As the World Turns

I got the news this morning that one of my cousins is very ill and will probably not make it. Not a good way to start an article or your morning. Then I began to remember back, when we were children and things were simpler. People always say that kids are resilient and that they can deal with trauma better than adults can. I beg to differ. 

Our fathers were brothers. One (mine) was and is an extrovert, charming, and lived life like a big kid. His brother was brooding, introverted, artistic. Opposites. They decided to go into the printing business together, with their shop in downtown Smyrna, behind MawMaw's house. My childhood included many evenings and Saturdays there, playing tag in the yard, running in and out of her house and the shop. The smell of ink and toner still brings a rush of memories. Then there were the cousins. Daddy came from a family of eight kids, who decided to fill the earth themselves, so I had close to 30 cousins on that side. Most of them lived nearby, so visiting my grandparents always meant lots of playmates. We played in the sketchy creek that ran by her house. Sometimes we would dam it up and make a swimming hole. I remember MawMaw pitching a fit when we did that one time. We were covered in thick mud and she had to wash all our stinky, nasty clothes. There were adventures of walking on the railroad tracks next door, scrounging for Coke bottles all over Smyrna to redeem for nickels at the store, eating sour crabapples dipped in baking soda and salt (to make them foam up in your mouth). She had a giant persimmon tree in her backyard. That taste, that plummy, sweet burst of summer on the tongue was a wonderful surprise. Everything in her world was chaos. I don't think I ever walked across her floor that it wasn't sticky, even though she was always mopping. Her sink was eternally full of cold, greasy, dirty water. She preferred to be outside, planting something. She could put a stick in the ground and it would grow. There would be a little triangle of dirt she had scratched up next to the house. Huge stalks of corn and giant tomato plants would emerge, larger than life to me. She loved people and loved life.

My uncle's kids were my compatriots, in my mind. We got gleefully filthy together on many a Saturday. Little did I know of the trials those children endured, with both parents being alcoholics. Where my siblings and I's nights were spent with a bath, prayers and then a clean bed, warm and safe, these cousins lived in filth, squalor and urine-soaked sheets. I remember their Mama who was always squirreled up in a chair in a corner of the kitchen, tiny and bird-like, with a Pepsi-Cola and a cigarette, on the phone. Until I was older, I was envious of their freedom. They could come and go as they pleased and do anything they wanted, whereas my Mama was vigilant. We were never allowed to run inside a neighbor's house without letting her know where we were. Time and the world wore on my cousins as they fell into troubles and more trouble. Eventually, they all found some form of stability -- jobs, spouses, children -- but I am certain that they went through many storms that I know nothing of. Thankfully, the one who is at death's door today seems to have found peace with God along the way. I pray that her passing will be easy and that the burdens of this life will flutter off like gossamer wings.

An Old Rock Song

For our annual anniversaries, my husband Ken and I usually take a long weekend trip, somewhere in the Southeast. Since we got married mid-February around the most "romantic" holiday ever, it is difficult to get reservations. We don't get legalistic about the actual day. I figured out, after 35 years of this, why they stuck Valentine's day in the middle of February. It's because it's the dreariest month of the year. Somebody thought up a clever way to bring some romance to winter, guilt husbands into buying flowers and candy, boost the economy and fatten us up one more time before spring. Just in case Christmas didn't do it. I got late starting on my New Year's resolution diet, whoops, way of life, when Ken tried to get me to wait until after our trip. But it was too late. I was already on the boat and I wasn't jumping off. So we went and somehow I still enjoyed sumptuous food even though there was no sugar involved. How is that possible?

St. Simons Island. Can I go back now? We adored that darling village. We stayed in a little hotel across from the lighthouse and brought our bicycles. Peddled, shopped, ate, hung out at the beach, watched people, met people, and ate some more. There were no chain restaurants in sight and we were treated like it was our hometown. The little shops were wonderful, with very decent prices. Ken only wanted some flip-flops. But since I don't have enough jewelry yet, rather, there's never enough jewelry, I added several pairs of earrings and a necklace to my arsenal. Grandma Betty would be proud. My sister's children have been known to call me Aunt Bling-Bling. But I think they exaggerate...

I don't believe we've had a trip in our thirty-five years that made me feel so peaceful and rested. Maybe it's because I actually left our house in order before we retreated. Maybe it's because we had money set aside for it. But most probably, it's because I got to ride bikes and spend three days with that good-looking hunk of man who still loves me after all these years. You're still the One, honey.

Heavenly Heights

A dear friend invited us to a concert of some of the Old Masters at a church that we used to attend. Liz and I went, anticipating hearing some beautiful music and connecting with folks we haven't seen for fourteen years. As we pulled into the parking lot, a wave of nostalgia swept over us. Liz' earliest memories of church were experienced there, as well as her conversion and baptism. The parking lot was my children's favorite playground for many years. We would stay very late on Wednesday nights, women talking in clusters, kids laughing and swirling around us. Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, fellowship meals, suppers and prayer meetings, weddings, funerals, Vacation Bible School, classes....the hours we spent there were uncountable and also the center of our social and spiritual life.

Somewhere along the way, our paths parted and the Lord took us down a different trail. We grew up Baptists and ended up PCA Presbyterians. That's the really conservative ones, but don't tell my Baptist friends. They were afraid we had flipped our lids. Our heart's cry never changed and we remained true to the Word of God and to the sufficiency and authority of the Scriptures. Presbyterians sprinkle and Baptists dunk. That was enough to kill each other over, a few hundred years ago. Hopefully we've gotten past that. That's probably good, since we might have to harmonize when we get to heaven. 

But back to the concert...when we walked into the auditorium, we were enveloped like babies into a warm blanket. Old friends and acquaintances ran up, bear-hugging and crying out sweet words. It was a joy to let the years fall off and then sit down to listen. Voices rose, coached to perfection by a Mom who had decided to summon up her past and shake the rust off her talents. Goosebumps and tears kept cropping up as the exquisite words and music of Handel, Mozart, Haydn and the like soared into the still air. Oh yeah, I remember them. It was like cracking open a crusty treasure box to gleaming trinkets. Such wisdom, such passion. They don't write stuff like that anymore. 

Too soon, the concert was over and the reception hall was full of fruit and cheese trays and more affection. When we left, the brisk night and the twinkling stars seemed to accentuate the preciousness of the evening. We talked about it all the way home. What might have been called Old Home Day or Homecoming really felt just like that. Across our lives full of changes, growth, babies, old folks, death and ever-shifting perspectives, the love of God crossed the lake. Now that's a bit of heaven right there.

A Dream Within a Dream

I remember the times that my children and their spouses have surprised us with the most exciting news of all: that we were going to be grandparents. One was in Hudson's restaurant, where our youngest son presented us with a picture of baby booties. A big-sister T-shirt on another one. A picture of a roll in an oven (bun-in-the-oven)! Our second-born and his wife woke us up late at night with a knock at the front door and a pregnancy test. The aftershocks included months of waiting, praying, checking, ultrasounds, pondering....and then the final, near-heart-stopping kicker of pushing out those wrinkled, red, wailing lumps of pure love. 

All my life I've heard about how wonderful grandchildren are, how we should have had them first, how they're great because they are yours but you can send them home, and then the endless talk of how beautiful their grandkids are. But ours take the cake. They really are different than everybody else's. My husband says they are products of fine breeding, unlike the rest of the world's...they're smarter, funnier, and definitely cuter. No narcissism here. We now have five of them, aged three and under. All three sons had baby girls in the same year, and then our youngest son decided to up his A-game with two boys in rapid succession. On the rare occasion that all five are together, with our Aussie herding them in circles around the living room, the noise and drama are overwhelming. Number six is on the way, to our oldest son and his wife. Our hearts are constant in prayer, as they have suffered with infertility and the loss of other babies in utero. Every single morning, as I regain consciousness and I remember where I am, my heart lifts this child to God. And her/his Mama and Daddy. Life is a tenuous thread, where we indeed see through a glass darkly. We don't know what God is doing or why, most times. Our days are full of learning to trust Him. Or not. As I look in the sweet, bunny eyes of each of our grandchildren, I can't help but be amazed at the gift of life. These sugar dumplin' babies are full of themselves, helpless at first, then making up the hardest job you'll ever love. As I hold or play with them, I remember their Daddies and their Aunt as children, just yesterday. 

God gave me a precious dream recently. I was asleep in that dream, laying on a couch in a cream-colored version of our Victorian house, majestic tall windows and the screen door with lace blowing. As I "napped," each of my children climbed up, one at a time, and snuggled. They were small and I could smell their delicious baby hair, squeeze their chubby, smooth, firm skin. It was as real as life. When I woke up from my dream, I cried. Cried for the loss, and also cried for the blessings God mercifully sent me. It truly goes by in a flash and then you have to figure out the rest of your life, which is now convoluted by all the streams and rivulets pouring out from those beginnings. River of life, whose streams make glad the city of God...