Something scary happened on Halloween. And it had nothing to do with ghosts or goblins or graves.
My son, Brett, fell on the construction site where he was working.
He was taking the boards off an old barn when the tank he was standing on—a battered affair once used by a long-gone farmer—gave way under his weight. In an explosion of plastic, Brett shot downward. He grabbed out to stop himself—and sliced three of the fingers on his left hand. The brunt of the fall was taken on his left knee—the same knee he had surgery on a scant six months ago.
So instead of finishing decorating the jack-o-lantern cakes I’d baked, I spent Saturday afternoon in the emergency room with Brett and his wife Stacy. The medical staff iced Brett’s knee; they stitched up his fingers; they gave him a prescription for pain.
It was the beginning of what will be many long, hard months for Brett…and his wife and his two small children. The knee will have surgery whenever the swelling goes down. For now, Brett has it wrapped and tries to elevate it several times a day. It hurts—a lot. As I write this, he is having hand surgery at a clinic nearby. Stacy and little Knox (3 months old) are with him.
I took Isabelle for the afternoon. At 2, she still considers coming to Nina’s a big adventure. And her being here forced me to put on a happy face. The day is bright and sunny—very un-November-like. After lunch, we sat on the back stoop taking part in Isabelle’s favorite activity: blowing bubbles.
While she chattered on about “watch me” and “look, Nina” and “Isbee do” I thought about Brett. I had been praying since early morning—for the surgeon’s skill, for Brett’s complete recovery, for his pain to be bearable. I had emailed friends, asking them to pray. I had alerted my church’s prayer chain. I was planning a good dinner for us all. Still, there must be something else I could do…
I snapped back into the present to hear Isabelle insisting that I, too, blow bubbles. So I got another container and joined her. The wind tossed the transparent spheres here and there. Some landed on the grass. Some blew back into our faces. Others soared high, over the house and into the sky. Try as I would, I could not make them go in one direction or another. The unpredictability of it all delighted Isabelle as she blew and re-blew, watching to see where the wind would carry her latest creations.
Much of what happens in life is out of my control. And, try as I might, I can’t fix everything that hurts or threatens my loved ones. But thank God—literally—that Someone loving and powerful cares about us all. And He who directs the wind will surely blow healing Brett’s way.
Of course, in a way, each of us did the same. It’s a truth every traveling evangelist I ever heard during my childhood proclaimed: “You are closer to eternity today than you were yesterday!” But Mom’s agent of death had a name: cancer. In August she was even given a timetable: 8-12 weeks.
Mom, a truly classy lady, was 82 years young. She lived alone in a huge old farm house. She cooked and cleaned and helped take care of her great-grandchildren. One of the things she loved best was mowing, and she continued to mow her own yard right up until this year—all eight acres of it! She was married for 58 years—to a handsome sailor she met in Louisville, Kentucky. They wed after knowing each other for less than a week!
This is the first “death experience” for my grandchildren. Only Drake (almost 6) and Brock (4) are old enough to sense the enormity of what has happened. When my daughter, Amy Jo, told them that Grandma Opal had died, that she was now in heaven with Jesus, it was Brock who had the most questions. “Is her house still there?” he asked. Amy assured him it was. “Why didn’t she take it with her?”
A good question, considering how very much Mom loved her home. “She won’t need it any more,” Amy answered.
Mom fought hard against her disease—cancer in the right sinus cavity. It was a vicious tumor that took over the right side of her face, a tumor that swelled and swelled until her eye was forced closed. It broke through the roof of her mouth and made eating even soft food painful. She withstood nine chemo treatments, hoping the tumor would shrink and the doctors would do surgery. It didn’t. Then came radiation. Nothing could slow the progress of the cancer. Throughout the ordeal, she clung to her family and her faith.
A month or so before she died, my husband and his siblings gathered around Mom to discuss whether or not to try radiation, to decide if she should go stay with her daughter in Tennessee. While the conversation whirled around her, Mom looked at me and said, “If this is what it feels like to die, I’m okay with it.” She laughed lightly then and said, “Feels like I’m going on vacation!”
Yesterday we buried Mom. Her grave is layers deep in flowers, a tribute to just how many people loved her. In John 14, Jesus tells us, “In my Father’s house are many mansions….” I’m sure that’s where Mom is now, reunited with Dad in some shining structure bordered by streets of gold.
I just hope it has a lawn to mow. Mom would really like that.
Funny little thing, an apple. It comes in all shades of red and green and yellow. It’s fat-free, sodium-free and cholesterol-free. (But unlike many foods that make this boast, it’s NOT taste-free!) Most apples—in even the biggest orchards—are still picked by hand. Apples are a favorite of teachers and pie-bakers, of wicked witches and Pilgrims. (Yep, it was the Pilgrims who planted the first apple trees on U.S. soil.)
Last Sunday afternoon, my sister and I went with my daughter and my two grandsons to a huge apple orchard near my home for the full-court experience. WHEW! Besides every variety of apples imaginable, there was also a petting zoo and 12-acre corn maize, a tractor-and-wagon ride, warm apple pies and cinnamon donuts, and rows and rows of apples to pick. Drake and Brock loved it!
“Want to take a ride on the wagon?” I asked the boys as we raced toward a line waiting to board. We snuggled onto the wooden seat and watched as we rolled past sunflower fields and hundreds of apple trees.
The tractor driver would stop at each section of the orchard, shouting out the kinds of apples that could be picked there, and eager folks would hop off the wagon with their plastic bags to begin their personal harvests. Alas, we’d just jumped on for “the ride” and neglected to get anything to pick into. “Anyone need a bag?” the driver asked, reaching down to a stack below his tractor seat. “We do!” I shouted.
The wagon made another stop, and once again the driver boomed out varieties like a conductor rattling off destinations. He looked back at out little group, clutching our newly-acquired bags. “Last stop.” We scrambled off and stood staring down the rows. Drake and Brock took off running between the heavily laden trees. “What are you looking for?” he asked me, wondering if we’d chosen the right stop for the variety we wanted to pick.
I turned toward him and smiled. “A good time. We’re looking for a good time.” He smiled and waved as he pulled away. I think he must have grandchildren of his own.
We picked the apples right off the trees and crunched into them. Wonderful! Heavenly! Truly the best apple I’d ever eaten. The boys and I plucked a dozen or so and tossed them into our bags, marveling at the roundness and endlessness of the rosy fruit.
Yes, it’s apple-picking season in the Midwest. But, more importantly, it’s family time. The perfect time to kick up a few leaves, roast a few marshmallows, snuggle down to read aloud a good book.
Fall won’t last…memories will.
Did you hear the one about...
If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, what does an onion a day do?
I have just returned from my annual fall trip to Chattanooga to visit my good pal, Lurlene. What fun we have together! Shopping and eating out, seeing movies and sharing popcorn, walking through her neighborhood, attending her church, raiding her refrigerator. (Do you see a recurring theme here?)
I’m always amazed at how many of my friends live far away. There’s Lurlene—a full 10-hour drive straight south. Debbie is in Seattle; Elizabeth’s in New York. Peg calls St. Louis home. Karen flies in from Atlanta. Rachel, my favorite-leftover-from-college friend, still lives in the town where we went to school, 90 miles away. Mary Jo's in Birmingham. Of course, I have local friends, too. Desila, Kathy, Victoria, Terry. Each one special to me, each one unique.
I remember in elementary school, when I could name my best friend without even a moment’s thought. I could name my second-best and third-best friends, too. Then came college, career, family. My friends often tended to be the mothers of my kids’ friends or co-workers or other moms stuck at wrestling events or soccer matches.
One of the benefits of aging (pay attention, you youngsters!) is that I can choose my friends now. I can pick them from the garden of humanity as I would a lovely blossom. And, like flowers, my friends are colorful and occasionally wild. Some are bold while others are a tad shy. They come with a variety of interests—from knitting to jazzercise to playing the harp. A few are deeply spiritual; all share my faith in God and prayer.
After church last Sunday, Lurlene and I went to an outdoor farmer’s market—where we stumbled on a truly stunning display of dahlias. It took my breath, the riot of color and texture. I bought a bouquet for Lurlene, who had been the perfect hostess for the last three days.
One of the best things about dahlias is that they get better and better in late summer and autumn, when most other flowers are fading. (My friends now are so much better than those fifth-grade ones!) Surprisingly, dahlias are a tuber, like the lowly potato. (How boring if we all looked and acted the same!)
I’ve seen many seasons come and go. Watched roses bloom and fade, witnessed brave crocus poke through frozen ground. But the years have left me with more than tiny wrinkles at the corners of my eyes. They’ve taught me that good friends, like good flowers, are worth cultivating.
Last Monday was the final meeting of my Cake Decorating I class. It’s been a long month! Not naturally drawn to baking or icing making, I have found the learning curve steep. But during the climb, I’ve developed a few new muscles…and a few new skills.
I can take a cup of Crisco, a pound of powdered sugar, a little flavoring and water and—TA-DA!—buttercream icing. I can dig into my collection of tips and bags and create shells and stars and, most spectacularly, roses. I can even do leaves!
Of course, my icing is still crumb-laded and far from smooth. My roses are “ruffled” rather than sleek. Teacher says I’m not squeezing the bag hard enough. (Sure feels hard enough!) My colors are still a bit off and the only clown I made (class #3) leaned precariously into the top of the cake.
Still, I was happy with my “final exam” cake. And last night I invited the family over to eat it. Four of my five grandchildren eagerly dug forks and fingers into the ooey-gooey layers on their plates. (Only 7-week-old Knox abstained, sleeping peacefully on the couch.) Brock ate all his frosting first. Drake shoveled giant pieces into his mouth. Little Isabelle ate more slowly. And baby Mace could hardly believe his good luck as he waddled around the table with a fistful of moist, sugary cake.
If class had been a competition, I would have come in…dead last. The other gals seemed more at home with icing and turntables; they were simply more adept. But I was motivated—hey, this family needs birthday cakes!
I was reading my Bible yesterday when I came across this verse in Jeremiah: “Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not” (33:3, KJV). I’m reasonably sure that the prophet wasn’t thinking about Cake Class 101 when he wrote this. But I can’t help but believe that God—the Great Creator—is pleased when we stretch ourselves to be more creative. When we step out of our comfort zones and try something new. The very effort takes on a kind of humility-permeated holiness.
I decided not to sign up for Cake Decorating II. Which leaves me with Monday nights open. I can’t wait to see what “great and mighty” thing I’ll try to tackle next. I just hope it doesn’t involve Crisco.
I gave birth earlier this week. The delivery was virtually painless—the cute little thing only weighs 12.9 ounces. The gestation period, however, was l-o-n-g. Almost two years from conception to birth.
Before you begin imagining:
(a) I’ve dipped into someone else’s prescription drugs
(b) I’ve made several typos in this opening paragraph
(c) I have a newborn baby I should be taking care of…
…let me explain.
On Tuesday my new children’s book came out. Its “co-parent” is my good pal Debbie Macomber. You may have heard of her—she writes women’s fiction, shows up regularly on The New York Times Bestseller List, and has 60 or 70 million books in print. She’s appeared in my blog several times, too. It was Debbie who encouraged (badgered) me to take up knitting.
So run, don’t walk, to your nearest bookstore. But before you go, watch this video of Debbie and me talking about The Truly Terribly Horrible Sweater That Grandma Knit.
I have to go now. I feel a sudden need to hold my baby.
We celebrated my grandson Brock’s 4th birthday last weekend. And guess who brought the birthday cake? (For a BIG hint, see my last blog.)
It was the first time I’d tried to do any decorating outside of my Hobby Lobby class, to create something without the teacher close by—her hand steady on mine as she showed me how to make shells and roses, how to ice the sides without crumbs showing through, how to make flawless letters and flowing cursive.
Ohh boy, did I miss her! The first cake I made split apart, so I got up early the day of the party to make another. (And, yes, I DID pray while I watched it on the cooling rack.) The icing (I found out a cake artist never says “frosting”) was soon speckled with crumbs. (Drat!) I couldn’t seem to get the frosting…er, icing I wanted to use for the “Happy Birthday Brock” to turn red. For 20 minutes I added the coloring. I finally settled on salmon.
When I placed the tip on the tube and began to squeeze out the letters, they weren’t neat and prim. They were big, thick, borderline sloppy. But I soon realized that to hesitate would, literally, to be lost in this endeavor. Every pause brought a surge of icing. So I plunged ahead, making the most of the bizarre style. How about a Dr. Seuss-looking greeting?
I set the finished product in my cake carrier, wondering if I should take it. How bad would it look to my family? And how would it taste? I had spooned raspberry preserves between the layers. A good idea?
In the end, I took it to the party, which was held at the Indiana Dunes State Park where Brock’s family was camping. And you know what? My family LOVED it! Every last piece was eaten. They thought the writing was fun and child-like (oh, yeah, that was the look I was after). And the cake was “super moist” and the filling “yummy.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” the well-known proverb tells us. Ah, how true! To 4-year-old Brock that cake was perfect—it was round and sweet and, best of all, his.
I’m learning anew that love covers a multitude of flaws. Including those pesky little crumbs in my icing.
I mean, really, our family has so many birthdays! In August, baby Mace celebrated his first birthday ever. Then, my son Brett turned 30-something. And his new son, Knox Edward, entered the world a week later. The weekend before Labor Day was my sister-in-law Trixie’s birthday. Next week my grandson Brock turns 4. October—that’s my month. And my niece Scarlet’s, too. December brings my mother-in-law’s and grandson Drake’s birthdays. Oh! And little Kiera. Spring is Amy Jo and Kirk, Christine and Aiden. Summer? Don’t get me started—my husband, granddaughter, a great nephew, a daughter-in-law, two great nieces. WHEW!
And every birthday brings the obligatory cake, complete with ooey-gooey roses and candles. When Isabelle Grace turned two in July, we served a half-sheet cake with strawberry filling—and it cost $47!
So when I saw the sign at Hobby Lobby for “half-price cake decorating” classes, I took the plunge. Never mind that I can’t remember ever actually baking a round cake. And I’m certain I’ve never made frosting. I don’t own a decent mixer or the right knife for wielding that famous butter crème icing. But, after several trips to the cake-decorating aisle of Hobby Lobby, I now own tips and tiny jars of color. I own a turntable and cake carrier. I own a special kit for beginning cake decorators.
And I keep thinking that with all this money I’ve spent, I could have bought a lot of birthday cakes…
I have been to two classes, and it is terrifying and wonderful. Last night I made roses…sort of. I had “cheated” and bought a huge tub of icing to use for the class. (Hey, it was in the cake-decorating aisle!) But the teacher shook her head. “Too stiff to frost with; too thin to decorate with.” But it was what I’d brought, and I persevered. So what if my roses don’t reach up to the skies? I think they look swell. Of course, I haven’t learned to make leaves yet. Maybe next week.
I took my first cake (the one in the pic) to my grandsons today. They studied it carefully, then each stuck a finger in the frosting for a lick. “It’s pretty, Nina,” Brock said. Drake moved in for another fingerful of butter creme, but I was too quick for him and snapped the cake cover into place.
The irony of all this is that I don’t like cake. Never eat it. Abhor frosting and would NEVER lick it off the spoon. Still, I’m planning a future filled with Crisco and powdered sugar, with tubes of colored gel and messy decorating tools. Why? Because that future is also filled with the people I love celebrating their special days—and I’m going to be the one bringing the cake.
But first I have to learn to make frosting. And leaves.
We’ve welcomed new babies—my grandson Knox and great niece Lexi. We’ve had cookouts and blown a million bubbles (mostly at 2-year-old Isabelle’s request). We watched Mace blow out one candle on his birthday cake (and cram his face full of the yummy treat!). We’ve played in the sand and eaten (way-too-many) ice cream cones. Good times, good memories.
But some of the events haven’t been joyful or welcome. My mother-in-law, Opal, was diagnosed with cancer in her right sinus cavity. She spent the summer undergoing chemo at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville. They were hoping the difficult treatments would shrink the tumor and surgery could follow. But that’s not what happened. The cancer continues to grow.
There have been a flock of other family problems, too. Some physical. Some financial. Others emotional. I wake each morning and begin praying for the overwhelming needs of those I love. I’ve even begun to wonder what new calamity might unfold during the course of an otherwise ordinary day.
Which is why the sunflowers came as such a welcome surprise.
They appeared one day, twin stalks rising out of the flowerbed near my sunroom door. By the time I noticed them, they were knee high and looked enough unlike a weed to be spared my dedicated pulling. They grew taller and soon big buds appeared. That’s when I knew—I was going to have sunflowers to brighten by waning garden!
I’m not sure where these beauties came from, how they got to the perfect spot in my flowerbed. “A bird pooped them,” my practical sister informed me. “Bird feed has lots of sunflower seeds in it.”
Okay…
But they could just as easily have been dropped from the hand of an angel passing over my house. “Look, there’s a bare spot in Mary Lou’s garden. I know what will fill that nicely—and give her a reason to smile, too.” Fling. Ping. She plants the seeds and moves along on the breeze.
As I was admiring my sunflowers this morning, I noticed they had sprung up next to a clump of red geraniums. And nestled in those geraniums is a small gray rock with a single word carved into its face: REJOICE.
Good advice. Rock solid advice. Because in the midst of sadness and trial there is always God’s eternal love…and some unexpected blessings.
Okay, so she’s my only sister. And I don’t have any brothers.
There’s something special about a grown-up sister. Somehow that same female who found you annoying (“Can you possibly chew that gum any louder?”) and always in the way (“Get out of my room!”—that one always confused me, since it was my bedroom, too) has turned into someone who wants to spend time with you. Someone who is willing to drive hundreds of miles to share a cup of tea on the front porch.
Libby is five years older than I and, growing up, that put her just far enough along on the maturity scale to make it hard for us to play together. When I was 5, she was 10. When I was finally 10, she was a cool 15. But occasionally we’d find common ground, like the time she helped me sew button eyes on socks, and we gave a puppet performance for Mother. Or when she’d play hide-and-seek with me in the barn.
For as long as I can remember, my sister has been able to make anything. Even as a teen, she could make the biggest, fluffiest, flakiest biscuits. When she decided to knit, her first project was a cable knit sweater. (Mine was a solitary lopsided slipper.) She can decorate cakes and turn a tomato into a rosebud garnish.
When I got married, I was still in college and beyond broke. So Libby, who had gotten married several years before in a hoop-skirted gown, cut up her own wedding dress to make mine. It was beautiful.
But now Libby is making the most difficult thing she’s ever attempted: a new life for herself.
After 46 years of marriage, Libby is a widow. Living alone. Facing days that are not defined by that familiar companionship between husband and wife. For years she was a caregiver to Denny, so there is a freedom about her new life. She can buzz down to McDonalds for a fish sandwich or cup of coffee. She can come to visit me. But the rhythm of things has changed. She is still searching for who she is, for what shape her life will take.
Libby’s got children and grandchildren and a brand-new great grandson. So, as they say, life goes on. But it’s a different life to be sure.
Yes, my sister can make anything. And as she works on this latest challenge, I’m planning to help her any way I can. That’s what favorite sisters do.
