My mother-in-law never threw away anything. I know this because I spent all last week cleaning out her house, helping get ready for the big auction the family had on Labor Day.
Dad has been dead for 8 years now; next month will be the first anniversary of Mom’s passing. So it was time.
I’ve never known anyone who loved “stuff” the way my mother-in-law did. And she took such good care of it! For days my sister-in-law Vickie and I pulled things out of rooms and closets and corners. Piles of quilts and bags of Christmas decorations; rows of crockery and drawers of jewelry; cabinets filled with china and crystal, bakeware and black iron skillets. In one closet I found the dress Mom wore to my wedding…40 years ago!
And Dad—he had two big (full!) barns and a tractor shed for my husband Gary to deal with.
All in all, it was an exhausting and emotional experience for the family. Relatives arrived from Tennessee, Arizona, Minnesota to lend a hand and buy back a bit of family history. My niece Fawn bought the good china. My sister-in-law Vickie went home with Mom’s (gigantic!) silver tea service. My brother-in-law Larry bought Dad’s 1924 Model T Ford. And my sister-in-law Diane offered up the sole bid on the ornate grand piano—which she now has to move to Arizona!
The day before the auction, as we carried out boxes and the auctioneer methodically sorted things onto tables, I became very sad. Was this all there was to life? A pile of stuff sold to strangers?
By all standards, it was a successful auction. About 800 people attended. Everything sold. I got what I wanted: Grandma’s glass pitcher and her old, tattered quilts; Mom’s crystal cake stand; the shiny little kitchen gadget Mom used to make her signature dish of chicken and noodles.
Today Mom’s “things” are scattered around the state. I hope others will enjoy them as much as she did.
But the real legacy of Mom and Dad was not on the any of the tables or under any of the tents. It was not in the rows of equipment and piles of tools. No, it was in the giggles of great-grandchildren running through the nearby grass. It was in the eyes of caring grandchildren, bidding for the things that would now become family heirlooms—because Grandma’s hand had touched these items in a loving way.
The real legacy of Ray and Opal Carney is in what they loved most —their family, hardworking people of integrity and faith. And that legacy will continue from generation to generation, long after their material possessions —no matter how well-kept and well-loved — have crumbled to dust.
It was lovely, really. Luscious flower gardens in full bloom beside a white house that, I’m quite certain, smells of freshly baked bread and clean laundry.
It was from Tony K. Thing is, I’ve never met Tony K. Don’t really know him. And he doesn’t really know me.
I should have realized something odd was up when the envelope was addressed to “Mary Carney.” Almost no one has called me “Mary” since my first grade teacher—whom I promptly corrected in my loud 6-year-old voice. “My name is Mary Lou. MARY LOU!”
The other thing that makes this cheerful greeting a tad off is that…it’s not my birthday. Not even close. A full two months has to roll by before I turn…well, a year older.
Still, it is a lovely card—with a handwritten note from Tony wishing me “many, many healthy more!”
The Tony mystery was short-lived, as I retrieved a business card that had fallen to the floor. Turns out Tony is our auto insurance agent. My husband deals with that side of things, so I’m just a name (Mary) and a (wrong) birth date to Tony.
Yet he took time to wish me a happy birthday.
I started toward the trash with this way-too-early sentiment, but then stopped. A pleasant wish is a pleasant wish. So instead the card sits here on my desk, its gold cursive letters cheering me with their “Happy Birthday.”
All my life I’ve heard, “It’s the thought that counts.” I’m not quite sure I’ve ever truly believed that. What good is a thought if I deliver an ugly gift to my friend? What good is a thought if I embarrass myself? (Yes, I am capable of embarrassment—it just takes a lot to do it.)
But today I’m inclined to think it really is the thought that counts. I mean, what’s the source of all noble, generous acts? Thoughts! Sure, Tony K. is a businessman. And I’m a client. Yet the sentiment—handwritten with exclamation points—felt as sincere as it was ill-timed.
Truth is, Tony K. has inspired me. From now on, I’m going to be a bit more bold in showing folks I care—and let the thought-full gestures fall where (and when) they may!
Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future…
It was songwriter and guitarist Steve Miller who penned those words…and it was his band that made them part of most Baby Boomer’s musical memories. (See…aren’t you humming “Fly Like an Eagle” right now?)
Here in the Midwest, time is indeed slippin’ by. I know this because my cone flowers are now just giant seedy brown centers. My black-eyed Susans are curling at the corners, my roses straining for a few last blossoms.
Crews were out painting the crosswalks at the elementary school near my house earlier today. I tried to buy a roll of tape at the drugstore and had to dodge throngs of mothers and their offspring buying folders and markers and spiral notebooks and 50 other “must-have” items. (Hard to believe Abe Lincoln did so well without even a pencil pouch.)
The nights are cool, blanket-sleeping weather already. I went to the lake this morning to do some meditating and praying—and wore a hoodie. Zipped up!
I always hate to see summer wane. (Such an interesting word, wane—“to become weaker, less vigorous, less extensive.”) Mid-August arrives and, right on cue, I wail to anyone within hearing distance: “There’s so much I haven’t done yet!”
I need to watch more sunsets. Eat more corn-on-the-cob. Spend more time in my white wooden swing. Swim (okay, so I can’t really swim). Eat cold berries. Squish sand between my toes. Visit Buckingham Fountain in Chicago (an easy train ride).
I need to lift my face to the sun and soak up the warmth (yes, I’ll wear sunscreen). I need to lick ice cream cones and deliberately let some run down my chin. I need to savor what’s left of summer. (Another interesting word, savor—“to enjoy or appreciate something completely, by dwelling on it.”)
Time will always be passing, slipping. Seasons come and go, their rhythms a divine classroom for the inevitability of change. Autumn will be here soon. Yellow leaves. Frost. Pumpkins will replace the geraniums on my porch.
But for now, I’ll open the windows and seize the day—which may well mean just settling into the swing with a Popsicle and a good book.
The first, in June, was for my niece Kaci. The event was held at the family farm in Tennessee. My sister and I did the flowers—two arches awash in tulle and silks, bridal and attendant bouquets, 50 centerpieces. The reception was held in a gigantic tent (300 attended!) in the front yard. Kaci had just graduated with a degree in nursing; her honey Nick works as a wildlife officer for the state. They were starry-eyed and gorgeous…and young. Oh so young! Kaci and Nick are at the front end of everything about life. It’s all horizon for them.
The other wedding I attended was for the son of a good friend. It was the second marriage for Nathan. Kari, who looked lovely in her long white gown, had also been married before. Both had known the pang of divorce. Kari has two children from her first marriage; Nathan has a daughter from his. Together they have the world’s cutest 2-year-old redheaded boy. It was, quite literally, a “yours, mine and ours” ceremony. All four children were involved. The “unity candle” was actually five candles buried in a white bucket of sand. Everyone got to light one (and, of course, the 2-year-old tried to blow them out!).
The first wedding was about new beginnings, about hopes and dreams. The other wedding was about…new beginnings, about hopes and dreams. Kaci and Nick will strut and stumble through their first few years of marriage; if they are smart and blessed, they will hold onto each other through everything/anything that happens. Nathan and Kari are a bit wiser and a tad more worn. They know about sick children and sleepless nights. They know the challenge of juggling jobs and childcare, of accommodating ex-spouses and eager grandparents.
I had such fun at Kaci’s wedding. We danced until midnight and ate cake until we swore we’d never want sugar again. But there was something poignant and especially lovely about Nathan’s wedding. Two people, each with scars and misgivings, giving themselves to each other. Believing that this time it is really and truly “til death do us part.”
Summer weddings—they make you believe in possibilities…and second chances.
I am missing my mother today, and I’m really not sure why.
Of course, the obvious reason I’m missing Mother is because she is dead. Dead and buried these 14 years. But the volume on the longing is louder today, the yearning ache more painful.
Maybe it’s because it is a sunny, sultry August day—the kind of day Mother loved. So many summer mornings I woke to sound of her hoe clanging against rocks in the garden below my open window. So many summer evenings, after chores were done, Mother played hide-and-seek with my sister and me. Or sat on the porch breaking beans while we caught lightning bugs in canning jars.
Maybe it’s because my Sweet Williams are blooming with abandon, their purple flowers towering waist-high when I water them, their fragrance wafting across my yard. Mother loved all things purple. Now purple silk flowers bloom perpetually in vases on either side of her headstone.
Maybe it’s because of the question my 4-year-old grandson Brock asked yesterday. He was at T-ball with his mother, waiting his turn to bat. “Does Nina have a mother?” he asked.
“She did,” Amy Jo answered.
“Has she died already?” Brock knows about death, since he attended the funeral of his great-grandmother last fall.
Amy Jo nodded her head. “She would have loved you,” she said, then added, “and you would have loved her, too.”
Alas, some things are not meant to be! One generation exits; another steps onto the stage.
For my devotional reading today, I turned to a familiar source of comfort: poetry. As I flipped through the book, my eyes fell on “Angels of Grief” by John Greenleaf Whittier.
With silence only as their benediction
God’s angels come,
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb.
Yet would we say, what every heart approveth,
Our Father’s will,
Calling to him the dear ones whom he loveth,
Is mercy still.
Not upon us or ours the solemn angel
Hath evil wrought;
The funeral anthem is a glad evangel—
The good die not!
God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What he has given;
They live on earth in thought and deed as truly As in heaven.
Did I mention that my mother loved poetry?
Perhaps it was more than mere chance that I found this poem today….when I am missing Mother.
My grandson Mace, who will turn 2 next week, is just beginning to get the gist of stringing words together. Instead of the single word announcements I’ve become accustomed to, I’m now treated to things like, “More grapes” or “Hi, Nina!” or (my favorite) “Uv you.”
But Mace surprised me last night by coming into the kitchen while I was putting the final touches on dinner and blurting out, “Knock, knock.” I turned from the stove in surprise. Was it possible one of his brothers (Drake is 6 and Brock 4) had taught him a joke? So I responded appropriately, “Who’s there?”
Mace doubled over in laughter as he howled, “CHICKEN!”
Okay…so much for 2-year-old humor.
Truth is, I love “knock-knock” jokes. Always have. Years ago I even wrote a children’s book packed with them: Bible Knock-Knocks and Other Fun Stuff.
Knock, Knock. Who’s there?
Noah. Noah who?
Noah lot of reasons to love the Lord!
You get the idea.
In Matthew 7:7, Jesus promises "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” I think of that verse often as I pray for my family. How I long for their protection, health, success!
But sometimes I knock on God’s door…and then stand there, like an awkward visitor fingering her hat on the front porch. I’m not sure what to say. I want the very best for my loved ones…but I’ve lived long enough to know that sometimes what’s best isn’t what’s easiest. Or happiest. I visualize bright, perfect futures for them all…but are these prayers?
More often than not, words fail me. I have only the longings—and love—of my heart to offer. Fortunately, God’s hearing is astoundingly acute. And his will, ultimately, what I desire most—for myself and all those precious souls I love.
God promises that when I knock, the door to heaven’s wisdom and provision WILL be opened. So,
Last Saturday, before 9 AM, I had watered my flowers, done a load of laundry…and built a castle.
Granted, I had a bit of help with the castle. My niece, Christine, was visiting from Birmingham with her three darling children: Kiera (19 months), Finn (freshly-turned 3) and Aiden (4). The castle had been her idea.
As some of you may remember, last summer I took a basic cake decorating class (emphasis on BASIC). That credential and a fairly fearless attitude have turned me into the “family cake maker” whenever a birthday rolls around. The birthday this time was for both my great niece Lilly (a princess if ever there was one!) who was turning 3 and her little sis, Lexie, who was celebrating #1.
“How about this for the cake?” Christine asked, bringing her laptop into the kitchen a few days before the party. On the screen was a castle—complete with moat, drawbridge and towers with flags flying.
No, no, no, no, no.
I took another look. It was pretty cute. And most of the “adornments” came ready-made: sugar cone pinnacles, Necco wafer parapets, graham cracker drawbridge. Blue Jell-O created the water for the moat and shredded coconut dyed green put the whole thing on a grassy plain.
“I’ll help you,” Christine said.
Which is why, last Saturday, Christine and I built a castle. Two thick square layers of yellow cake held together with raspberry jam. Pink icing (I make mine with butter and almond flavorings) covered the entire structure, and Hershey kisses topped off the four highest points. (Ever “carve out” a Hershey kiss so it will sit solidly on the point of a sugar cone? I didn’t think so!)
The cake was a big hit. My niece Lilly (who answered the door dressed head-to-toe as Snow White) was thrilled. After the candles were blown out, Christine sliced the castle— and the hordes descended.
Yes, last Saturday I built a castle. But more importantly, I built a memory. Lilly will always remember my standing at her front door holding a pink castle birthday cake. HER pink castle birthday cake.
Memories are something we can all make, especially for people we love. It doesn’t take a lot of money or time to create a memory. What it does take is a lot of love. And, sometimes, a bit of imagination—which just may lead to blue Jell-O and upside-down ice cream cones.
Sunday morning my friend Kathy and I headed out for The Hermitage, a small retreat center located on an old farmstead outside Three Rivers, Michigan. The agenda? Three days of prayer and meditation, of walking and listening, of simple meals eaten in silence.
The place was lovely. Pastoral. Peaceful. I stayed in the “Julian of Norwich” room. A hand embroidered framed piece of linen proclaimed: “All shall be well, And all shall be well, And all manner of thing shall be well, And we shall see it.” Ah, Julian—the original positive thinker!
That first afternoon Kathy and I walked trails bordered by tall grass and wild raspberries and Queen Anne’s lace. That evening we attended a Taize prayer service—my first. I loved it! A harp was the only musical instrument; a male/female duet with close harmony led us in songs with simple words and haunting melodies. We all took turns lighting candles and sticking them deep into boxes of sand, leaving our prayers to waft heavenward on curls of smoke.
Monday morning we woke at 5:30 so we could be part of “lauds”—the 6 AM prayers that begin every day at a nearby monastery. Back at the retreat center, we followed a trail to a tiny rock chapel built into the side of a grassy hill. As the morning progressed, I read. Took pictures. Copied into my journal all sorts of amazing sayings and prayers posted throughout the place.
Eight of us ate lunch around a large oak table, the silence broken only by the sound of forks on old china and the chewing of the delicious food we’d been served—small, seasoned turkey patties, steaming root vegetables, a creamy parsley sauce to drizzle on it all. The dining room and kitchen were located in the basement of an old barn. I sat facing a foundation of stone a hundred years old.
The sign coming up the wooded road to The Hermitage directed all who entered: Begin to slow down. And that’s what I was doing—right up until the call came from home. My brother-in-law—my husband’s only brother—had been taken to the hospital. The heart trouble that had plagued him for a dozen years was displaying itself in chest pains. “I don’t know how bad it is,” my husband said. I could hear the tension in Gary’s voice. “They’re doing surgery in the morning….”
After 40 years of marriage you just know some things. And I knew I needed to be there for Gary. So I found Kathy, apologized, and together we loaded the car and headed home.
The sign on the way out of The Hermitage exhorts: Return slowly. That wasn’t going to be an option for me. I knew plenty of family drama was waiting at home. But I had had 24-hours of holy leisure, 24-hours to be still and remember that God is God. It would have to be enough.
How reassured I was, as I merged onto the toll road, to know that Christ is just as present in hospital hallways as he is in the chanting of monastic prayers!
P.S. My brother-in-law came through his surgery fine. Three arteries cleared and three stents inserted. No complications!
I’ve always been in love with swings…but it’s been 30 years since I had one of my own.
When I was a little girl, vacations always meant trips to see the “kinfolk” in Kentucky. And all of those folks had porch swings. My grandmother’s house in Mt. Vernon had two. My Great-aunt Ida’s swing looked out over a “holler” that turned indigo and magical as darkness fell.
The last time I owned a white-slatted two-seater was when my son was little. I’d hold him close and, with a push of my foot on that warped wooden porch floor, we’d glide back and forth until the rhythm calmed us both. We were living in an old farmhouse then—Gary, me, toddler Amy Jo and newborn Brett. The house was probably borderline shabby, but it seemed like a palace to me. (Our home before this had been a 1956 New Moon mobile home, 10 foot wide and 50 foot long.)
Before Brett celebrated his first birthday, we’d moved from that old farmstead and broken ground for a new home—a home we’ve lived in for over three decades. But our porch is small, with tall white columns and a massive light fixture dangling from the 20-foot-ceiling.
Definitely not a swing-friendly place!
But I’ve always been drawn to swings. They seem solid and simple. They invite lingering and conversation…and sometimes romance. They’re the perfect place for daydreaming—and praying.
So a few weeks ago, when my husband commented on how large our birch tree had grown, I took a good look at its sturdy trunk, its massive branches. “Think one of those limbs could hold a swing?” I asked.
Now, once again, I am the proud owner of a swing. Amazingly, my grandchildren had never seen one. “What’s it do, Nina?” 4-year-old Brock asked.
“I’ll show you!” So five of us clambered aboard, little bodies pressed close, tiny feet dangling. And then I pressed my toes into the grass…and pushed. Chains clinked slightly as we picked up momentum.
“Higher, Nina!” they squealed with delight. “Higher!”
In truth, the past isn’t always as rosy as we remember it. No doubt most of our experiences had rough edges that time has worn smooth, traumatic moments that distance has softened.
Yet we remember them fondly. And that’s okay, because memories—like swings—are meant for enjoyment. Both should soothe us, awake in us a gratitude for the good people, good times we’ve known.
Summer is the perfect time for nostalgia—whether you have a swing or not.
I looked across the table at my sister, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. My sister’s hands have always amazed me. As long as I can remember, they have been able to do anything she wanted them to—drywall her kitchen, knit sweaters, decorate cakes. She even made my wedding gown—by cutting up her own and refashioning it.
“Is it because of your arthritis?” Recently Libby had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, and sometimes her hands are not as limber or quick as they had once been.
She shook her head. “I have no idea how to start! I don’t even know what materials I’ll be using! And FIVE hours? How can it possibly take that long to make one cross?”
My friend Kathy, who has a special gift when it comes to creating sacred spaces and holy moments, was offering a day-long retreat at her farmhouse. Participants would make a cross—a cross as unique as their own challenges and blessings.
“What if everyone else makes something beautiful and mine looks like junk?”
I smiled. “First of all, it’s not a competition. And, secondly, if it were—you are way craftier than anyone I know!”
Libby filled a basket with supplies she’d pulled together: a hot glue gun, wire cutters, scissors, some pieces of beach glass and wood she’d found at the lake. I added two tarnished silver bangle bracelets and a rusted piece of barbed wire. (Once they arrived, participants could share supplies they’d brought, as well as “scavenger” the farm for materials.)
Before Libby left, I put my arms around her and prayed that her day would be restful and renewing.
All day long as I worked in my office, I kept thinking about my dear sis. What a traumatic few years she has had! Russell, her husband of more than 40 years, had died. Her 34-year-old son was left paralyzed after emergency heart surgery. Her daughter had come through a difficult—and unexpected—divorce and moved back home with Libby. She had had surgery…twice.
When Libby got home that afternoon, she was beaming. And in her hand was a large metal cross, made from rusted bed springs and barbed wire and the charred spine of a three-ring binder. “It turned out to be about Russell,” she said, touching the small silver heart in the center of her creation. “What I planned to make didn’t work at all, but then I began reaching for pieces of metal…and crying…and before I knew it, I had made this.”
The cross is beautiful. Poignant. The theme of the center is “two”—two silver circles, two barbs of wire. Near the top is a single barb on rusted wire. A tiny white mother-of-pearl dove hovers. “This bed spring is so much like my life,” Libby said, touching the rusted wire. “A roller coaster of up and down, up and down.”
The whole thing is held together with thin green wire—the green of fresh grass and new leaves and growing corn. Libby realizes—perhaps at a level so deep she doesn’t even know it—that life will go on. Must go on.
And love to share
and crosses to bear
will be an important part of that life.
