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My grandson has been baking and cooking with me ever since
he was old enough to stand on a chair and place frozen break-apart cookies on a
cookie sheet. We’ve stirred spaghetti
sauce together and spilled chocolate chips from the bag on purpose so we could
eat them.
This Christmas he is seven and baking Christmas cookies was
more of an adventure. He measured and
poured and gingerly turned the mixer to the numbers I told him. It was a cooperative and memorable Saturday
afternoon. I had left the butter out for
a while to come to room temperature and I told him he could unwrap it and put
it in the bowl. “Don’t I need to cut it
up, Gramma Jo?” I assured him that it would
blend without a problem. Several minutes
later as I continued to scrape and mix, he wondered what was the holdup. I explained that I was having a little
trouble getting the butter to mix in.
With the wisdom of an experienced chef, he said, “I told you we should
have cut it up, Gramma.”
His
mother and I chuckled over the story later.
I said they must have covered this question while baking cookies at
home. She assured me that they hadn’t,
but that he is an intuitive kid and probably just reasoned it out. I smirked.
I’ve been cooking for forty years; he’s a seven-year-old.
I’ve got my ideas set in a lot of areas. My faith is most important to me. And I think I have it all figured out. I’m so sure of it that I begin to feel proud,
willing to tell anybody who wants (or doesn’t want) to listen how this world
works. Then someone older, or younger, a
new Christian or one whose eyes have recently opened to the joys of the Word
will make a statement that feels funny.
It doesn’t quite fit in with all the little blocks and pieces I’ve worked
out for myself. I have to tiptoe up to
the creaky door of my mind and force it back open. God wants me to be as excited about learning
as I was when I started this journey. He
wants me to be willing to change my habits and continue to grow. Today I baked cookies again. I want you to know, I cut up the butter.
Proverbs 11:2, 1:5
When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but
with humility comes wisdom…let the wise listen and add to their learning, and
let the discerning get guidance.
I was listening to 80’s music today as I did my housework. And a song came on that will be my blog this morning. I know it so well and it touched me as much today and it always did back then.
I’ve lost both my parents but, thankfully, things were so good between each of them and me when they died. They knew I loved them and I had tried to be available to them as much as possible. My daddy died very suddenly when I was twenty; my mom a little over 5 years ago. And I do know that we’ll have everlasting life to continue to explore our relationships.
That said, if you still have your parents, let them know how much you love them. If they aren’t believers, continue to pray as I know you are now and ask others to join with you!
And thanks to Mike and the Mechanics for the words from “The Living Years.”
Every generation blames the one before
And all of their frustrations come beating on your door
I know that I'm a prisoner to all my father held so dear
I know that I'm a hostage to all his hopes and fears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought
Stilted conversations I'm afraid that's all we've got
You say you just don't see it; he says it's perfect sense
You just can't get agreement in this present tense
We all talk a different language talking in defense
So we open up a quarrel between the present and the past
We only sacrifice the future; it's the bitterness that lasts
So don't yield to the fortunes you sometimes see as fate
It may have a new perspective on a different day
And if you don't give up, and don't give in you may just be okay
I wasn't there that morning when my father passed away
I didn't get to tell him all the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit later that same year
I'm sure I heard his echo in my baby's new born tears
I just wish I could have told him in the living years
Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It's too late when we die
To admit we don't see eye to eye
Nope, you’re not even close. Hard to believe, but I’m not about to talk snow. I finally made one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make. This year we will be greening up Christmas with an artificial tree. The fact that our last few trees had curvy trunks encouraged my choice. Let me start way back.
Forty years ago Steve and I celebrated our first Christmas together in our own home. For the first two years of our married lives, we lived in a small cottage with three rooms and a bathroom. A large room across the back became our bedroom and den. I painted the paneled cabinet doors in the fairly large kitchen with a combination of yellow, orange and avocado enamel paint – it was the 70’s after all. Our tiny living room had space for only a small love seat and a drop-leaf table, closed and pushed against the wall.
Excited to decorate our home for our first Christmas, we drove to the Kroger store to check out the fresh trees there. That valuable lesson of “everything looks larger once you get it in the house” was one I learned the hard way. We found a beautiful tree with an amazingly large trunk. We paid for it in a fever pitch of excitement and Steve dragged it to the car – carrying was not an option. The tree was not going to fit either in our car or on the top of it. I called my Aunt Dorothy who rescued us in her station wagon.
Several strings of white lights, a new larger tree stand and dozens of blue ornaments later, Steve and I sat on the floor at the base of our tree, admiring our work. The sofa and table had been relocated to the den and kitchen. The tree was huge, beautiful and I was hooked. Then and there I made an unconscious decision that all our Christmas trees would push the boundaries of space and patience.
Over the years we sawed, cut off limbs, replaced bent tree stands and bought more lights; but our trees were always the focal point of our home from Thanksgiving until New Year’s Day.
Once the kids were able to walk, our most meaningful holiday tradition became going to the woods or to tree farms to get our tree. Every year found us on a horse- or tractor-pulled wagon riding out to fields of beautifully pruned Scotch pines or fir trees. And every year my insurance costs rose as I stood on chairs or step-ladders to lean precariously into the tree to decorate the top.
I remember the year our tradition began to go awry. The tree-gathering trip was as fun as always; but why, oh why did we not see that deep curve in the spine of our lovely Scotch pine? Somehow we managed to get it into the tree stand and keep it up through the holidays, but the trend was set.
By this time the kids were grown and we were trooping through the trees and playing hide-and-seek with kids and grandchildren. The next year our usual tree farm was “catching its breath” and closed for the year and we found another one online – the beginning of the end. We drove into the next county and piled out of the cars (by now we were transporting two trees) and into the fields. Nothing; there was nothing that appealed to us and I began to get an uneasy feeling that our tradition was leaving us. We separated and each family drove to lots to pick out trees.
That particular Christmas, the tree was so curvy (and at this point we were trying to watch for this!), it kept falling. We finally had to undecorate it and get another tree. The next year was pretty much a repeat and I was beginning to yearn for a tall, straight tree that I could count on standing.
The next year we had moved to South Carolina and were still in many boxes because we were having work done on the house. I bought a little live Norfolk Island pine and decorated it; but Christmas was not the same.
Over the spring and summer months of this past year, I have been struggling with the artificial tree decision. Today I ordered the tree and I’m excited! Because I believe we can see any circumstance through the glasses we choose to wear. And today, I’m wearing my “this will be a beautiful, tall, straight tree and you will never again have to struggle with lights” glasses. I could easily go the other direction with my mood but Steve and I have way too much to look forward to.
However, cautious optimism is the phrase of the day. Though I do have a nice, sturdy stepstool, I am getting older; and I ordered a 7 ½ foot tree. The way I see it, that was a compromise. We have cathedral ceilings and I could have gone for the 12 foot one.
It sat for weeks in my garage, collecting dust. I couldn't let it go but I wasn't sure where to put it. My mother’s sewing cabinet. When someone dear dies, those possessions they leave behind become precious. My mom was a person of very few belongings. She lived on very little income. This was her choice and I respected her for it.
What money and things she received usually passed straight through her hands into someone else’s. She put Matthew 6:19-21, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”, into daily practice.
One of the things I most treasure of hers is the old sewing cabinet. It’s not a priceless antique and it’s a fairly simple looking piece of furniture. And some of you will think my memories that are associated with it are morbid. You see, it’s where she kept all her last instructions for me – life insurance, memorial service details, paperwork. And each time I went home, we would go to the little desk and she would pull out the drawers and show me where everything was.
My mom and I had viewed her death as just one more long trip. We believe this life on earth is the journey and at the end we are returning home. She was excited about it and I was able to be as well because I knew it represented complete freedom from pain, peace and joy and reunion for her.
Also, my dad died when I was twenty and I am an only child. So all those details she worked out were her way of protecting me as much as she could. She didn’t want me to have to deal with them after she was gone and I was grateful for that.
But there was something else. Last night I was sitting on the porch trying to figure out why the little chest meant so much. Then I remembered the year it came.
We were not wealthy by any means but we always had enough and Christmas was always an exciting time at my house because my Daddy would spring little surprises on us. I would climb into the back seat of the car to go to Sunday School and there would be a box of Christmas chocolates. One year he bought little iced cakes decorated with sugar holly and candles from the bakery just for fun. We would drive to the country and fill the car with holly and mistletoe.
I was about five years old the year the truck pulled up in front of the house and delivered the package. It seemed huge to me and, thinking back, it must have been at least six or seven feet tall. I was beside myself to know what was in it. I knew it was for Mother and it sat in our kitchen, the only room that would hold it. For days we stared at it, trying to guess.
I pleaded with Daddy to tell me what was in it. And guess what – he did! He impressed upon me the need to keep the secret, but he told me it was a sewing machine in a refrigerator box. I felt so important, sharing this confidence.
Thinking back now, I am so humbled by that trust. It had to have been a very dear and expensive gift for him to give. And the surprise must have been so important to him. And yet he trusted me with it. And I kept it. And it further cemented the degree of love and trust between the two of us.
So now, the little cabinet sits on my porch, a reminder of the love, the Christmas memories and the trust.
It’s crept up on me again. That emotional, roller-coaster time of year when at one moment life is not only good, but vibrant, exciting, full of promise and – whoops, the next minute is here already and, hang on, I’m plunging down that mudbank of despair. All right, I hear you. Maybe I’m exaggerating a wee bit.
But aren’t the holidays something of a mixed blessing? I blame it all on the grocery stores. Where the Halloween candy sat yesterday, there sits on November 1 a display of canned pumpkin, cranberry sauce, mini marshmallows, nuts and spices. And my blood begins pumping. Not with thoughts of the Thanksgiving food, but everything that goes with it. The harvest decorations, (which for me are the ones I pulled out in late September and are now beginning to look a little tired – my gourds are moldy for goodness sake!), the travel plans, the step onto the holidays merry-go-round.
No, it’s not about the fixins’. It’s about the whole family event. My thoughts race forward to what this year will be like, older adults and the absence of children and grandchildren, and my emotions begin to plunge as I remember past beautiful and ideal Thanksgivings. Wait. We are a normal family – we had no perfect Thanksgivings! But jostling, crowded, table-bulging dinners with too many chairs at one table and children complaining about the lack of chocolate desserts – those we had.
Just indulge me one more quick personal note and you’ll be glad you did. Because, wow, do I have a holiday tip for you! All those lovely Thanksgiving pies and cakes? Our family eats those on Thanksgiving morning for breakfast with the Macy’s parade. C’mon you know you’re too full to really enjoy those after the big meal. And you’ll love them with a big fire in the morning. I know I’m too late this year, but you can remember it for the next.
Hop off the Thanksgiving tilt-a-whirl and get in this long line for the Christmas bone-jarring, brain-rattling roller coaster! Rinse out the last of the Tupperware that held those turkey leftovers because you’ve got only a few short weeks to sample this smorgasbord of ups and downs, this eat stress like candy, this try to catch the spirit of, this why do I hate this holiday I love thrill ride.
We go through it every year, don’t we? It looks like we’d learn. I think it’s because the season, the day, is so important we just want to get it right. We do want to pay tribute to the Savior whose birth we celebrate. But we also want to love our families and honor our friendships and show our appreciation to those we love. We just feel this deep sense of obligation while the child in us screams “Why can’t it be like it used to be! What about my fun?”
All that to say I have no answers for you. But I can reach out my hand and offer you the promise of peace – sweet, quiet, personal peace – in the midst of all the bell-ringing, cash register craziness. And that is no small gift. Don’t misunderstand. It’s not mine to offer. I’m just the messenger.
But imagine this – a small oasis, a sweet smile and an understanding heart that is eager to join yours when the lines get too long or the noise gets too jarring. Jesus is standing right next to you and He understands it all because He’s felt it all – the press of the crowds, the demanding voices, the rejection of family, the failure to please when you’ve offered the perfect gift. He feels your pain and He’s holding out His hand to relieve you of the burden.
Just take a deep breath and go there with Him to that place of quiet rest in the middle of the mall. Personal peace. You’ll still ride the emotional roller coaster. But you’ll ride it with a smile.
Isaiah 26:3; John 14:27
You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you. Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
“Your sweet little old gray-haired mother.” That’s how she always signed her cards and letters to me. She could well have said “Your sassy, feisty, outspoken, witty little old gray-haired mother.” She died at 83 on October 31, 2003, Halloween. Even in that she got the last laugh. I can just hear her, “Try to forget me now!”
This woman who so influenced my life bore the name of Christian with tenacity, pride and boldness. In her last three years, she became more frail and less able to get out and spend time with people. She had to use a portable oxygen supply. She was greatest grieved by the fact that she could no longer witness. She said she told God He would just have to bring them to her door – and He did! An electrical installer, a county worker – no one would be leaving without hearing the Good News of Jesus Christ. Turns out, in both of those cases, God had brought them to her door for that specific purpose. She left instructions that the occasion of her memorial service be used to give the plan of salvation one more time – her “last chance.”
At 69, she took a home mission assignment to go to the inner city in Buffalo, New York. Loaded up her car, didn’t know a soul, didn’t have a place to live, just trusted God. She served there for six months and rejoiced in it for the rest of her life.
Mother went to early Sunday School. After it was over, she’d run outside and stand in the handicapped parking spot to save it for her sister, who didn’t need it. Supposedly my mom did because she rode home with her and had the oxygen. Frankly I can’t see it. She could almost outrun me.
One day I called her and she sounded very tired. I hung up and worried a bit. So I called her back and asked about it. This is what she said. “A person can’t sound tired? Don’t you worry about me. I still have a lot to do. I still have my list of old ladies I visit." She was 81.
She had a mild heart attack. When the ambulance got to her house, there she sat on her front porch swing with her purse in her lap waiting for them. I went home to Arkansas and sat with her in the hospital and helped her check out and get all her medications. Then we went to Cracker Barrel with my aunt and cousins for dinner.
She was completely comfortable talking about her death. She used to say, “To tell you the truth, I’m a little excited about it.” Do you know what that excitement was? That was the joy of her salvation. When she died, we had a brief graveside service that was a true celebration of thanksgiving for having had her zesty sense of humor and her in-your-face honesty. The warm November day was full of sunshine and the wind that she loved so tugged at the few remaining leaves on the trees around us. Stories that she wouldn’t allow to be told while she was still with us were shared of her giving to others. My husband and children were with me and we had the closeness that only those intense occasions in life bring. Friends I hadn’t seen in over thirty years were there to lend support. Funerals for successful world-centered citizens are dignified and sad; graveside services for poor God-centered “gray-haired little old ladies” are pure joy.
I realize I’m getting on in years myself. Not only do I no longer understand commercials, most times, I don’t even know what they were for! Pop culture references are lost on me. I watch American Idol and marvel that many of the songs they perform are completely new to me. My grandson had to repeat who he was going to be for Halloween three times and then I had to look him up on the internet to see who he was.
My kids say, “What’s up with her anyway? She doesn’t like to do anything anymore but listen to the birds, talk about God and read the Bible. What’s wrong?” Nothing’s wrong. I'm filled with peace and "I'm a happy soul." I’ve turned into Zelma T.
I’ve been thinking a lot about family lately. Our son, Cory, and our grandkids, Jacob and Claire, just left after a brief stay – first time at our South Carolina home. Steve and I live in a golf community on the lake and it is essentially a retirement community. The nearest small town, Manning, is about 11 miles away. You will not find a Starbucks, a movie complex, Outback Steakhouse, Borders books or Target store. Best Buy does not occupy mall space nor does Laser Quest, Chuck E Cheese nor Red Robin.
How would our technology-craving, fast-moving, entertainment-centered kids (including our grown son) take to our new and very quiet life style? I will tell you that when they got into the car and drove away, I was as exhausted as I ever am after a stay. But what a sweet kind of fatigue this was! 
The twilight of the night before had found us standing on our dock, tossing food to the turtles and fishing. We listened to Canadian geese passing overhead and watched heat lightning in the clouds on the horizon, “Southern lights”. I marveled at how very much it felt like my summer vacations of the 1950’s. No technology, just nature and family.
We played board games and sat on the back porch and rocked. My grandson and I shared stories and spent long companionable silences simply rocking and basking in our shared company. My granddaughter told me about her wishes and dreams and asked me about mine. We played bingo at the community center and set off fireworks.
Steve and I had be
en looking for a pontoon boat for some time and it just so happened that we found the one we felt we were supposed to buy only days before our family arrived. Steve and Jacob brought it home for the first time together. A milestone frozen in time that seemed monumental – that we will remember and we hope he does too.
Late at night, when the kids were in bed, the adults sat in the dark on the porch and listened to the crickets, cicadas and discussed the dearth of fireflies compared to my childhood. We too shared our dreams, disappointments, and hopes. We communicated. Without wires and without wireless. Just quiet voices wrapped in love.
School started this week here in South Carolina. The beginning of the routine, the mad dash for school supplies, the busses running again, it always makes me remember...First day of kindergarten. In Hawaii. My son walked away from me and onto the bus and I stood there struggling with all the emotions I was hoping I’d escaped – the sense that he was on the path to adulthood, the quiet lonely kitchen I was returning to, middle school, high school graduation, college, marriage – it all came crashing into my tear-filled eyes.
I walked home with my baby girl in the stroller and took the first of countless glances I would take at the clock that day. I paced. I told myself that I needed the extra time to spend with only my daughter. Then the answer occurred to me! He loved chocolate chip cookies. I would pull a batch out of the oven just in time for his bus. We could come home and talk about his day over cookies and cold milk! And, true enough, our time together that day was sweet.
The next year as he was entering first grade, we were a world away from that beautiful place. Steve was in the Army and we found ourselves on the east coast in New Jersey. I felt a small twinge of worry as I dropped him off at school – new school, new state, new friends. How would he adjust? However, my mind quickly eased because I already had my bag of chocolate chips in the pantry.
As each school year approached, my emotions changed. I was again torn when my daughter started kindergarten. But as my kids got older, I didn’t mind those first days of school. Can we be honest here? I’ll confess I began to look forward to those days and the peace and quiet in my house before the after-school piano lessons started.
And there were always the cookies. Every year. My own gift to my kids. My way of welcoming them home from their first day of school.
As they began to get older, I noticed that sometimes they would grab a handful and head out the kitchen door. Gone were the days of family circles around the table with cookies and milk and talk about teachers and new friends. Soon they forgot to thank me for the cookies. Then one day, they were out with friends after that first day of school and the cookies sat untouched until after dinner.
Here’s the funny thing – this story is not nearly as depressing as it sounds. We still shared our lives but in different ways. I realized during those last few years that the cookies were for me – my way of marking time, of setting tradition, of providing a stabilizing influence. Who knew the tradition, the encouragement was for me?
How many times do we take issues, worries about someone to God? We try to “fix them”. We pray for them – surely if I pray enough, he’ll change, she’s got to know she’s wrong in this. And we go to God’s Word to prove our point, to be able to show that we are right. And the more we read, the more God says, “Are you listening? This is about you and I’ve been teaching you.”
So now my kids are grown and gone. But do you know what’s amazing? I never approach the Tuesday after Labor Day without a moment of wistful remembering. And I’ve been known to bake a cookie or two.
I could have fallen in love with Steve’s dark eyes and hair. Or his big burgundy Mercury Marquis with the 8-track player. He was the only boy I had ever known that wore jeans and a corduroy blazer to class…in the 70’s – just wasn’t done but it was very sexy. I was attracted to all those things about him.
But the deal clincher happened the night of our first date. We were going out for a coke and a movie. We drove to the Tastee Freeze and sat for a bit and then started the short drive back to the little town movie theater to see Funny Girl. Along the way we passed a man with car trouble on the side of the road by Henderson College. Henderson was across the street from Ouachita where we both attended classes.
We pulled into a parking place downtown and walked to the theater. When we were almost at the ticket booth, he turned to me and said, “It may make us late, but would you mind too much if we drove back to help that man out with his car?” I told him that would be fine and we drove back. Thirty-nine years have passed and I can’t remember whether we were in fact late or even whether the man was still there and we helped him. But Steve’s concern so struck me that I called my mom that night and told her I had met the man I was going to marry.
Tonight we drove the golf cart to the community center to attend a benefit dinner. The skies were darkening the way they do so many early evenings here, but we didn’t care. We just figured we’d stay through the storm that would no doubt blow through quickly. Or we’d try to outrun it. Or, what fun, just drive home in it.
Sure enough the storm hit hard and fast as we were finishing our peach cobbler. We sat and visited for a bit; then Steve got antsy to get home and I was ready to sit on the back porch for the duration.
We went out to the front porch and I started laughing. Usually when we go to some affair or other at the center, there are at least 30 or so golf carts lined up in a row and a few cars scattered around. Tonight every parking space was filled with a car and there sat our soggy little cart alone on the grass – a testament to our being community newcomers.
The rain was pouring, the lightning was flashing, the seats were wet and the water was already standing in several-inch-deep puddles. Steve told me to stay put and he bolted across the sloppy lawn to get the cart for me. They are wonderfully adaptable little machines and he made a big circle around the lot and across the grass and pulled up onto the front porch to get me. There were several amused looks as Steve and I flew off into the rain, wet and laughing.
However we only got as far as the end of the community center street when he stopped and turned to me and said, “There’s a man back there whose wife is disabled and I think he’s struggling in this rain. Would you mind if we went back and gave him a hand?” I said of course not and we went back and Steve used the cart to transport her to the front porch. And I held back nostalgic tears of pride and gratitude that God had given me this good Samaritan of a man whose heart is so very tender.
Certainly we have had years of anger and frustration. There have been years when we have been strangers to one another. But we have endured. And tonight I felt like we came full circle at this most happy time of our lives together. I praise God for giving me this good and perfect gift of a man who cares about people.
