There are lots of things I love about being a grandmother (aka: Nina).
I love how 2-year-old Isabelle Grace throws her arms around my knees when she comes to visit and says, “Nina, I missed you!”
I love how 6-year-old Drake always asks where I’m going to sit, so he can sit next to me. I love how 4-year-old Brock is constantly presenting me with gifts of handmade “crafts.”
I love how 19-month-old Mace yells “Nina, Nina!” every time I walk into his house. And I love how 7-month-old Knox…well, I just love everything about him.
But this week I got to do something I really loved. Something I’ve been looking forward to for many years.
I gave Bibles to my two oldest grandchildren.
“I need a Bible for church,” Drake said. At 6, he is beginning to learn that there is more to faith than stories and Kool-Aid.
“I need one, too!” his younger brother Brock proclaimed.
So a few days ago, I drove to their house with Bibles for them both. They were thrilled! As they leafed through the hefty volumes, Drake—who has just been introduced to “chapter books”—said, “Wow, there’s a lot of pages!”
Brock was interested in all the “colored boxes” that were included in his, sidebars that explained Biblical principles in kid language. “Read this one, Nina.” So I read about animals boarding the ark and the tomb where Jesus was laid and the excitement of the Apostle Paul’s shipwreck.
I wasn’t much older than Drake when I began reading the Bible. It was my mother’s idea. I would sit on a stool while she made dinner and struggle my way through a chapter of the King James Bible, with Mother offering explanations as I went along. I have always loved the Bible—its melodies, its wisdom, its comfort and humor and hope.
Last night Drake and Brock spent the night at my house. They brought along their Bibles.
“They’ve been carrying them everywhere!” my daughter Amy Jo said, laughing. “They even sleep with them!”
That made me happy. Of course, I know, in time, the “newness” will wear off, and the Bibles will be relegated to the bookshelf and Sunday morning outings to church. But I’m believing those Bibles will be read, too.
My prayer is that Drake and Brock—and all my grandchildren—will learn to love the Word of God. And that they will carry it the most important place of all…in their hearts.
Sure, I have purple flowers around me at other times, but the ones I buy on March 5th are always special. They are for Mother.
It was on a gray, windy March 5th fourteen years ago that Mother died. Slipped away while I stood watching at her bedside. Exchanged that hospital gown for a heavenly white robe —in the blink of an eye, in the beat of a heart.
This year I bought two bouquets. One was for me to keep close by, and one was for me to leave for Mother. “I want something really purple,” I told the florist, pawing through his fresh flowers. “What about these?” I asked, touching the open throat of a stunning iris. “How long do they last?”
“Not long,” he replied. “A couple of days.” He reached for another stem of heartier, smaller blossoms. “This statice will last much longer.”
“I’ll take small bouquets of each. And can you put a purple bow on the statice?”
Back in my car, I head toward the place where I’ll lay this memorial offering. It’s not Mother’s grave. That’s 250 miles away, in the small town where I was raised. Instead, I go to a park near my home. Part of the National Lakeshore, it contains several of the first homesteads in our area. And one of the oldest cemeteries.
I hike the trail into the woods, snow hard and icy under my boots. My feet slip and I clutch the bouquet. It seems especially vivid here surrounded by bare trees and well-worn snow. I hum Mother’s favorite hymns. “Victory in Jesus.” “The Old Rugged Cross.” And the one we sang at her funeral: “It Is Well With My Soul.”
Soon I see it—the 15-foot wooden cross that sits in the middle of the small cemetery. I climb the steps up to it. No footprints mar the snow near it; I make mine reverently. After wedging the bouquet into a stone at the base of the cross, I touch my forehead to its hard surface. One more time, I whisper my thanks and love to Mother.
Today the irises sit on my desk, early spring sun shining through their petals like a kiss from heaven. They still look fresh and perfect, even after four days. Just proves that some things last longer than expected—things like bouquets. And grief. And gratitude. And love.
Loves it. That was her very word as we stood outside our church’s fellowship hall. “I love Lent!”
I stared at her in disbelief. How can anybody love Lent?
For one thing, it comes at the tail-end of winter, when I am sick-to-death of the sloppy, cinder-ridden snow that spackles the landscape. Plus, it’s a time of self-examination and self-sacrifice. I’m not very good at either of those things.
“Why do you love Lent?”
Kathy was thoughtful for a moment. “It’s so spiritually charged. And it’s a lot like Advent.”
Like Advent? No, no, no. Advent is all fresh pine and presents. Lent is all splintery wood and sharp nails. Advent is cards and carols and pageants where 5-year-old angels steal the show. Lent is torn purple cloth and pain. Advent is about a baby come as God’s greatest gift and Lent is about…
Wait. I’m beginning to see the similarities. Lent is the end of the story Advent begins. The baby in the manger is the man on the cross. The love that nested in Mary’s womb is the love that hung bleeding, suspended between heaven and earth. Advent and Lent. You can’t have one without the other.
My head filled with these thoughts, I head toward the prayer labyrinth Kathy has set up for the Lenten season. On the floor of the fellowship hall, masking tape marks a winding path that draws you round and round until you find yourself at the center of the large maze, facing a silver cross. This year something new has been added. Each person who comes to the labyrinth brings a “gently used” pair of shoes for the Soles4Souls charity. I clutch a cute pair of black flats. Amid candlelight and soft music, dozens of shoes and boots stand toe-to-heel, flanking me as I enter the labyrinth to pray. Step by step I make my way to the center. I place my offering of shoes at the foot of the cross with the others, praying for whomever will wear them.
Love Lent? I’m not quite there. But, thanks to my friend Kathy’s quiet example, I am more ready to embrace the solemnity of Christ completing his mission. More appreciative of the “joy that cometh in the morning” for all who are faithful.
Hark, the herald angels sing!
Glory to the newborn, crucified, risen King!
Today I volunteered in my grandson Drake’s kindergarten classroom. One of the mothers had volunteered, too. Seems the theme of the day was all things Chinese. While the teacher read aloud a book about a little boy who invited a dragon to his birthday party, an aide took us aside.
“We have two centers this morning. At one the children will use paint and brushes to write Chinese numbers. The other center will be tangrams.”
I looked at the black paint and brushes and thought about all the possibilities for spills and thrills…and promptly volunteered to do tangrams.
“Oh, it’s where you cut seven shapes from a square and then you make things with them.”
I froze in place. Cutting, I could do that. But arranging shapes to make…I glanced down at the stack of pages she had thrust into my hand. A house? A goose? A rabbit? A cat? Spatial relationships were so not my thing! I mean, it almost always takes me two or three tries to get my shoes back into their boxes. (I wish I were making that up…)
Too late now. Here they came. Jostling, eager kindergarteners, clustered into groups of six. “Let’s all cut out our shapes and see what we can make with them. Just use your imagination!” I told the first group.
“I’m done,” the girl to my left said…every two seconds.
“Can I make a rocket ship?” a boy in a plaid shirt asked.
“Sure!”
“What about the things on this sheet? Can we make them?”
No, I thought. And neither can I.
By the time the second group was settled and began cutting, I decided I needed to learn how to make at least one of the “suggested” pictures. The house. How hard could it be? Start with the big triangle. Wait…were there two the same size? Three more triangles to make the house, another big triangle and a parallelogram to make the roof. (Did 6-year-olds know what a parallelogram was?) Square for the chimney. WAL-LAH!
The third group included a girl in a cute ponytail…who promptly made the goose. If she can do it, I can do it…
By the time I'd done all five groups, I’d mastered the cat, too. The rabbit? Well, that would have to wait for my next tangram adventure.
The funny thing was, most of the kids preferred to make their own pictures from the shapes. “Guess what this is?” they demanded again and again, a proud smile on face after face. “It’s a tree.” “It’s a rocket.” “It’s a flower. See the petals?” “It’s a tent. We go camping in the summer.”
Pieces of paper, pieces of life. Edges clean and newly-scissored. Edges uneven and cut with a wobbly hand. But all of it coming together to make something new. Something original. Something unique.
Something of beauty.
Today I took a square and cut it into 7 shapes and built a house. No shoebox will ever intimidate me again!
At least it was an “act of God” that kept me there the first day. But it took a conspiracy of all the major airlines to really delay my return home.
Last week I flew to New York for a business meeting. It was a one-day event scheduled for Tuesday. So I flew out on Monday and booked a late flight out on Wednesday, so I could take in some of the city.
But mid-way through the meeting the buzz began outside the conference room door. Storm coming. Snow. Blizzard. Airlines canceling flights. I rebooked my flight for mid-morning on Thursday, sure everything would be fine by then.
I was wrong, wrong, wrong. By Thursday morning the airports were completely shut down. Hundreds of people were stranded there, sleeping on chairs and eating day-old food. When I tried to rebook my cancelled flight, my airline told me the soonest I could get on a plane was Saturday evening. WHAT? I called Amtrak. Yes, I could get from NY to Chicago via train…but it would mean riding the rails for 20 hours. I tried buying a one-way ticket on another airline. One-way tickets were going for $800 to $1100 dollars. Yikes!
I needed to get home. I had things to do. I was supposed to help my daughter with my grandsons. I was leading a Bible study. I had a children’s sermon to prepare. I was planning….
Well, it didn’t matter what I was planning. I was stranded in New York. So I made some phone calls, pulled on my fur-lined boots (which I had had the good sense to travel in) and went out into the city. Might as well embrace this turn of events as to protest.
Snow had transformed Manhattan. Taxi horns seemed muted. Street signs and church rooftops were frosted in white. I walked down to Herald Square (as in “give my regards to Broadway, remember me to Herald Square”) and found two girls from Brazil building a snowman.
A deliveryman stomping through the snow was singing to himself. I stood in line for half-price theatre tickets and talked with people from Argentina, China, Jersey. (Thanks to so many folks not being able to get into the city, I got an eighth-row center seat!) Tourists were having snowball fights in Times Square.
On Friday, I found an Episcopal church that was having a mid-day communion service. I sat in the massive sanctuary with three other people while the robed priest ministered to us. On my way out, I paused in the chapel to pray for my family and light a few candles.
Maybe God really did want me to stay in New York City. Perhaps He knew I needed to see sun glint off skyscrapers instead of icicles hanging from our barn. That I needed to see people—hundreds of them during my forays into the streets—who looked oh-so-different from me. Maybe it was time I heard the music of languages other than English, the resonance of accents not formed in Midwest towns.
God (being God) knew that not doing the things on this week’s “to-do list” was more important than crossing off pre-planned tasks. He knew I needed time to be alone, to walk, to feed my need for good theatre. I needed to receive a wine-dipped wafer from the hand of an Episcopal priest while taxies jostled just outside the church door. I needed to be reminded (again) of how little control I really have over my life. And that that’s okay. Better than okay.
My last day in the city, I bought a sweatshirt that reads: I (heart) New York. And I really do.
Now all I have to do is explain my expense report, explain how I came for a day meeting and stayed for a week.
Is there anything as beautiful as green leaves in January?
What a treat it was for me last week to climb aboard a plane in cold, gray Chicago and deplane in warm, sunny (SUNNY!) Florida. The only thing better than the climate was the company: my good friend Debbie.
Debbie and I met years ago at a writer’s conference. I was teaching a class on creativity and, with more than 60 million books in print, she was the keynote speaker. Of course, I didn’t know that when we met. She was a fan of mine via Daily Guideposts—and I was ignorant of just what a publishing phenom she was/is. Yes, Debbie is a very famous. And hardworking. Perhaps those two go hand-in-hand?
But the thing that impresses me most about Debbie, the thing I find endearing is that she is a truly generous, spiritual person. Every day, before we head off on shopping adventures or beach walks or to see the latest movie, Debbie sits down at the kitchen table with a TALL stack of devotional books and Bibles. She reads passages in each one, writes in two journals, and solemnly puts it all away…before the fun begins.
Except that I know what she’s doing is fun for her. Too many people think spirituality and fun are mutually exclusive. But what could produce more endorphins, give more pleasure, bring out more smiles than filling one’s mind with Truth, than opening one’s heart to joy?
I’ve always said my theology is simple: God is great…God is good…and God has a sense of humor. I know Debbie would concur. What else could account for the fact that we sisters in Christ laugh so much?
I look forward to my yearly visit to Florida to see Debbie. It’s a bright spot for my spirit as well as my eye.
Now that I think about it, I guess there is one thing as beautiful as green leaves in January. The welcoming smile of a seldom-seen friend.
P.S. That's Debbie's doggie in the picture: Bogie Beauregard Macomber.
My husband Gary and I have been married for a very long time. We met in college. (I got a degree; he got me.) I was 19 when I married Gary, young enough to be oblivious to just how young we really were. Less than a year after the wedding, Gary was drafted into the Army. I left school and followed him—Ft. Polk in Louisiana, Ft. Benning in Georgia, Ft. Knox in Kentucky, and Ft. Riley in Kansas. (It was there, in a military hospital, that our daughter was born.)
Long-term love and commitment can be tricky. Especially when people are as different as Gary and I. I love books; he likes football. My idea of an evening out is a play; his is a movie with at least one good car chase scene. I like a restaurant with cloth napkins and vegetarian entrees. He's just looking for a good hamburger. Gary has his own excavating business, and you’ll most likely find him on a jobsite, running his excavator or bulldozer, muddy and happy to be that way. I’m more likely to be at my desk, working on a story, Gregorian chants coming from my CD player. I like to travel; Gary likes to stay home. But, as my friend Lurlene reminds me, we agree on the big things. Money. Religion. Children. And monogamy—we’re big fans of monogamy.
Gary isn’t much for sending me flowers. The last time he sent them was…uh…let’s see. Never mind! And the last “real” piece of jewelry he bought me was 15 years ago. But he shows his love in so many other ways. He lets me hold the bag of popcorn at the movies. He calls me in the afternoon and asks, “What are we doing for dinner?” So if I don’t want to cook, I just say, “Going out!” He builds a fire in our woodburning stove before he leaves for work, so the room is toasty warm when I go out there to read my Bible each morning.
Recently, I mentioned to Gary that I needed paper towels. “We just use so many of them when the kids and grandchildren are here. Seems I’m always running out.” The next day I was in my car, getting ready to back out of the garage, when I looked on top of the refrigerator we have out there and saw…paper towels. Rolls and rolls. I turned off the car and got out. There were 45 rolls of paper towels!
When I asked Gary about them, he said, “I was at the lumber yard and remembered you wanted paper towels. So I bought you some.” And then he smiled, the same smile that had melted by heart forty years ago.
Yes, long-term love and commitment can be tricky. Challenging. Hard work. But oh-so-very-worth it.
Last night I treated myself to my final, final holiday tradition. In the quietness of that mid-January evening, I snuggled into my favorite chair and, one by one, reread every Christmas card we’d received.
Some featured chubby snowmen with carrot noses and funny hats. Others showed angels, their wide wings embossed in gold, their mouths open in praise for the newborn Babe. One, from my friend Betsy, contained a “Kohn Family Holiday Quiz”—a fun new slant on the familiar Christmas letter. (I flunked miserably, Betsy. We need to have lunch!) Among my favorites were the ones showing the Holy Family—in styles both formal and humble. Shepherds and sheep and stars. A dove of peace. Stockings stuffed with presents.
These cards were from far away family, old friends and new ones, neighbors. There was one from a lovely gal who’d worked as an intern for me years ago. Many included short notes. My childhood friend Melva is now a grandmother. My friend Kathy wrote how she believed God had orchestrated our paths crossing. (I agree, Kathy!) I love the ones that include photographs—proud parents, dressed-up toddlers, srubbed-til- they- gleam children.
When the cards arrived last month, I was in full holiday swing. Usually, I was more concerned with “Did I send them one?” that I was with the lovely sentiments and handwritten updates.
But it’s January now. Decorations packed away. Holiday treats long gone. “To-Do” lists tossed in the trash. I have time now to ponder this pile of good cheer and good news from these people who care about me and my family.
Most of the cards will go in the recycling bin. The photographs I’ll stick in the family album. I’ve chosen one card to keep on my desk. It’s the one in the picture above: a black-and-white forest with a wide, snowy road running through its tall, bare trees.
It will serve as a beautiful reminder that life is a journey—a bumpy, jarring, hold-on-to-your-hat ride that gives you few clues about what lies ahead. But this I know: It is a journey made more joyful when you trust the future to God…and pause to appreciate those making the trip with you.
My grandson Drake, who has just started kindergarten, is learning to read. This is a HUGE thrill for a bookworm and bibliophile like me. I can’t wait for the day when he is reading to me. And what amazing worlds will open to him through the pages of books!
A few weeks ago, Drake was in church with me. When the deacon handed me the order-of-the-service bulletin, he gave Drake a packet for children. In it were a few crayons and some pages to color. There was also a word search.
“Look, Nina,” Drake said, placing his thumb over the last letter of a word. “This is the only word I know so far. Go.” He moved his finger, and I glanced down to see the word was actually “God.”
“If you put a ‘d’ on ‘go’ you get the word ‘God’,” I whispered.
Drake busied himself with the crayons and papers, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that discovery. “Go” is the first word in the word “God.”
Go to Him with all your problems. Go to Him in joyful gratitude. Go to Him when times are tough—and when they’re not. Go to Him when you are angry with Him. Go, go, go! Comfort in every sorrow, help in every circumstance, direction in every decision begins with that simple act.
Each week in Sunday School, Drake is learning about God. Soon he will be able to read the Bible for himself. But already he has latched onto a truth it took me half a century to realize. God is all about “go.”
It is a universally acknowledged truth that it takes longer to take down Christmas decorations than it does to put them up. And it’s not nearly as much fun!
I’m slow to pack away the glitz and glitter of December. January is cold and gray and long. (I mean, really, does January need the same number of days as December? I think not!) But after Epiphany passes, I run out of excuses to keep the holiday lights burning.
Defrocking my house always puts me in a pensive mood. I pull the garland off the banister, thinking about how things were when I did this last year. My mother-in-law was snug in her house right down the road, stoking the fire in her woodburning stove and making plans for her spring planting. We buried Mom in October. I pluck the poinsettias from my wrought-iron fence and think about how a year ago my sister’s husband was alive and part of a family fantasy-football league. Her son, Lewis, was working and walking. Now he is learning to live life from a wheelchair. I wrap the hand-painted statue of Mary and Joesph and Baby Jesus and think about how my own son has had three surgeries in the last six months.
Enough! I think.
So when I come to the big tree in the sunroom—the one where the angel topper touches the ceiling—I try a new strategy. For each ornament I remove, I name a blessing. Off comes a gold ball. I have a job that lets me do meaningful work. A mirrored cross in my hand reminds me God is God no matter what the season! Next comes tinsel, beaded roping and glitter snowflakes. My family has grown closer this year. I am healthy—and have insurance coverage when I need medical care. After 40 years, my husband still thinks I’m cute. The box fills with decorations—and my heart fills with gratitude.
Christmas is over, but there’s still plenty to celebrate…even in January.
