No, I am sorry, but you cannot have my Christmas. It is not available for comment or optional changes. Somewhere in the last 40 years of my life my Christmas has been slowly taken away, piece by piece.
I want it back.
My Christmas is a deeply spiritual experience. It is a time to stop and reflect on the stillness and silence of winter nights. To breathe certain scents and listen to particular types of music. It may come wrapped in cold snow or the clear midnight sky of the tropics. It is warm, homey and totally mine. I share it freely with family and friends, but it is not for sale.
It’s not about nostalgia or traditions though both are part of Christmas, but about the stark realization that God wrapped His only Son in flesh and laid him in the arms of a common peasant couple in Bethlehem. And because of that birth, Christmas exists, and I am able to see God face to face in the person of Jesus Christ. The wood of the manger was a shadow of the cross to come; salvation was wrapped in cloth, enveloped in the tender softness of a little child.
I will not be sending Happy Holiday cards, or Seasons Greetings, because they cheapen and diminish the intense wonder of why Christmas was or is ever celebrated. Santa is welcome to enrich the festivities, as long as he too bows at the manger, worships the Child and remembers his roots in St. Nicholas.
Excuse me if the crèche and angels and shepherds and wise men offend you. I am more offended by a general malaise in society that tells me none of these are or should be part of the “holidays.” If you take away the foundation of Christmas, there simply is nothing left to celebrate.
If I took away Hanukkah or Kwanza or Ramadan, I would be severely chastised for not being pluralistically sensitive. Fine, anyone who wants to celebrate those holidays is welcome to do so. In fact, I will celebrate with them, but don’t tell me I cannot celebrate Christmas as I choose.
I will continue to put out my various creches and touch the wooden pieces with warm memories and wonder. I will sing and play carols that speak, not of holidays, Santa and elves, but of the Christ child. I will read the Christmas story again and again from Matthew and Luke, Isaiah and Micah. The words of scripture will echo back into my corporate memory of candlelit services and bells and organ. I will meditate on the drama and glory of it all. I will bask in the blaze of angel brightness. My Christmas will be flagrantly Christian.
I will sit in solitude beside my tree and reflect on the deep green of life, the red of blood shed for my salvation and the pure white light of a soul cleansed from sin.
Don’t even think about taking my Christmas. This is not a once a year celebration. I do not put Christ back into Christmas. I simply recognize that if I deeply love my Lord, He is the foundation of every day of the year. Christmas is not a holiday. It is my life.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesdays with Don
The book is called “Tuesdays with Morrie.” Morrie had ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, and Mitch Albom wrote a powerful story about his visits with Morrie on Tuesdays. It’s Tuesday, but I’m with Don.
Don has ALS too. That’s about where the similarity begins and ends.
Tuesday before Christmas Don has arranged a visit to the office staff. He wants to talk to us. Some say he wants to say goodbye and there’s a sense of finality to this visit. There’s a sniff of apprehension in the air.
The snow begins to fall heavily in the morning and by 11 o’clock it’s coming at a rate of an inch an hour. Still the staff gather to await Don’s arrival. His daughter Deb is driving him in from Lansing with four of her children. Other friends from the community show up, as well as retired staff who have shared life with Don for decades.
The weather delays the family’s arrival so we sing Christmas carols. Appropriate since Don’s granddaughters are coming to sing to us too. The van arrives on Angels We Have Heard on High, and Don rolls his wheelchair into the room as we finish O Come All Ye Faithful. One of the faithful has just come.
This is supposed to be about us sharing Don’s burden of impending death, isn’t it? Evidently not. Don reminds us that in his early life he was a counselor. He still is. Now he counsels the staff. He fills us in on how his ALS is progressing, what he can do, what he can’t do. How he’s learning to accept help. How the support group is pitching in. He bares his soul in his struggles, but with laughter and a twinkle that keeps us hovering between a smile and tears.
“I’m a man of action, and I’m learning to be still. I’m a man of crowds, and I am learning solitude. I’m a man of risk, and I am learning to be cautious. I’m asking God to keep me alive long enough to learn all the lessons I need to learn.”
At the end we gather around him, forty or fifty of us, hands on his shrunken shoulders. We pray over him and shoot some pictures. Maybe this will be the last time he comes in from Lansing, maybe not. But it’s Tuesday, and it’s Don’s day.
As he prepares to go back into the snow I watch his granddaughters help him with his coat, his hat, his gloves, and my mind races back a quarter century to my daughters doing the same thing for their own grandfather. Children learning to live with death. Children full of life giving their all to a man who is frail.
Yes, I need to spend another Tuesday with Don. There are more lessons to learn from the man who counsels his friends from a wheelchair.
Don has ALS too. That’s about where the similarity begins and ends.
Tuesday before Christmas Don has arranged a visit to the office staff. He wants to talk to us. Some say he wants to say goodbye and there’s a sense of finality to this visit. There’s a sniff of apprehension in the air.
The snow begins to fall heavily in the morning and by 11 o’clock it’s coming at a rate of an inch an hour. Still the staff gather to await Don’s arrival. His daughter Deb is driving him in from Lansing with four of her children. Other friends from the community show up, as well as retired staff who have shared life with Don for decades.
The weather delays the family’s arrival so we sing Christmas carols. Appropriate since Don’s granddaughters are coming to sing to us too. The van arrives on Angels We Have Heard on High, and Don rolls his wheelchair into the room as we finish O Come All Ye Faithful. One of the faithful has just come.
This is supposed to be about us sharing Don’s burden of impending death, isn’t it? Evidently not. Don reminds us that in his early life he was a counselor. He still is. Now he counsels the staff. He fills us in on how his ALS is progressing, what he can do, what he can’t do. How he’s learning to accept help. How the support group is pitching in. He bares his soul in his struggles, but with laughter and a twinkle that keeps us hovering between a smile and tears.
“I’m a man of action, and I’m learning to be still. I’m a man of crowds, and I am learning solitude. I’m a man of risk, and I am learning to be cautious. I’m asking God to keep me alive long enough to learn all the lessons I need to learn.”
At the end we gather around him, forty or fifty of us, hands on his shrunken shoulders. We pray over him and shoot some pictures. Maybe this will be the last time he comes in from Lansing, maybe not. But it’s Tuesday, and it’s Don’s day.
As he prepares to go back into the snow I watch his granddaughters help him with his coat, his hat, his gloves, and my mind races back a quarter century to my daughters doing the same thing for their own grandfather. Children learning to live with death. Children full of life giving their all to a man who is frail.
Yes, I need to spend another Tuesday with Don. There are more lessons to learn from the man who counsels his friends from a wheelchair.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Grace and truth
It’s Christmas week, God. You know about Christmas. It was your idea in the first place. Whether it was actually December 25, or even December when you put your son on earth is incidental to the deeper meaning of Christmas.
John puts it rather well: “The Word became flesh and pitched his tent among us, and we saw his glory, the glory of the only son of God, full of grace and truth.”
I am quite aware of the truth side. It’s the grace I’d like to discuss. Sometimes your grace seems rather random.
I heard someone say recently that the sovereignty of God is easy to believe when it goes our direction, but not easy when it makes no sense to us. See, I understand your grace when I read about Charity’s SUV swirling like a snowflake the other day across the highway, in and out of trucks and vans, totally encased in your grace so that she landed on the other side of the highway, facing oncoming traffic, totally unscathed, with no damage to the car. That grace is palpable.
I’m having a harder time with Sarah who lies dying, surrounded by her parents, her siblings, her husband and her little children. It’s been just weeks since she learned she was ill, and now death. At Christmas? This is grace?
I don’t think they understand either. Equally palpable.
Then I step back a pace and try to look it life from your perspective. A day is like a thousand years. A thousand years is like a day. My life is just a preface to eternity. Sarah’s life, Charity’s life, mere decimal dust in comparison to the way you see time.
If the God who created the universe chose to encase himself in the confines of humanity and walk a dirty earth, does he not understand human suffering? You wept when Lazarus died. Then you raised him from the dead. That was grace and truth side by side. And glory, not to forget glory.
This Christmas I will ponder eternity again. And in the midst of sorrow and joy, pain and gladness, I will remember that eternal God became finite man so that finite man may taste eternity.
John puts it rather well: “The Word became flesh and pitched his tent among us, and we saw his glory, the glory of the only son of God, full of grace and truth.”
I am quite aware of the truth side. It’s the grace I’d like to discuss. Sometimes your grace seems rather random.
I heard someone say recently that the sovereignty of God is easy to believe when it goes our direction, but not easy when it makes no sense to us. See, I understand your grace when I read about Charity’s SUV swirling like a snowflake the other day across the highway, in and out of trucks and vans, totally encased in your grace so that she landed on the other side of the highway, facing oncoming traffic, totally unscathed, with no damage to the car. That grace is palpable.
I’m having a harder time with Sarah who lies dying, surrounded by her parents, her siblings, her husband and her little children. It’s been just weeks since she learned she was ill, and now death. At Christmas? This is grace?
I don’t think they understand either. Equally palpable.
Then I step back a pace and try to look it life from your perspective. A day is like a thousand years. A thousand years is like a day. My life is just a preface to eternity. Sarah’s life, Charity’s life, mere decimal dust in comparison to the way you see time.
If the God who created the universe chose to encase himself in the confines of humanity and walk a dirty earth, does he not understand human suffering? You wept when Lazarus died. Then you raised him from the dead. That was grace and truth side by side. And glory, not to forget glory.
This Christmas I will ponder eternity again. And in the midst of sorrow and joy, pain and gladness, I will remember that eternal God became finite man so that finite man may taste eternity.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Black ice
I was flat on my back before I knew what had happened. Black ice under a light dusting of snow caught me just as I reached for a cart outside the local Meijer. Phone, purse, gloves, glasses, scattered. Not seriously hurt but the old bad knee twisted.
On a busy Saturday morning, in a crowded parking lot, one would think there would be someone near but the landscape was curiously devoid of other humans. Another person would have been a welcome sight, but there was no one to help.
I sat up, gathered my things, assessed the damage, and gingerly pulled up on the heavy bars holding the carts till I was upright. Grabbing a cart, I used it like a walker to hobble inside and do my quick run of marketing. Once home, I slapped on the never-far-away knee brace and went on with the day. A day later, I’m almost back to normal.
Almost.
I’m seeing a lot of black ice in the lives of those around me. Sudden death of someone near and dear. Jobs that disappear faster than snow in the sunshine. Unexpected surgeries. Deadly cancer in people too young to be thinking cancer. Change. Black ice that takes our feet out from under us and lands us on our backs.
Some people just seem to stay there in the parking lot waiting for rescue. Others gingerly climb up whatever bars are nearby, assess the damage, and work at moving on. Not an easy process, not comfortable.
In my own life, I need all the bars, carts, and braces I can find. Friends to share pain and rejoicing, family to join in tears and laughter, and a God who knows where the black ice is and is the only one watching the parking lot.
Jacob limped after he wrestled with God, and it reminded him he wasn’t the one in control. I’m limping a bit. Probably a good reminder.
On a busy Saturday morning, in a crowded parking lot, one would think there would be someone near but the landscape was curiously devoid of other humans. Another person would have been a welcome sight, but there was no one to help.
I sat up, gathered my things, assessed the damage, and gingerly pulled up on the heavy bars holding the carts till I was upright. Grabbing a cart, I used it like a walker to hobble inside and do my quick run of marketing. Once home, I slapped on the never-far-away knee brace and went on with the day. A day later, I’m almost back to normal.
Almost.
I’m seeing a lot of black ice in the lives of those around me. Sudden death of someone near and dear. Jobs that disappear faster than snow in the sunshine. Unexpected surgeries. Deadly cancer in people too young to be thinking cancer. Change. Black ice that takes our feet out from under us and lands us on our backs.
Some people just seem to stay there in the parking lot waiting for rescue. Others gingerly climb up whatever bars are nearby, assess the damage, and work at moving on. Not an easy process, not comfortable.
In my own life, I need all the bars, carts, and braces I can find. Friends to share pain and rejoicing, family to join in tears and laughter, and a God who knows where the black ice is and is the only one watching the parking lot.
Jacob limped after he wrestled with God, and it reminded him he wasn’t the one in control. I’m limping a bit. Probably a good reminder.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thanksgiving…The Sequel
The Thanksgiving crew re-gather on day two, with theme and variation. One family is gone, and another substituted. Another college student joins. The East-West balance shifts firmly East, and dinner is pure Chinese except for a random store-bought apple pie.
We pick up Grandmother Y with her teen grands on our way while the Driver and Tech take our teaching assistant and pick up their former student, now in college nearby. By the time we all arrive in Ann Arbor, the two college girls who never met before, are chatting cheerfully in their provincial dialect, Mandarin left behind in the joy of the sound of home. They look like tiny sisters and slide into the age gap between the ABC teens and the East and West adults.
The evening unrolls with comfort. Massive food preparation is still underway on our arrival and we chat to the increasing aroma of Sichuan straight up and spicy. “I was going to go mild,” murmurs the cook, “But you all said you LIKE spicy.” “Definitely,” we chorus. “There’s a few mild dishes too, just in case,” she adds.
The teens of today were the roaring toddlers of a decade plus ago, dashing around my house with abandon. It is wonderful to see them matured, interacting with the wide range of adults, switching easily from English to Chinese, comfortable with both cultures, deferent to their elders but pure American none the less. The current noisy children are our four grands, equally comfortable with the mix of language and food choices. The oldest grandmother speaks no English but mixes well with everyone, loving the little blondes like they were her own. She knows the word “baby.”
This interplay of families has deep roots. The 40-something host couple met us over a decade ago when they were struggling to take root in this country. As we befriended them in that transition, our kids came to know and enjoy them. We met their parents as they visited, and now twice have been to their town in central China to visit. Last summer, it was our young teaching assistant who put us on the right bus to visit the old folks. Today she is in the home of the second and third generation. The extra grandmother too is an old friend despite our language barrier. Last fall we helped her bury her husband.
The evening ends with a sweet fruit soup. I work with the grandmother and the teaching assistant to create tiny balls of rice dough that will go into the soup. Glutinous rice, sticky rice. As the three of us work together, three generations loosely bound by friendship, the conversation wanders in and out of languages. Everyone gathers in the kitchen again to enjoy the soup, sucking the rice balls off our spoons.
Suddenly the cook remembers the pie. Everyone over 18 opts out and the pie goes to the teens, children of China who now have American taste buds. But the youngest leans over to me and whispers, “YOU bake a lot better apple pie than these ones my grandma buys at the store…”
We pick up Grandmother Y with her teen grands on our way while the Driver and Tech take our teaching assistant and pick up their former student, now in college nearby. By the time we all arrive in Ann Arbor, the two college girls who never met before, are chatting cheerfully in their provincial dialect, Mandarin left behind in the joy of the sound of home. They look like tiny sisters and slide into the age gap between the ABC teens and the East and West adults.
The evening unrolls with comfort. Massive food preparation is still underway on our arrival and we chat to the increasing aroma of Sichuan straight up and spicy. “I was going to go mild,” murmurs the cook, “But you all said you LIKE spicy.” “Definitely,” we chorus. “There’s a few mild dishes too, just in case,” she adds.
The teens of today were the roaring toddlers of a decade plus ago, dashing around my house with abandon. It is wonderful to see them matured, interacting with the wide range of adults, switching easily from English to Chinese, comfortable with both cultures, deferent to their elders but pure American none the less. The current noisy children are our four grands, equally comfortable with the mix of language and food choices. The oldest grandmother speaks no English but mixes well with everyone, loving the little blondes like they were her own. She knows the word “baby.”
This interplay of families has deep roots. The 40-something host couple met us over a decade ago when they were struggling to take root in this country. As we befriended them in that transition, our kids came to know and enjoy them. We met their parents as they visited, and now twice have been to their town in central China to visit. Last summer, it was our young teaching assistant who put us on the right bus to visit the old folks. Today she is in the home of the second and third generation. The extra grandmother too is an old friend despite our language barrier. Last fall we helped her bury her husband.
The evening ends with a sweet fruit soup. I work with the grandmother and the teaching assistant to create tiny balls of rice dough that will go into the soup. Glutinous rice, sticky rice. As the three of us work together, three generations loosely bound by friendship, the conversation wanders in and out of languages. Everyone gathers in the kitchen again to enjoy the soup, sucking the rice balls off our spoons.
Suddenly the cook remembers the pie. Everyone over 18 opts out and the pie goes to the teens, children of China who now have American taste buds. But the youngest leans over to me and whispers, “YOU bake a lot better apple pie than these ones my grandma buys at the store…”
Friday, November 28, 2008
Extending the Table
The table, even in its smallest form, is large. The family who first owned it must have entertained largely. It came to us about 30 years ago when it was too large for a retirement apartment, and we have loved it ever since.
Thanksgiving morning we pull it out all the way and find the five leaves and table pads. Then I lay the tablecloth a friend made many years ago that is the only one that will fit the table fully extended.
Next we dig out dishes and silver. There will be 17 at the table – about the max that it will hold even with five leaves. I teach our young Chinese teaching assistant, visiting for the weekend, how to lay two forks, two spoons and a knife, plate, glass. We skip the extra plates in light of space. The silver is a wild assortment of years of family and friend collections; the plates almost as varied. We pull out all the serving dishes we’ll need and stack them on the island in the kitchen.
Dinner is well underway by now. The turkey has been in for hours, the potatoes finished and tucked away to be warmed, as well as the squash. Cranberry of both the jelled and sauce varieties are chilling. One friend will bring salad and another, breads. There are vegetables on the counter to munch and the Dreamer brings humus. The Driver’s apricot cheese ball sits in the fridge with crackers ready.
At four the cars begin to arrive and family and friends pile into the house. There’s a loud mix of English and Chinese as greetings are exchanged. Children have grown and those who used to be tiny are now teens reaching out to hold the new generation. We tuck the oldest great-grandmother, now very fragile, into her seat before the rest of us descend the table.
Gathering at the table is a tight squeeze. Even though the table sits in the “living room” side of the colonial, this table was built for a house of a previous generation. As we start we sing our praise and thanksgiving. On a computer nearby the Dragon skypes in to say hello from afar where she is also with friends.
Conversation bounces around. Chinese and U.S. economics. Engineering projects. Business. Recipes for food. Origin of specific pieces of the silverware. Language confusion reigns. Conversations started in English revert to Chinese and vice-versa.
Across the table the teenage son of the mechanical engineer loads his third helping of mashed potatoes. In his rice based home, mashed potatoes aren’t common. Our young assistant has made friends with the teenage girl who first came here as a tiny infant. Where did the years go?
Finally we sit back and view the decimated platters and dishes. Dessert will wait for a while. Another feast has extended the table and it was rich.
Thanksgiving indeed.
Thanksgiving morning we pull it out all the way and find the five leaves and table pads. Then I lay the tablecloth a friend made many years ago that is the only one that will fit the table fully extended.
Next we dig out dishes and silver. There will be 17 at the table – about the max that it will hold even with five leaves. I teach our young Chinese teaching assistant, visiting for the weekend, how to lay two forks, two spoons and a knife, plate, glass. We skip the extra plates in light of space. The silver is a wild assortment of years of family and friend collections; the plates almost as varied. We pull out all the serving dishes we’ll need and stack them on the island in the kitchen.
Dinner is well underway by now. The turkey has been in for hours, the potatoes finished and tucked away to be warmed, as well as the squash. Cranberry of both the jelled and sauce varieties are chilling. One friend will bring salad and another, breads. There are vegetables on the counter to munch and the Dreamer brings humus. The Driver’s apricot cheese ball sits in the fridge with crackers ready.
At four the cars begin to arrive and family and friends pile into the house. There’s a loud mix of English and Chinese as greetings are exchanged. Children have grown and those who used to be tiny are now teens reaching out to hold the new generation. We tuck the oldest great-grandmother, now very fragile, into her seat before the rest of us descend the table.
Gathering at the table is a tight squeeze. Even though the table sits in the “living room” side of the colonial, this table was built for a house of a previous generation. As we start we sing our praise and thanksgiving. On a computer nearby the Dragon skypes in to say hello from afar where she is also with friends.
Conversation bounces around. Chinese and U.S. economics. Engineering projects. Business. Recipes for food. Origin of specific pieces of the silverware. Language confusion reigns. Conversations started in English revert to Chinese and vice-versa.
Across the table the teenage son of the mechanical engineer loads his third helping of mashed potatoes. In his rice based home, mashed potatoes aren’t common. Our young assistant has made friends with the teenage girl who first came here as a tiny infant. Where did the years go?
Finally we sit back and view the decimated platters and dishes. Dessert will wait for a while. Another feast has extended the table and it was rich.
Thanksgiving indeed.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Home Alone
After weeks of a house bursting with family and activity, following weeks on the road with people, ‘home alone’ is singularly inviting. Only the grandcats skitter around the rooms or curl contentedly on the down quilt at the foot of the bed.
Yesterday was packed. Exercise. Driver and Co to the airport to visit the Dragon – (and then they were stuck for hours in transit because of silly blush of snow on the East coast -- phone calls and decisions.) A morning with 50+ local Moms of Pre-Schoolers to discuss the influence of visual media on little people. Evening at the auction of the local academy where I now serve as a regent. Home to a long phone conversation with the absent husband as he drove south from Boston.
Today dawns clear and cold and empty of people. Rise when I choose, eat what I choose, work at my own pace. Down to the basement to continue sorting through nonsense collected over years. Laundry to process. A tad of shopping. Study time in Colossians for the upcoming couples retreat in December. Dinner on my own, with a good book. Perhaps a movie, again of my own choosing.
Home alone. No one to feed -- except the insistent cats who try to convince me they are starving. No one to ask questions. No one to interrupt my train of thought. Even the phone is gloriously silent.
Tomorrow the Dreamer, the Engineer, and the little grands will gather after church for the Sunday tradition and the house will be full of noise and laughter and conversation. The husband will fly in from New England and the Driver and Tech and grand #4 will fly home from Philadelphia. There will be no silence, no peace, no quiet.
One day home alone is bliss. A life of home alone would be desperately lonely.
“Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds -- his name is the LORD-- and rejoice before him. A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families…” Ps. 68:4-6
Yesterday was packed. Exercise. Driver and Co to the airport to visit the Dragon – (and then they were stuck for hours in transit because of silly blush of snow on the East coast -- phone calls and decisions.) A morning with 50+ local Moms of Pre-Schoolers to discuss the influence of visual media on little people. Evening at the auction of the local academy where I now serve as a regent. Home to a long phone conversation with the absent husband as he drove south from Boston.
Today dawns clear and cold and empty of people. Rise when I choose, eat what I choose, work at my own pace. Down to the basement to continue sorting through nonsense collected over years. Laundry to process. A tad of shopping. Study time in Colossians for the upcoming couples retreat in December. Dinner on my own, with a good book. Perhaps a movie, again of my own choosing.
Home alone. No one to feed -- except the insistent cats who try to convince me they are starving. No one to ask questions. No one to interrupt my train of thought. Even the phone is gloriously silent.
Tomorrow the Dreamer, the Engineer, and the little grands will gather after church for the Sunday tradition and the house will be full of noise and laughter and conversation. The husband will fly in from New England and the Driver and Tech and grand #4 will fly home from Philadelphia. There will be no silence, no peace, no quiet.
One day home alone is bliss. A life of home alone would be desperately lonely.
“Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds -- his name is the LORD-- and rejoice before him. A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. God sets the lonely in families…” Ps. 68:4-6
Friday, November 14, 2008
Celebration
As we enter the auditorium I am immediately struck by the picture on the screen. Al, far thinner and older than I remember, but pointing a finger right at us, wide smile across his face, beside a pool. Larger than life, in fact, huge.
But he was.
The platform is covered with flowers so one hardly notices the casket. It’s there, but not the centerpiece. The man on the screen is alive; the body in the casket is just an empty shell.
The service starts with a sax solo, “Great is thy faithfulness.” The man beside me, an old friend we met because of Al, whispers, “He’d have to have this one.” Music follows music. “How great thou art. How great is our God. You are my King.” Drums, sax, guitar, and a wicked good pianist. The auditorium is packed with a at least 500+ and they sing with gusto.
The widow, younger by far, welcomes the audience. Al’s first wife died in a heartbeat almost 20 years ago, and though I knew he remarried, I have never met this woman. A stock broker, she speaks with ease, and grace.
Different family members speak. Two of the adult stepchildren speak with tears of the father that Al became to them, a wonderful gift in their young adulthood. The oldest granddaughter, now 34, speaks for all 26. I remember her parents stopping by our house the night she was born to borrow a Nikon for the hospital. Can this poised young woman be the toddler I sat up with one night with croup when her parents were off somewhere? Only the eyes are the same.
A son-in-law tells of sneaking in brats and sauerkraut when wife #2 was golfing. He apologizes, in a sense, to his long gone birth father for his deep love for his father-in-law. To know Al, evidently, was to love him. Most of this middle aged audience knew him when they were teens. He was the father figure who told it to them straight, but since he wasn’t their father, they did what he told them to do.
The highlight of the service is a video interview done just three weeks ago by a broadcaster daughter, and videographer grandson. Once again, Al lives. The color of his Florida home drenches the screen. He talks about fighting cancer, about hating to leave his family, about loving life. “It’s not about me though,” he says. “God doesn’t make mistakes.”
The pastor closes the service simply. “Al loved people and was totally generous with himself, his time, and his money. He loved his Lord,” he reminds us. “In fact, he made Jesus so appealing that if he gave an altar call, you just couldn’t stay in your seat. You had to go find out what made Al so happy.”
The graveside, dripping in gray November rain, is short and sweet. The crowd huddles and shares umbrellas. It’s a formality. Al isn’t there.
Back at the church, there’s a lavish luncheon. The tables are full of people talking non-stop, catching up with each other, telling stories. The family are greeting people, talking to each other. Little kids finish their food and begin to wander around. Laughter rings around the room.
The pain of loss will come. No one can replace a father. But living large leaves a legacy that is winsome.
But he was.
The platform is covered with flowers so one hardly notices the casket. It’s there, but not the centerpiece. The man on the screen is alive; the body in the casket is just an empty shell.
The service starts with a sax solo, “Great is thy faithfulness.” The man beside me, an old friend we met because of Al, whispers, “He’d have to have this one.” Music follows music. “How great thou art. How great is our God. You are my King.” Drums, sax, guitar, and a wicked good pianist. The auditorium is packed with a at least 500+ and they sing with gusto.
The widow, younger by far, welcomes the audience. Al’s first wife died in a heartbeat almost 20 years ago, and though I knew he remarried, I have never met this woman. A stock broker, she speaks with ease, and grace.
Different family members speak. Two of the adult stepchildren speak with tears of the father that Al became to them, a wonderful gift in their young adulthood. The oldest granddaughter, now 34, speaks for all 26. I remember her parents stopping by our house the night she was born to borrow a Nikon for the hospital. Can this poised young woman be the toddler I sat up with one night with croup when her parents were off somewhere? Only the eyes are the same.
A son-in-law tells of sneaking in brats and sauerkraut when wife #2 was golfing. He apologizes, in a sense, to his long gone birth father for his deep love for his father-in-law. To know Al, evidently, was to love him. Most of this middle aged audience knew him when they were teens. He was the father figure who told it to them straight, but since he wasn’t their father, they did what he told them to do.
The highlight of the service is a video interview done just three weeks ago by a broadcaster daughter, and videographer grandson. Once again, Al lives. The color of his Florida home drenches the screen. He talks about fighting cancer, about hating to leave his family, about loving life. “It’s not about me though,” he says. “God doesn’t make mistakes.”
The pastor closes the service simply. “Al loved people and was totally generous with himself, his time, and his money. He loved his Lord,” he reminds us. “In fact, he made Jesus so appealing that if he gave an altar call, you just couldn’t stay in your seat. You had to go find out what made Al so happy.”
The graveside, dripping in gray November rain, is short and sweet. The crowd huddles and shares umbrellas. It’s a formality. Al isn’t there.
Back at the church, there’s a lavish luncheon. The tables are full of people talking non-stop, catching up with each other, telling stories. The family are greeting people, talking to each other. Little kids finish their food and begin to wander around. Laughter rings around the room.
The pain of loss will come. No one can replace a father. But living large leaves a legacy that is winsome.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Shack
A month or so ago my friend said, “Read The Shack.” Respecting her judgment, I got a copy when I got home and read The Shack. Definitely worth the read.
Some of the plot is predictable – man who had a hypocritical and cruel father loses youngest daughter to brutal murder, blames himself, helps the rest of the family get past the pain but is himself still gripped with what he terms The Great Sadness, and definitely angry with God. By the end of the book, depression and anger are gone. But so is predictable theology.
It is the free-wheeling characters inhabiting the pages that make the book interesting. Characters that poke holes through most of courteous religiosity, form and rules. God, for example, is a large African American woman named Papa. Why? “To reveal myself to you as a very large, white grandfather figure with a flowing beard, like Gandalf, would simply reinforce your stereotypes…Hasn’t it always been a problem for you to embrace me as your father? After what you’ve been through, you couldn’t very well handle a father right now, could you?”
C.S. Lewis would like how The Shack deals with The Problem of Pain. “We created you, the human, to be in face-to-face relationship with us.... As difficult as it will be for you to understand, everything that has taken place is occurring exactly according to this purpose, without violating choice or will.”
“How can you say that with all the pain in this world, all the wars and disasters…what is the value in a little girl being murdered by some twisted deviant?”
Honest questions. Honest answers. “We’re not justifying it. We are redeeming it.” Allowing man to take power in his own hands is costly, but the cross was more costly.
“You really don’t understand yet,” Papa says. “You try to make sense of the world in which you live based on a very small and incomplete picture of reality. It is like looking at a parade through a tiny knothole of hurt, pain, self-centeredness, and power and believing you are on your own and insignificant.”
There is more. Not deeply profound, but interesting. Some predictability, some sheer fantasy. Definitely outside the ring of pious drivel that makes one gag, and perhaps approaching the realm of thoughtful reality.
Some of the plot is predictable – man who had a hypocritical and cruel father loses youngest daughter to brutal murder, blames himself, helps the rest of the family get past the pain but is himself still gripped with what he terms The Great Sadness, and definitely angry with God. By the end of the book, depression and anger are gone. But so is predictable theology.
It is the free-wheeling characters inhabiting the pages that make the book interesting. Characters that poke holes through most of courteous religiosity, form and rules. God, for example, is a large African American woman named Papa. Why? “To reveal myself to you as a very large, white grandfather figure with a flowing beard, like Gandalf, would simply reinforce your stereotypes…Hasn’t it always been a problem for you to embrace me as your father? After what you’ve been through, you couldn’t very well handle a father right now, could you?”
C.S. Lewis would like how The Shack deals with The Problem of Pain. “We created you, the human, to be in face-to-face relationship with us.... As difficult as it will be for you to understand, everything that has taken place is occurring exactly according to this purpose, without violating choice or will.”
“How can you say that with all the pain in this world, all the wars and disasters…what is the value in a little girl being murdered by some twisted deviant?”
Honest questions. Honest answers. “We’re not justifying it. We are redeeming it.” Allowing man to take power in his own hands is costly, but the cross was more costly.
“You really don’t understand yet,” Papa says. “You try to make sense of the world in which you live based on a very small and incomplete picture of reality. It is like looking at a parade through a tiny knothole of hurt, pain, self-centeredness, and power and believing you are on your own and insignificant.”
There is more. Not deeply profound, but interesting. Some predictability, some sheer fantasy. Definitely outside the ring of pious drivel that makes one gag, and perhaps approaching the realm of thoughtful reality.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Full House
The grand cats are the first visible signs of life on Sunday morning. They work hard to convince me that they are starving waifs, lost in the still dark of night. Unfortunately, for them, there’s a little note on the food container that says, “Fed cats at 4 AM.” A full house needs communication tools.
We’re into week two of the multigenerational, refugee household. This weekend added another couple who flew in from the south, but the wife is a good friend from Asia. We’ve met her before and now know her new husband, recently back from Iraq. Lowest on the totem pole, they got the basement “suite.” No grumping – they are happy to be here and reconnect. The bonds forged overseas are strong and deep. Conversation runs around the world and includes the hard side of returning this direction.
Mealtime is interesting. I am reminded of years ago when multi-family would arrive at Grammy’s home and meals morphed without much planning. Here, too, there are many cooks and many bottle washers. Food gets to the table to find that someone has set the table. The dishes are stowed in the dishwasher and land back in the cupboards. I sort of mastermind the menu, but it’s open to diversions.
Last night the “boys” took a walk to Panera for bread and returned with bread and more. This afternoon a girls’ trip to the corner Asian grocery brought home familiar – to us at least – goodies. My great foray of the weekend was a run to Sam’s.
Midday on Sunday is The Gathering. The clan is larger today than usual, but the routine seamless. Early Sunday morning one cook starts the main meal before breakfast. The other cooks pick up after breakfast and finish the pre-church prep. The post church final touches are also shared. By that time the little kids are hungry and speed is essential. Dinner, that Sunday institution I choose to retain, is only a little about food. It is far more about conversation and dialogue and debate. All ideas are welcome, even those that get shot down quickly.
A home with more lefthanders than righthanders tends to send food in two directions at once. Noted, accepted, and laughed at. Children are part of the mix, but not the focus. They are quite welcome to join the conversation, but somehow understand that this is not about them.
They will be the adults some day and rule the conversation.
Full house. It’s working. Laundry gets brought down, tossed in, dried, folded, and returned. No one keeps track of who’s doing what. Housework is the same. Everyone shares. Inside and outside.
Perhaps this is how our ancestors lived in multi-generational community. Who knows? It won’t last forever, but for now, the full house is a warm haven for wanderers – all of us.
We’re into week two of the multigenerational, refugee household. This weekend added another couple who flew in from the south, but the wife is a good friend from Asia. We’ve met her before and now know her new husband, recently back from Iraq. Lowest on the totem pole, they got the basement “suite.” No grumping – they are happy to be here and reconnect. The bonds forged overseas are strong and deep. Conversation runs around the world and includes the hard side of returning this direction.
Mealtime is interesting. I am reminded of years ago when multi-family would arrive at Grammy’s home and meals morphed without much planning. Here, too, there are many cooks and many bottle washers. Food gets to the table to find that someone has set the table. The dishes are stowed in the dishwasher and land back in the cupboards. I sort of mastermind the menu, but it’s open to diversions.
Last night the “boys” took a walk to Panera for bread and returned with bread and more. This afternoon a girls’ trip to the corner Asian grocery brought home familiar – to us at least – goodies. My great foray of the weekend was a run to Sam’s.
Midday on Sunday is The Gathering. The clan is larger today than usual, but the routine seamless. Early Sunday morning one cook starts the main meal before breakfast. The other cooks pick up after breakfast and finish the pre-church prep. The post church final touches are also shared. By that time the little kids are hungry and speed is essential. Dinner, that Sunday institution I choose to retain, is only a little about food. It is far more about conversation and dialogue and debate. All ideas are welcome, even those that get shot down quickly.
A home with more lefthanders than righthanders tends to send food in two directions at once. Noted, accepted, and laughed at. Children are part of the mix, but not the focus. They are quite welcome to join the conversation, but somehow understand that this is not about them.
They will be the adults some day and rule the conversation.
Full house. It’s working. Laundry gets brought down, tossed in, dried, folded, and returned. No one keeps track of who’s doing what. Housework is the same. Everyone shares. Inside and outside.
Perhaps this is how our ancestors lived in multi-generational community. Who knows? It won’t last forever, but for now, the full house is a warm haven for wanderers – all of us.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The color of autumn
The corporate office campus is a jewel of acreage with a deep ravine running down the middle. Much of the property is woods with a wide range of deciduous trees towering high overhead. Each season is unique – the stark black outlines of winter, the blush of pale green that marks early spring, the deep green of summer that blocks the view across the valley, and finally, the blaze of autumn.
Trees mean leaves. Many trees mean many leaves. Many leaves fast become mountains.
Typically, we declare a fall day an outdoor work day for all of the office. Accomplishing a needed task meanwhile gives everyone a day outside that has no resemblance to desks and computers. No one complains. Everyone pitches in and the camaraderie is rich.
We arrive at nine to find an arsenal of rakes, tarps, clippers, trash cans, and the junky old white truck that lives back in the maintenance barn. I join the rakers on the front hill that sweeps up to the treeline and then plummets down the other side to the expressway. We work in pairs, pulling leaves into large piles along the hill.
Across at the front entrance, a group of women are pruning the rose garden and shrubs around the brick walk and little tree planted to honor Tom. Tom’s widow directs the crew. We’ve missed Tom for some years, but we all love the landscaped garden and bench. It’s a good place to quietly sit and think or have a cell phone break outside the office-with-no-walls. This bench hears lots of prayer.
Tending Tom’s garden is fine work, but I stick with the rough leaf crew ankle deep in yellow and orange
After we rake all the leaves into piles, Terry brings the truck. Complete with straw hat, the Minnesota farm boy turned executive is loving today. We pile leaves onto tarps, haul them to the truck, and dump them into the bed. I hop on top of the pile as Terry wings the truck around back to the edge of the ravine, wind in my hair. We dump the contents into the valley of trees and return for another load. The rhythm of the process takes on a life of its own, punctuated with much laughter and jest over who’s working hardest, rakers or haulers.
Inside, another crew is making up boxes of goodies for all the company kids who are in the US for college. With moms living overseas, the office women send a “mom” box each fall that will arrive in time for exam week.
The green grass slowly emerges from the golden carpet. At noon we’ve conquered the leaves and the front garden looks impeccable. We troop down to the dining commons for pizza and salad. “Good job,” says the boss. “Looks like someone lives here now.”
Mission. Accomplished.
Trees mean leaves. Many trees mean many leaves. Many leaves fast become mountains.
Typically, we declare a fall day an outdoor work day for all of the office. Accomplishing a needed task meanwhile gives everyone a day outside that has no resemblance to desks and computers. No one complains. Everyone pitches in and the camaraderie is rich.
We arrive at nine to find an arsenal of rakes, tarps, clippers, trash cans, and the junky old white truck that lives back in the maintenance barn. I join the rakers on the front hill that sweeps up to the treeline and then plummets down the other side to the expressway. We work in pairs, pulling leaves into large piles along the hill.
Across at the front entrance, a group of women are pruning the rose garden and shrubs around the brick walk and little tree planted to honor Tom. Tom’s widow directs the crew. We’ve missed Tom for some years, but we all love the landscaped garden and bench. It’s a good place to quietly sit and think or have a cell phone break outside the office-with-no-walls. This bench hears lots of prayer.
Tending Tom’s garden is fine work, but I stick with the rough leaf crew ankle deep in yellow and orange
After we rake all the leaves into piles, Terry brings the truck. Complete with straw hat, the Minnesota farm boy turned executive is loving today. We pile leaves onto tarps, haul them to the truck, and dump them into the bed. I hop on top of the pile as Terry wings the truck around back to the edge of the ravine, wind in my hair. We dump the contents into the valley of trees and return for another load. The rhythm of the process takes on a life of its own, punctuated with much laughter and jest over who’s working hardest, rakers or haulers.
Inside, another crew is making up boxes of goodies for all the company kids who are in the US for college. With moms living overseas, the office women send a “mom” box each fall that will arrive in time for exam week.
The green grass slowly emerges from the golden carpet. At noon we’ve conquered the leaves and the front garden looks impeccable. We troop down to the dining commons for pizza and salad. “Good job,” says the boss. “Looks like someone lives here now.”
Mission. Accomplished.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The vote
The phone rings and the caller asks for the Dragon. I say that she’s not home and he tells me he’s calling all absentee ballot voters on behalf of a local candidate.
I resist several urges. One is to tell him that he’s mispronouncing the name of the candidate he’s representing. I happen to know her well and wouldn’t vote for her at gunpoint. I also don’t ask him why he’s calling for the Dragon if she’s voting absentee…doesn’t absentee mean “absent?” Guess not.
I simply give the polite answer that she’s away at grad school and is a responsible adult who will have returned her ballot. He murmurs that this is nice and goes away.
Of course she’s voted. In June, on a visit home, she stopped by the township office to find out why they wouldn’t send an absentee ballot. She found she was no longer registered at her legal address, and surmised that securing a license in Alaska must have knocked her out of Michigan. The clerk at the window made noises that it was too late to get an absentee ballot, but the clerk at the computer pulled up the Dragon’s voting record. “Oh, heavens,” she said. “Give her a ballot. She’s voted in more elections in the last nine years than I have.” Ballot secured.
These were the same clerks who sent our absentee ballots to China for the August primary.
Voting is important in this house.
The Driver hand carried her absentee ballot home from China and had me drop it at the township building since she headed out of town on Sunday. The Dreamer traded off kids with a friend today so they both could go vote. The young women of the applesauce brigade voted before they came to work. Juggling schedules, everyone in the house voted in some way, shape, or form.
At least two of us collected the free cup of coffee at Starbucks. Voting has some perks.
I resist several urges. One is to tell him that he’s mispronouncing the name of the candidate he’s representing. I happen to know her well and wouldn’t vote for her at gunpoint. I also don’t ask him why he’s calling for the Dragon if she’s voting absentee…doesn’t absentee mean “absent?” Guess not.
I simply give the polite answer that she’s away at grad school and is a responsible adult who will have returned her ballot. He murmurs that this is nice and goes away.
Of course she’s voted. In June, on a visit home, she stopped by the township office to find out why they wouldn’t send an absentee ballot. She found she was no longer registered at her legal address, and surmised that securing a license in Alaska must have knocked her out of Michigan. The clerk at the window made noises that it was too late to get an absentee ballot, but the clerk at the computer pulled up the Dragon’s voting record. “Oh, heavens,” she said. “Give her a ballot. She’s voted in more elections in the last nine years than I have.” Ballot secured.
These were the same clerks who sent our absentee ballots to China for the August primary.
Voting is important in this house.
The Driver hand carried her absentee ballot home from China and had me drop it at the township building since she headed out of town on Sunday. The Dreamer traded off kids with a friend today so they both could go vote. The young women of the applesauce brigade voted before they came to work. Juggling schedules, everyone in the house voted in some way, shape, or form.
At least two of us collected the free cup of coffee at Starbucks. Voting has some perks.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Value laden
The garage takes on the look and smell of an apple barn. Rows of boxes filled with a plethora of color and shape. Bright Ida Reds alongside burgundy Spies. Green blushed Macs rub up against Goldens. Dark ruby Jonathans sit with striated Galas.
The applesauce “machine” begins in the barn. One worker loads two tubs of apples, taking a selection from all the varieties and bringing them to the kitchen. There they are double washed and piled high. The next workers grab washed apples, position them on the cutting board, and in one motion split them into seven pieces with an apple cutter. The pieces are tossed into four large pots on the stove and boiled.
When soft, the pieces are processed through an ancient apple mill that spits applesauce out one end and peels, stems, and seeds out another side. Finally the sauce is bagged and stacked in the freezer.
The work flows without stoppage, every woman taking turns at each job. The men have fled. Two took their guns to the shooting range, the third is off to take his pilot re-certs, and the eldest, after giving some very male engineering advice on methodology, has retreated to points outside and upstairs.
The children wander in and out of the process. Scorning political correctness of safety, we allow them to help carry, wash, and cut cold apples, as well as turn the apple mill of hot sauce. They are little and don’t stay long at any job, but in time their now childish attempts will yield genuine results. The littlest babes hang out in various seats, or slung on their mom’s backs.
Lunchtime finds the crew gathered at the round table. The little ones major on applesauce, bowl after bowl. The fresh batch passes the taste test. Grand #2 decides sharp cheddar is great sprinkled on top. Her maternal great grandmother would be delighted.
As the day wanes, weariness sets in. This is hard work. Hands, arms, feet, and backs are tired.
Conversation turns to the value of the process. Taken in pure monetary terms, the apples were free, but time is not. These women, all Masters in their fields, can earn real money in real time. It would be cheaper to buy applesauce.
This, however, is not about money. It is the process itself that is value laden. The old apple mill is from the great-grandmother of the little ones underfoot. Though she lives nearby, she is no longer able to work the mill herself. She handed it down the generations. The women and children are bound by blood and marriage, but more by love and commitment. Conversations range widely and opinions are freely expressed. Ideas are lofted, dissected, and consensus reached.
At the end of the day, the value is not just in the gleaming pink bags that promise pleasure for many winter suppers to come. The value is the sharing of life.
The applesauce “machine” begins in the barn. One worker loads two tubs of apples, taking a selection from all the varieties and bringing them to the kitchen. There they are double washed and piled high. The next workers grab washed apples, position them on the cutting board, and in one motion split them into seven pieces with an apple cutter. The pieces are tossed into four large pots on the stove and boiled.
When soft, the pieces are processed through an ancient apple mill that spits applesauce out one end and peels, stems, and seeds out another side. Finally the sauce is bagged and stacked in the freezer.
The work flows without stoppage, every woman taking turns at each job. The men have fled. Two took their guns to the shooting range, the third is off to take his pilot re-certs, and the eldest, after giving some very male engineering advice on methodology, has retreated to points outside and upstairs.
The children wander in and out of the process. Scorning political correctness of safety, we allow them to help carry, wash, and cut cold apples, as well as turn the apple mill of hot sauce. They are little and don’t stay long at any job, but in time their now childish attempts will yield genuine results. The littlest babes hang out in various seats, or slung on their mom’s backs.
Lunchtime finds the crew gathered at the round table. The little ones major on applesauce, bowl after bowl. The fresh batch passes the taste test. Grand #2 decides sharp cheddar is great sprinkled on top. Her maternal great grandmother would be delighted.
As the day wanes, weariness sets in. This is hard work. Hands, arms, feet, and backs are tired.
Conversation turns to the value of the process. Taken in pure monetary terms, the apples were free, but time is not. These women, all Masters in their fields, can earn real money in real time. It would be cheaper to buy applesauce.
This, however, is not about money. It is the process itself that is value laden. The old apple mill is from the great-grandmother of the little ones underfoot. Though she lives nearby, she is no longer able to work the mill herself. She handed it down the generations. The women and children are bound by blood and marriage, but more by love and commitment. Conversations range widely and opinions are freely expressed. Ideas are lofted, dissected, and consensus reached.
At the end of the day, the value is not just in the gleaming pink bags that promise pleasure for many winter suppers to come. The value is the sharing of life.
Friday, October 31, 2008
The orchard
The orchard, named with the generic German for “fruit tree”, appropriately belongs to a German schoolteacher friend who is a botanical hobbyist. For some years we’ve had free rein of the dropped apples that cannot be used for cider. All we have to do it get them.
One year the Dreamer and I did the gathering alone. Another year the Dragon joined the husband and me, in a cold wet rainstorm, and we gathered. One year it was just I and Grand 2, a toddler who sat in her stroller watching me with big eyes. Last year we hit an unseasonably warm September day, complete with yellow jackets, and the Dreamer’s two little girls, Grands 2 & 3, were not impressed. Today dawned with total autumn clarity and the promise of midday warmth.
The Driver alone has never done the orchard. This year she asked that we wait till she arrived from the other side of the world. We arrive in three minivans: one grandmother, the Dreamer and Grands 2&3, her sister-in-law with little cousins, the Driver with Grand 4, and a random Chinese college student, friend to the Driver and studying nearby.
We opt to only send one van, laden with empty boxes, through the mudslide beside the barn that leads to the orchard, walking the rest of the crew with stroller, car seat, and a large red wagon. Ah, the bagay of little people.
Arriving in the sunny rows we scout the land for trees with apples still hanging. Since the orchard is officially closed for the season, we can pick as well as gather drops.
We spread out with boxes and begin the tedious work of gathering, the high grass wet with lingering frost. Over the years I’ve learned to find a tree with a few apples left on it and look down. Below there may be fifty pristine apples not yet touched by the deer, the squirrels.
Grand 2 and her younger cousin discover slugs and have a wonderful time smearing them into wet apples. Grand 3, walking confidently this year, attempts to keep pace with each adult in turn, managing to navigate the tall grass quite well by self, thank you. Young cousin, not quite as steady, takes several face falls before he gets the knack. Grand 4 lies on his back watching the cloudless blue of a Michigan sky – a blue his side of the world doesn’t produce. The youngest little cousin, less than two months, is oblivious. The Chinese student is reveling in Americana that has previously only existed in books.
After weeks filled with people, I find the empty orchard pure mind therapy.
The sun slowly warms us and coats are left in the van, then fleeces and sweaters. The boxes begin to fill with gold, red, maroon, striated, and green. We take turns hauling the boxes back to ground zero with the red wagon. The snack bag gets raided for granola bars. One little hand gets nipped in the van door with much howling.
After noon, the sun still high overhead, we load the last of many boxes into the van and haul out to the other cars left by the barn. The orchard has been conquered again and the smell of apples and autumn and crisp air wafts over us all the way home, past farms and through golden woods.
Tomorrow we reassemble and tackle the day-long applesauce making tradition. Home is a good place as October fades into oblivion.
One year the Dreamer and I did the gathering alone. Another year the Dragon joined the husband and me, in a cold wet rainstorm, and we gathered. One year it was just I and Grand 2, a toddler who sat in her stroller watching me with big eyes. Last year we hit an unseasonably warm September day, complete with yellow jackets, and the Dreamer’s two little girls, Grands 2 & 3, were not impressed. Today dawned with total autumn clarity and the promise of midday warmth.
The Driver alone has never done the orchard. This year she asked that we wait till she arrived from the other side of the world. We arrive in three minivans: one grandmother, the Dreamer and Grands 2&3, her sister-in-law with little cousins, the Driver with Grand 4, and a random Chinese college student, friend to the Driver and studying nearby.
We opt to only send one van, laden with empty boxes, through the mudslide beside the barn that leads to the orchard, walking the rest of the crew with stroller, car seat, and a large red wagon. Ah, the bagay of little people.
Arriving in the sunny rows we scout the land for trees with apples still hanging. Since the orchard is officially closed for the season, we can pick as well as gather drops.
We spread out with boxes and begin the tedious work of gathering, the high grass wet with lingering frost. Over the years I’ve learned to find a tree with a few apples left on it and look down. Below there may be fifty pristine apples not yet touched by the deer, the squirrels.
Grand 2 and her younger cousin discover slugs and have a wonderful time smearing them into wet apples. Grand 3, walking confidently this year, attempts to keep pace with each adult in turn, managing to navigate the tall grass quite well by self, thank you. Young cousin, not quite as steady, takes several face falls before he gets the knack. Grand 4 lies on his back watching the cloudless blue of a Michigan sky – a blue his side of the world doesn’t produce. The youngest little cousin, less than two months, is oblivious. The Chinese student is reveling in Americana that has previously only existed in books.
After weeks filled with people, I find the empty orchard pure mind therapy.
The sun slowly warms us and coats are left in the van, then fleeces and sweaters. The boxes begin to fill with gold, red, maroon, striated, and green. We take turns hauling the boxes back to ground zero with the red wagon. The snack bag gets raided for granola bars. One little hand gets nipped in the van door with much howling.
After noon, the sun still high overhead, we load the last of many boxes into the van and haul out to the other cars left by the barn. The orchard has been conquered again and the smell of apples and autumn and crisp air wafts over us all the way home, past farms and through golden woods.
Tomorrow we reassemble and tackle the day-long applesauce making tradition. Home is a good place as October fades into oblivion.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Walking the boards
The boardwalk starts in Atlantic City and runs all the way to Margate. Or, the other way around, depending on your orientation. Today we begin at the edge of Margate and walk to Atlantic City -- and back.
October brings slate gray skies with slicks of sunlight on the water. The surf is rough and rain occasionally spatters us. Tiny sandpipers scurry in front of the froth and the water ebbs and flows with the incoming tide. The beach is deserted in October except for an occasional jogger.
The college kids want to walk to Atlantic City and we set out in the stiff wind. I’ve opted for a scarf and earmuffs though it’s not extremely cold. By the end of the afternoon I will be glad for this choices.
We string out along the boardwalk, conversations gathering into twos and threes and then rubber banding into different groups. We’re here to talk and interact so a walk to Atlantic City (and back) gives great opportunity for extended discussion.
Ventnor is residential, a jumbled mix of old colonial clapboards houses and modern stucco wide-windowed mansions hugging the beach. We walk past neatly trimmed lawns, landscaped and hedged, still blooming in the autumn warmth.
By the time we reach Atlantic City our feet are beginning to feel like lead so we head into the Steel Pier mall and hang out for the fountain/light show and a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Rain is falling in earnest and we linger till the drops cease beating on the windows of the coffee shop. The casinos are bleak and dreary on this rainy Saturday afternoon.
The walk back seemed impossible when we stopped, but coffee fueled, we’re refreshed enough to set off again. Before we leave Atlantic City, there’s a stop for funnel cakes, an absolute necessity of a walk on the boards. The wind that was in our faces has turned, and again it’s at in our faces. Earmuffs feel good. The sun dances and hides. Gulls scream overhead. The salt smell is pungent.
Our home destination is a good three miles or more back the boardwalk, but again, the students string out into conversation groups and the time passes quickly. Rain hits us almost to Ventnor and we increase our speed. Rather footsore we finally reach our street and head back to the houses off the beach. Sated with wind and wet, we burst into the living room of the largest house to the smell of dinner and the warmth of home.
The boardwalk has been conquered again – Atlantic City and back, miles of walking. But the larger goal has been accomplished too. Substantive conversations about life and living.
October brings slate gray skies with slicks of sunlight on the water. The surf is rough and rain occasionally spatters us. Tiny sandpipers scurry in front of the froth and the water ebbs and flows with the incoming tide. The beach is deserted in October except for an occasional jogger.
The college kids want to walk to Atlantic City and we set out in the stiff wind. I’ve opted for a scarf and earmuffs though it’s not extremely cold. By the end of the afternoon I will be glad for this choices.
We string out along the boardwalk, conversations gathering into twos and threes and then rubber banding into different groups. We’re here to talk and interact so a walk to Atlantic City (and back) gives great opportunity for extended discussion.
Ventnor is residential, a jumbled mix of old colonial clapboards houses and modern stucco wide-windowed mansions hugging the beach. We walk past neatly trimmed lawns, landscaped and hedged, still blooming in the autumn warmth.
By the time we reach Atlantic City our feet are beginning to feel like lead so we head into the Steel Pier mall and hang out for the fountain/light show and a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Rain is falling in earnest and we linger till the drops cease beating on the windows of the coffee shop. The casinos are bleak and dreary on this rainy Saturday afternoon.
The walk back seemed impossible when we stopped, but coffee fueled, we’re refreshed enough to set off again. Before we leave Atlantic City, there’s a stop for funnel cakes, an absolute necessity of a walk on the boards. The wind that was in our faces has turned, and again it’s at in our faces. Earmuffs feel good. The sun dances and hides. Gulls scream overhead. The salt smell is pungent.
Our home destination is a good three miles or more back the boardwalk, but again, the students string out into conversation groups and the time passes quickly. Rain hits us almost to Ventnor and we increase our speed. Rather footsore we finally reach our street and head back to the houses off the beach. Sated with wind and wet, we burst into the living room of the largest house to the smell of dinner and the warmth of home.
The boardwalk has been conquered again – Atlantic City and back, miles of walking. But the larger goal has been accomplished too. Substantive conversations about life and living.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Crossing the pond in the rain
“I read your post on crossing the pond, and I cried,” says the Driver.
The Driver is the middle of my three daughters: the Dreamer, the Driver, and the Dragon. The Driver is setting out on a journey of her own, a painful journey. She was part of that particular pond crossing, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain, but now she’s got a much longer journey.
Sometimes life stinks. For the Driver, she’s in one of those times.
She’s been living in a great city on the other side of the world, a place she and her husband love. But his job evaporated recently and that was painful. It stunk. Weeks passed and he had another job offer. It was in a different place and still necessitated a move, but it was an exciting job, and still on the side of the world where they would like to raise their family.
Then over this last weekend, that job went south. A classic east-west conflict, a conflict of culture and worldview, is at the root of the loss. Planning ahead versus damage control at the end. Again, life stinks.
And so, the Driver and her family are out in the middle of the pond and can’t see where the boat is going. The fog is thick. It’s cold and uncomfortable. There’s nothing I can do because I’m neither in the boat or at the tiller. I’m simply watching from the shore.
So what does a shore-watcher do? Watch and pray from the distance, even through the fog. Send messages of hope out across the water like flashes of light from shore. Pray some more. Trust the Man-at-the-tiller to get them across the pond.
I head home soon. I’ll light a fire in the woodstove and put a pot of hot soup on the hob. When the Driver and family finally get across the pond, they will need a place to get warm.
The Driver is the middle of my three daughters: the Dreamer, the Driver, and the Dragon. The Driver is setting out on a journey of her own, a painful journey. She was part of that particular pond crossing, in the dark, in the cold, in the rain, but now she’s got a much longer journey.
Sometimes life stinks. For the Driver, she’s in one of those times.
She’s been living in a great city on the other side of the world, a place she and her husband love. But his job evaporated recently and that was painful. It stunk. Weeks passed and he had another job offer. It was in a different place and still necessitated a move, but it was an exciting job, and still on the side of the world where they would like to raise their family.
Then over this last weekend, that job went south. A classic east-west conflict, a conflict of culture and worldview, is at the root of the loss. Planning ahead versus damage control at the end. Again, life stinks.
And so, the Driver and her family are out in the middle of the pond and can’t see where the boat is going. The fog is thick. It’s cold and uncomfortable. There’s nothing I can do because I’m neither in the boat or at the tiller. I’m simply watching from the shore.
So what does a shore-watcher do? Watch and pray from the distance, even through the fog. Send messages of hope out across the water like flashes of light from shore. Pray some more. Trust the Man-at-the-tiller to get them across the pond.
I head home soon. I’ll light a fire in the woodstove and put a pot of hot soup on the hob. When the Driver and family finally get across the pond, they will need a place to get warm.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Time and again
Returning to the church of my childhood is a step into history with an ellipsis. The building stands on the same site and from the outside, looks the same. But a fire some time ago gutted the inside, and what is now there is similar, but oh so different from the past.
I reach to open doors and realize when the door is opened, that my mind has expected one scene, and another is in front of me. There are walls where none existed before and open space where there were walls. In my mind’s eye, when I am far away, it all blurs together, but today, walking into the building, the present blends into the past.
The auditorium is the most deceptive. After the fire the congregation chose to rebuild the church to replicate the original, but with subtle modernity. The platform is far larger, the organ gone. The pews have padding and are neatly tapered on the aisles so as not to catch your sleeves when you sit down. There are handicap insets halfway down for wheelchairs. One side of windows has become a smooth wall as a notch between an old and new building was finally blended into a hall. Curiously, the communion table is identical to the original, though it must be new.
The people also jolt me. The few who are the same are not at all the same. That older man handing out bulletins should be a young father, not a fragile grandfather. The family at the front seem to have a teenager where I am expecting a little child. The young father across the room, his wavy hair pulled back from his face, flashes back an image of a curly headed toddler in the nursery.
Down the row is a mother of college and high school students. Where is the bright eyed little girl who sang in my children’s choir? Behind me is a tall balding man, grey at the temples, who – ah yes, I remember, and beside him, I catch a glint in his wife’s eyes that rolls the age off both of them. In my mind, we step back decades to carve a camp out of a woods, setting up tents in an October downpour.
The music is totally different, yet familiar. The people are largely new, but local to the neighborhood. Here and there I see the next generation, or even the third generation of old member.
What is dramatically the same is the message. Truth, plain and simple, preached with love and compassion, straight from scripture.
So much is changed, and yet not at all. People age, buildings change and morph in to new usage, music and preaching style move with culture . In contrast, the message of scripture remains the same.
Only the person who listens changes.
2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
I reach to open doors and realize when the door is opened, that my mind has expected one scene, and another is in front of me. There are walls where none existed before and open space where there were walls. In my mind’s eye, when I am far away, it all blurs together, but today, walking into the building, the present blends into the past.
The auditorium is the most deceptive. After the fire the congregation chose to rebuild the church to replicate the original, but with subtle modernity. The platform is far larger, the organ gone. The pews have padding and are neatly tapered on the aisles so as not to catch your sleeves when you sit down. There are handicap insets halfway down for wheelchairs. One side of windows has become a smooth wall as a notch between an old and new building was finally blended into a hall. Curiously, the communion table is identical to the original, though it must be new.
The people also jolt me. The few who are the same are not at all the same. That older man handing out bulletins should be a young father, not a fragile grandfather. The family at the front seem to have a teenager where I am expecting a little child. The young father across the room, his wavy hair pulled back from his face, flashes back an image of a curly headed toddler in the nursery.
Down the row is a mother of college and high school students. Where is the bright eyed little girl who sang in my children’s choir? Behind me is a tall balding man, grey at the temples, who – ah yes, I remember, and beside him, I catch a glint in his wife’s eyes that rolls the age off both of them. In my mind, we step back decades to carve a camp out of a woods, setting up tents in an October downpour.
The music is totally different, yet familiar. The people are largely new, but local to the neighborhood. Here and there I see the next generation, or even the third generation of old member.
What is dramatically the same is the message. Truth, plain and simple, preached with love and compassion, straight from scripture.
So much is changed, and yet not at all. People age, buildings change and morph in to new usage, music and preaching style move with culture . In contrast, the message of scripture remains the same.
Only the person who listens changes.
2 Corinthians 5:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The wilderness
Coming over the final hill, even after 50 years, still brings an aching sense of amazement and joy as the huge lake stretches to the horizon, ringed by mountains. The beauty of the land almost overpowers the senses.
This is a frontier town, full of crusty characters that either choose not to leave or deliberately chose to come to this end of the road. No one accidentally lives here. “Boon” was born here and his grandmother came as a widow, the first white woman in the region. He’s pushing over the hill to 90 but has a host of projects lined up to keep him busy all winter.
Sunday afternoon finds us at the “new camp” – a mere 50+ years old cabin on the remote pond, but distinguished from the old camp on the island that is closer to 100 years old. With no time to go out to the island, I have to stand and look across the water, traveling the channel in my mind. The woods behind me shimmer gold in the afternoon sun. Elephant mountain is painted with red and yellow on the other side of the lake. Deep woods line the shores.
Crazy, the vintage loon, pops up for a look-see as I step on the dock. “He should have gone by now,” Boon says, “But he’s teaching a young one how to take off and the young one’s a bit slow on the uptake.” Boon knows this loon well, as he does every rock and tree on the lake. Standing there beside him I remember the many times he’s taken me across the water and back. Ten years ago it was stormy and cold, even in August:
The One at the rudder
After 30 years, the trip into the darkness still brings a wave of fear. Some nights it is clear as day with moon or starshine. Once, though, the fog was so thick we dragged our fingers in the water to be sure we were moving.
Tonight it is rain, cold, dark as pitch. The rain that blew up suddenly drives under our borrowed slickers. We huddle together for slim warmth from the overwhelming cold and wet. We set off for land from the island and can barely see the guide notches of the mountains across the lake. The familiar wave of fear comes up. Can we navigate through the huge rocks to shore?
At first the only light is what we have left behind. The comfortable glow of the gas lamps in the island camp tempts us back. To sit by the fire another hour, talking, singing, remembering a hundred similar nights. But go we must.
My mind races ahead, aching for a glimpse of light on the shore, but my heart leans in trust on the man at the rudder. "Boon" his mother called him, dredging a Burmese term from her childhood. "Favorite uncle." Did she know, 75 years ago, she was a prophet? I fear because I know the way, but not the rocks. Boon knows both.
Just when it seems we'll never make it, we round the point of the island and catch the gleam of the lamp on shore.
So now we journey across the wide lake. The rain is still driving and cold. Comfort is far away. The dark surrounds us, the rocks as treacherous as ever. The trip is painfully slow with a little motor and Boon's heavy old handmade boat. Boon is old too, but every rock is etched deep in his mind. If I will just sit back and trust him, I know he will get me there. He's done it before; he'll do it tonight.
Like life. It's not the boat, though it is sturdy. Not the storm, though it's heavy. Not the darkness, though I fear it. And it is not whether or not I am comfortable with the ride. All that matters is knowing there is light at the end and trusting the One at the rudder, who's made the journey more times than memory can count.
This is a frontier town, full of crusty characters that either choose not to leave or deliberately chose to come to this end of the road. No one accidentally lives here. “Boon” was born here and his grandmother came as a widow, the first white woman in the region. He’s pushing over the hill to 90 but has a host of projects lined up to keep him busy all winter.
Sunday afternoon finds us at the “new camp” – a mere 50+ years old cabin on the remote pond, but distinguished from the old camp on the island that is closer to 100 years old. With no time to go out to the island, I have to stand and look across the water, traveling the channel in my mind. The woods behind me shimmer gold in the afternoon sun. Elephant mountain is painted with red and yellow on the other side of the lake. Deep woods line the shores.
Crazy, the vintage loon, pops up for a look-see as I step on the dock. “He should have gone by now,” Boon says, “But he’s teaching a young one how to take off and the young one’s a bit slow on the uptake.” Boon knows this loon well, as he does every rock and tree on the lake. Standing there beside him I remember the many times he’s taken me across the water and back. Ten years ago it was stormy and cold, even in August:
The One at the rudder
After 30 years, the trip into the darkness still brings a wave of fear. Some nights it is clear as day with moon or starshine. Once, though, the fog was so thick we dragged our fingers in the water to be sure we were moving.
Tonight it is rain, cold, dark as pitch. The rain that blew up suddenly drives under our borrowed slickers. We huddle together for slim warmth from the overwhelming cold and wet. We set off for land from the island and can barely see the guide notches of the mountains across the lake. The familiar wave of fear comes up. Can we navigate through the huge rocks to shore?
At first the only light is what we have left behind. The comfortable glow of the gas lamps in the island camp tempts us back. To sit by the fire another hour, talking, singing, remembering a hundred similar nights. But go we must.
My mind races ahead, aching for a glimpse of light on the shore, but my heart leans in trust on the man at the rudder. "Boon" his mother called him, dredging a Burmese term from her childhood. "Favorite uncle." Did she know, 75 years ago, she was a prophet? I fear because I know the way, but not the rocks. Boon knows both.
Just when it seems we'll never make it, we round the point of the island and catch the gleam of the lamp on shore.
So now we journey across the wide lake. The rain is still driving and cold. Comfort is far away. The dark surrounds us, the rocks as treacherous as ever. The trip is painfully slow with a little motor and Boon's heavy old handmade boat. Boon is old too, but every rock is etched deep in his mind. If I will just sit back and trust him, I know he will get me there. He's done it before; he'll do it tonight.
Like life. It's not the boat, though it is sturdy. Not the storm, though it's heavy. Not the darkness, though I fear it. And it is not whether or not I am comfortable with the ride. All that matters is knowing there is light at the end and trusting the One at the rudder, who's made the journey more times than memory can count.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thinking global on the hill
A week in the rarified air of the seminary on the hill brings an opportunity to think. The company of academics in the field of theology and mission stimulates discussion. Lessons of the week are simple, but refreshing.
One: international teams working cross culturally are more effective than teams born and built together in a home country that arrive with walls already built that are higher than the oldest mission compound.
Two: singing melody is fairly easy but learning to play the harmony line in another culture takes far more time and effort.
Three: short-term mission is not an end in itself. If it doesn’t lead to and link with long term local involvement, don’t waste the money.
Four: churches that endure, fellowships that last, assemblies that will bridge the culture, are those that intentionally reflect the world in which they are established.
Five: effective servants are able to handle change. Peter’s world was rocked with a canvas sheet of items he abhorred (Acts 10) but by being willing to accept huge cultural change, God was able to use him to change the world. For every servant, there are change points in life. If we hang on to the past, we will not make it into the future. What we give us is insignificant in light of what we gain.
Six: western minds are good at strategic thinking; non-western minds are better at patience and long obedience in a faithful direction. Both are important. Neither rules alone.
We leave the hill refreshed in mind and spirit.
One: international teams working cross culturally are more effective than teams born and built together in a home country that arrive with walls already built that are higher than the oldest mission compound.
Two: singing melody is fairly easy but learning to play the harmony line in another culture takes far more time and effort.
Three: short-term mission is not an end in itself. If it doesn’t lead to and link with long term local involvement, don’t waste the money.
Four: churches that endure, fellowships that last, assemblies that will bridge the culture, are those that intentionally reflect the world in which they are established.
Five: effective servants are able to handle change. Peter’s world was rocked with a canvas sheet of items he abhorred (Acts 10) but by being willing to accept huge cultural change, God was able to use him to change the world. For every servant, there are change points in life. If we hang on to the past, we will not make it into the future. What we give us is insignificant in light of what we gain.
Six: western minds are good at strategic thinking; non-western minds are better at patience and long obedience in a faithful direction. Both are important. Neither rules alone.
We leave the hill refreshed in mind and spirit.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The fisherman
The fisherman
The fisherman stands in the Gloucester harbor, bronzed green in the late day sun. In his hands he grasps a pilot wheel. He looks out over the water,as if searching the horizon for the ships that have gone out from this place and never returned.
Below the fisherman are inscribed the words from Psalm 107, “they that go down to the sea in ships…”
Around the base of the large statue are bronze plaques recording the names of men lost at sea in the last 200 years. Well over 5000 names line the wide plaques, separated neatly into years of loss.
We are late in the autumn afternoon, eager to find some fresh seafood in town, and yet wanting to refresh our minds of this familiar seawalk. The young man with us has not seen this before. As my husband wields his camera, Eric slowly walks from plaque to plaque. In silence, we each take in the enormity of the cost this little town has paid to ply the water.
Some years have over a hundred names, times when whole ships were lost with all hands on board. The toll is particularly heavy in the late 1800s when occasionally steam ships plowed down the fishing trade.
More recent decades have far fewer names, a commentary both on water safety and on the downturn of the fishing trade in general in the northeast. Even the year of “the perfect storm” has a relatively small list.
Gulls sweep overhead calling to each other out over the water. We watch the bay in its blue brilliance as the day fades. Quietly we turn back to the car and head into town. Over seafood we chat about coursework and family and employment. Leaving town at dusk we climb the bridge over the inland causeway and head back to the land and the sunset over the forested hills.
The smell of the sea lingers hauntingly in our minds, ever a reminder that though we love it, the ocean is a force we will never control.
“Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the LORD, his wonderful deeds in the deep. For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.” Psalm 107: 23-25
The fisherman stands in the Gloucester harbor, bronzed green in the late day sun. In his hands he grasps a pilot wheel. He looks out over the water,as if searching the horizon for the ships that have gone out from this place and never returned.
Below the fisherman are inscribed the words from Psalm 107, “they that go down to the sea in ships…”
Around the base of the large statue are bronze plaques recording the names of men lost at sea in the last 200 years. Well over 5000 names line the wide plaques, separated neatly into years of loss.
We are late in the autumn afternoon, eager to find some fresh seafood in town, and yet wanting to refresh our minds of this familiar seawalk. The young man with us has not seen this before. As my husband wields his camera, Eric slowly walks from plaque to plaque. In silence, we each take in the enormity of the cost this little town has paid to ply the water.
Some years have over a hundred names, times when whole ships were lost with all hands on board. The toll is particularly heavy in the late 1800s when occasionally steam ships plowed down the fishing trade.
More recent decades have far fewer names, a commentary both on water safety and on the downturn of the fishing trade in general in the northeast. Even the year of “the perfect storm” has a relatively small list.
Gulls sweep overhead calling to each other out over the water. We watch the bay in its blue brilliance as the day fades. Quietly we turn back to the car and head into town. Over seafood we chat about coursework and family and employment. Leaving town at dusk we climb the bridge over the inland causeway and head back to the land and the sunset over the forested hills.
The smell of the sea lingers hauntingly in our minds, ever a reminder that though we love it, the ocean is a force we will never control.
“Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters. They saw the works of the LORD, his wonderful deeds in the deep. For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.” Psalm 107: 23-25
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Hanging with the B's
The North Shore collects eccentrics. We are staying at the B’s, a lovely older couple from the fellowship. Been here several times before, and it’s a comfortable place to lay our heads at night.Mr. B greets us last night on arrival with “Hey, you need ice cream?” His white shock of hair is always hanging to his eyebrows. His eyes pierce through bushy grey straggles and look right through you.
Mr. B says what he thinks, and thinks what he wants. His accent is as crusty and classic as his face. My husband needs to run to a computer store so I hang with Mr. B and eat ice cream. Mrs. B, still nursing at the indeterminate age of nearly 80, won’t be home for a while.
The first time we stayed here an elderly aunt was living in part of the upstairs. The house is cavernous and it’s easy to lose someone. Auntie, said Mrs. B, is harmless. “Couldn’t let her keep living alone, didn’t want to do the nursing home routine, and here’s she’s safe. But lock your door at night because she wanders and we’re never sure where she’ll end up.” Sure enough, Auntie was a wanderer. Mild and gentle, definitely not quite all there, but as Mrs. B said, harmless.
Auntie has gone to her reward some years now and there’s another shadowy tenant in the upstairs. But he leaves for work at a hospital with the dark of dawn and doesn’t return till late. He’s also mild and gentle but not a door opener.
The B’s share their space generously and without discrimination.The house is only about 30 years old but furnished from the distant past and seems far older. Lovely oriental rugs carpet much of the home and beautiful pieces of antique furniture tuck into the corners, stuffed with glass and china. The house backs into a deep woods while the front opens to morning sunshine. Stone fences line the roads into the neighborhood.
Years ago we stayed with an even more eccentric family – Doc P and his wife. Their house was so large that our kids thought they could get lost just in the second floor. It rambled across a ridge high above one of the little north shore towns. Doc was a psychiatrist and one never knew which patient would catch him on the phone. One night his wife told him, mid-meal, “Take your suicide elsewhere, please. I don’t want her at the table!” Doc’s long gone, but we’ll stop and see his frail, sweet wife this week in her carriage house near the sea.
Tonight we’ll be even later. One of our summer team arrives from Taiwan at 10:15. We’ll pick her up, take her home, and catch up on her journeys. She’s even older than the B’s. The North Shore is peopled with vintage eccentrics.
Must be something about the sea air that engenders longevity.
Mr. B says what he thinks, and thinks what he wants. His accent is as crusty and classic as his face. My husband needs to run to a computer store so I hang with Mr. B and eat ice cream. Mrs. B, still nursing at the indeterminate age of nearly 80, won’t be home for a while.
The first time we stayed here an elderly aunt was living in part of the upstairs. The house is cavernous and it’s easy to lose someone. Auntie, said Mrs. B, is harmless. “Couldn’t let her keep living alone, didn’t want to do the nursing home routine, and here’s she’s safe. But lock your door at night because she wanders and we’re never sure where she’ll end up.” Sure enough, Auntie was a wanderer. Mild and gentle, definitely not quite all there, but as Mrs. B said, harmless.
Auntie has gone to her reward some years now and there’s another shadowy tenant in the upstairs. But he leaves for work at a hospital with the dark of dawn and doesn’t return till late. He’s also mild and gentle but not a door opener.
The B’s share their space generously and without discrimination.The house is only about 30 years old but furnished from the distant past and seems far older. Lovely oriental rugs carpet much of the home and beautiful pieces of antique furniture tuck into the corners, stuffed with glass and china. The house backs into a deep woods while the front opens to morning sunshine. Stone fences line the roads into the neighborhood.
Years ago we stayed with an even more eccentric family – Doc P and his wife. Their house was so large that our kids thought they could get lost just in the second floor. It rambled across a ridge high above one of the little north shore towns. Doc was a psychiatrist and one never knew which patient would catch him on the phone. One night his wife told him, mid-meal, “Take your suicide elsewhere, please. I don’t want her at the table!” Doc’s long gone, but we’ll stop and see his frail, sweet wife this week in her carriage house near the sea.
Tonight we’ll be even later. One of our summer team arrives from Taiwan at 10:15. We’ll pick her up, take her home, and catch up on her journeys. She’s even older than the B’s. The North Shore is peopled with vintage eccentrics.
Must be something about the sea air that engenders longevity.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Afternoon sun
The afternoon sun is slanting into the dining commons. Outside the grass twinkles with fresh rain. Students are wandering by as the day wanes, skateboards a favorite mode of transportation. We've begun the college trek up the east.
Lunch brought us a group of Korean students -- all born and raised outside of Korea in international schools. Fascinating group, highly articulate, passionate about the connections inter-cultural students can have.
Lunch brought us a group of Korean students -- all born and raised outside of Korea in international schools. Fascinating group, highly articulate, passionate about the connections inter-cultural students can have.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)