no darkness, would be even know what light is? Can anything grow in endless sun? Does something primordial and important happen in the dark? Can we believe that God is as close in our tragedies as He is in our triumphs?
Big questions. Things to ponder.
So let’s all scratch our heads in thought—and be thankful for the hair we feel beneath our fingernails.
September is the time when people here in Northwest Indiana pretend. They pretend it’s still okay to wear those white pants. They pretend their toes aren’t cold in those flip-flops. They pretend that sprig of red leaves is just the slant of the sun. They pretend that the sweaters and sweatshirts they don after sunset are because it’s “unseasonably cool.” They pretend the Black-eyed Susans and cone flowers are only resting, not going to seed.
Problem is, I’m not good at pretending. At least not like that. I know summer is over. I know that my feet are cold because they are going to be cold for the next six months. And even an optimist such as I knows a dying flower bed when she sees one.
Besides, when I was at K-Mart today, they were putting out the CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS!!!!
Still, when I look out the window, the trees and grass and gloriously green. My flocks are putting out pale purple buds. And the sun on my shoulders when I walked to the mailbox this afternoon could only be described as deliciously warm.
So I’m going to resist pulling out my cache of sweaters. And dragging down my boot boxes. A few goose bumps is a small price to pay for the lovely delusion of summer lingering.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 tells us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.”
September is the season for clinging. To sunshine. To walks along the beach. To hamburgers hot off the grill and watermelon cold from the fridge. To sprinklers and sunglasses. To that favorite pair of white shoes.
Maybe I’m better at this pretending stuff than I realized. All I need is practice.
Back off October—I’ve still got some summer fun to pursue! How about you?
Today I found a penny, lying face-up right beside my car door. And I picked it up. I don’t usually do this. It’s not that I’m a germaphobe—I mean, you can’t be a germaphobe and drink soda out of a can. Which (gulp!) I do often. Still, a grubby coin on the pavement has never had much appeal for me. Especially a lowly cent.
But today picking up that penny just seemed the right thing to do. As the sun glinted off that oh-so-familiar profile of Lincoln, a rhyme from my childhood came tiptoeing across my brain: Find a penny, pick it up. All day long you’ll have good luck!
How much luck could a penny cause, really? What value is something so small? It won’t buy a candy bar or a pencil. It won’t get you into the movies or onto a carnival ride. Even gumball machines need quarters! (I learned this cold, hard fact when I was treating my grandsons recently.)
It’s true one penny can’t do much. But piles of pennies, well, that’s something altogether different. Last summer the children at my church collected pennies—jars and jars of them—to build a Peace Pole. They scrounged around their houses, under couch cushions and at the bottom of clothes hampers. They converted their allowances into pennies. And they gave the congregation a chance to contribute, too. But it had to be pennies.
The Peace Pole they planted stands outside our church. It is made of a mellow brown wood, crafted to a point on top. On each of its four sides, in a different language, it reads: “May peace prevail on Earth.” I remember the Sunday it was installed, the children so happy and proud. They laid large rocks around its base, writing their names on those rocks as a personal pledge to make the world a more peaceful place.
And it all started with a penny.
So I’m keeping this penny. I’ll let it remind me that most good ideas start small. That teamwork and community are important concepts. And that peace is possible, if we all take committed, consistent steps in that direction.
Come to think of it, this penny packs a powerful lot of wisdom in one thin copper circle!
