My brother made me cry today...

Last night I noticed a book outside the door to my room. I just assumed that my mom had found one she thought I would want to read and left it there for me.

I waited until this morning to bring it in and just tossed it on the bed while I was getting ready for church, still not paying much attention to it. 

There was some cardboard sticking out of the top and I thought maybe she had come across some stickers or something that she wanted to send home with me. I opened the book and found two gas gift cards instead. My first thought was they had been forgotten in a drawer or purse (gift cards were a frequent reward for meeting her quotas when she worked at the bank).

Then I saw the message at the top...only one person I know writes like that (and it isn't my mom).
He may not say much, but he knows how to get his point across...and apparently how to make me cry.

Saturday shopping in Ohio...

Anyone who pays attention to my posts (all two of you) will know that I LOVE P.Graham Dunn.

 In fact, it is probably a good thing that I don't live closer, but it happens to be right down the road from my grandpa's nursing home...

 Saturdays this summer they are having a "pictures by the pound" sale and I went to check it out. I didn't realize until I got there that they are also selling unframed prints for 25 cents. I got quite a variety (which my mom and I are still "fighting" over) including these two which I thought went nicely with my last post.

 I also had the chance to stop by Marc's (a local discount store) where I found this...can't wait to hang it proudly in my classroom! 

Oh, and I don't think I spent over $20 all day.

Being still...

 “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for Him” (Psalm 37:7)

…One of my all-time favorite verses, in one of my all-time favorite chapters, of one of my all-time favorite books. Not because it fills me with warm, fuzzies every time I read it, but because it serves as the slap to the back of the head that I so often need.

This may come as a surprise (or, ok, maybe not), but I am not a patient person. I like things done my way, done in my time, please don’t interrupt, and whatever you do…

don’t make me wait!

...perhaps this explains my string of speeding tickets since moving to South Carolina… =/

When things are getting frustrating, or out-of-control, or beyond my understanding….which is at least [24 hours a day – 8 hours for sleeping] 16 times a day…I hear these words floating through the back of my mind. Sometimes, like tonight, I stop to listen…

Be – To exist or live

Still – Remaining in place or at rest

Before – In the presence of

The – Used to indicate a specific entity

Lord – Almighty, Creator, Divine, God

And – In addition to all of that we aren’t done yet

Wait – To remain inactive until something expected happens

Patiently – To bear provocation, annoyance, misfortune, delay, hardship, pain, etc., with fortitude and calm and without complaint, anger, or the like

For – The object or purpose of

Him – A pronoun referring to the proper noun “Lord”

So, I am supposed to exist or live at a place of rest in the presence of the Almighty Creator and remain inactive despite provocation, annoyance, misfortune, delay, hardship, or pain, expressing fortitude and calm without complaint or anger because whatever the situation, God, the Divine One, has already promised to make Himself known in it.

…Huh, I think that’s something I can live with.

…at least until the next time I’m following a truck going 45 on a two-lane road…

32 (now 34) years and counting...

I originally wrote this two years ago as a Facebook note, but today (my parent's 34th anniversary) I am re-posting it here...

Tomorrow (Thursday, May 28th) is my parent's 32nd wedding anniversary. While a wonderful event, it is sad that 30+ years of marriage is becoming an increasingly rare occurrence. When they met in 1977, my mom was working as a church secretary. She had the job (and I'm sure she'll correct me if I get any of this wrong) of making sure everything was prepared for the annual Valentine's Banquet. In the midst of the preparations, she made an off-hand remark to the pastor about how unfair it was that she was doing all that work and didn't even have a Valentine. Shortly afterward, the pastor asked her if she was familiar with a guy in the church named David Heinzeroth, she wasn't ...but soon would be.

One Saturday, while working in the office making sure the bulletins were ready for the next day's service, a man shows up and asks for the pastor, who isn't in. The pastor had asked the man, my father, to help move some furniture and then conveniently didn't show up himself. The only discrepancy I have ever heard in the story happened next...while they were talking, my mom had to move a box of bulletins from one place to another, somehow they all ended up on the floor and he helped to pick them up ... she says the box broke, he says she dropped them on purpose, I don't take sides. Whatever happened, it was apparently successful because not too long afterward they had their first date. 

A group was planning to attend a concert in Cleveland and then return to the church for refreshments. My mom had already committed to be part of the group staying behind to prepare things for afterward, so when asked by my dad to attend the concert she declined. He didn't take "no" for an answer and arranged for someone to take her place. They made it to Cleveland expecting to enjoy the concert, but instead ended up with a funny story. They were sitting, waiting for things to begin, when my mom received a very cold, and sticky, surprise ... the woman behind her sat down, bending at the waist, and poured her very large cup of Pepsi over my mom's head. While offered a dry seat further down the row she chose to stay next to her date and remained in the cold, sticky mess the rest of the night. 

While that story makes me laugh every time I think about it, one of my favorites happened the first Sunday my dad chose to sit with her in church. He hadn't met her family yet, but sat with her anyway (a brave, yet insane thing to do). My grandfather happened to be sitting next to a friend of his. When my dad sat down, Murph leaned over to my grandfather and asked, "Who is that guy?" To which my grandfather responded, "I don't know, but I'm certainly going to find out." That afternoon my dad was "invited" to lunch. 

My parent's "courtship" didn't last long...they met in February, married in May. In today's "date for years, live together for a decade" world of relationships, this seems doomed for failure. Somehow, in that short amount of time, they each found their best friend. After 32 years of marriage, they would rather spend time with each other than anyone else (even their kids :-/ ). After 32 years of life together - breaking into houses on their honeymoon, moving so many times I think we've all lost count, job losses, health issues and injuries, family difficulties - they haven't grown bored or discontent with each other, they have grown closer. As a child, it is a pretty awesome thing to be able to say that my parents are more in love today than they were while I was growing up. 

Three years ago, when I was approaching my 27th birthday, my mom's brothers made sure to point out to me that I was about to become an old maid because even my mom had married by then. In the three years since, I have heard more jokes about my state of singleness then I ever care to. There is a picture on my refrigerator, a knight on a white horse with a caption "It takes a mighty good husband to be better than none." That is a phrase I can easily live by, because I know that unless I am able to have the kind of marriage my parents have (not that it is perfect, and they would admit that) I don't want marriage at all. 

So, on their anniversary, while I should be giving them a gift...instead I thank them for the gifts they have given me…the opportunity to grow up with two parents who love each other deeply and are committed to each other completely. The example they have provided over the years. And, the hope that such a marriage is possible.

The Negro Burying-Ground

I came across the following poem while doing even more reading/research for my paper. Some of the way things are said would not currently be considered politically-correct, but the sentiment of the poem is beautiful. 

To give you the context, a student at one of the schools operated as part of the Port Royal Experiment got sick and died on Sunday. Monday evening people begin to gather for the burial service and as they are waiting the children, with their school books in hand, begin to the A, B, C's over and over again until the service begins.

The Negro Burying-Ground

William C. Gannett

‘Mid the sunny fist of the cotton-field

Lies an acre of forest-tangle still;

A cloister of dim, where the grey moss waves

And the live-oaks lock their arms at will.

Here in the shadows the slaves would hide

As they dropped the hoe at death’s release,

And leave no sign but a sinking mound

To show where they passed on their way to peace.

This was the Gate – there was none but this –

To a Happy Land where men were men;

And the dusky fugitives, one by one,

Stole in from the bruise of the prison-pen.

When, lo! In the distance boomed the guns,

The bruise was over, and “Massa” had fled!

But Death is the “Massa” that never flees,

And still to the oaks they bore the dead.

‘T was at set of sun; a tattered troop

Of children circled a little grave,

Chanting an anthem rich in its peace

As ever pealed in cathedral-cave, --

The A, B, C, that the lips below

Had learnt with them in the school to shout.

Over and over they sung it slow,

Crooning a mystic meaning out.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, --

Down solemn alphabets they swept:

The oaks leaned close, the moon swung low, --

What strange new sound among them crept?

The holiest hymn that the children knew!

‘T was dreams come real, and heaven come near;

‘T was light, and liberty, and joy,

And “white-folks’ sense,” –and God right here!

Over and over; they dimly felt

This was the charm could make black white,

This was the secret of “Massa’s” pride,

And this, unknown, make the negro’s night.

What could they sing of braver cheer

To speed on his unseen way the friend?

The children were facing the mystery Death

With the deepest prayer that their hearts could send.

Children, too, and the mysteries last!

We are but comrades with them there, --

Stammering over a meaning vast,

Crooning our guesses of how and where.

But the children were right with their A, B, C;

In our stammering guess so much we say!

The singers were happy, and so were we:

Deep as our wants are the prayers we pray.

Afraid to Go Home

We all have those moments from our childhood that we will never forget. I still clearly remember one of those days from third or fourth grade...

I had gone next door to see if my friend wanted to come outside to play and instead was asked to see the results of a recent shopping trip. I went inside knowing I shouldn't because my parents had a rule about not entering anyone else's house without their permission. I went inside thinking I would be done quickly and back home before my parents knew any better. Time slipped by faster than I had anticipated and I soon realized that when I got home I would probably be in trouble. At that point I had a choice to make...I could go home and face the consequences or I could continue to pretend everything was okay and postpone the inevitable. Of course, like most kids, I chose to stick around a little longer and by the time I got home my parents were more than a little upset =/ .

There is nothing half so pleasant as coming home again.

Home is the place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.

Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

The English lexicon is full of quotations and sayings about home: being home, leaving home, loving home, missing home. Home is one of those words that fills us with comfort and hope at what it stands for, even if you didn't get to experience it in actuality. Home is something we long for...unless there is something waiting for us that we don't want to experience (in the case of my childhood-self, the punishment for disobedience).

Living so far away from all that I know best provides many opportunities for homesickness. The end of each school year and the beginning of each break is met with the urgent desire to return home. 

But the last few weeks I've experienced a feeling I've never experienced before...a fear of going home. 

Last year my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, you may have read about that here or here. A cancer of the blood that causes anemia and severely weakens the bones. We knew when he was diagnosed that there would be no cure. That the most we could hope for was a treatment that would slow the progression of the cancer and ease any pain he experienced. The chemo made him sick and it was quickly decided that the benefits weren't worth the suffering.

Being so far away has provided a distance from whole situation (I recently referred to it as my 600-mile buffer). I haven't been around to watch the slow progression from the energetic, unstoppable man of my memories to the mere shadow that now exists.

Staying away made it easier to pretend that one of the people I love most in this world is not slipping into the next. Staying away was easier on me. Staying away was giving into the fear.

There is a book I have shared with each of my classes for the last three years in which the main character is told that the best choice is the one of love and the worst one is the one of fear.

Seeing the tears in my grandfather's eyes yesterday and smile on his face confirmed that I made the right choice...it was time to come home.

Poor Rosy

I was doing some research/reading Sunday afternoon and came across this account in a letter:

One woman - a respectable house-servant, who had lost all but one of her twenty-two children - said to me: "Pahaw! don't har to dese yer chil'en, misse. Dey just rattles it off, -dey don't know how for sing it. I likes "Poor Rosy" better dan all de songs, but can't be sung widout a full heart and a troubled sperrit!"

 Being the curious soul that I am, I had to see if I could find the words to the song...I love Google!

1.      Poor Rosy, poor gal,

Poor Rosy, poor gal,

Rosy break my poor heart,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home,

I cannot stay in hell one day,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home,

I’ll sing and pray my soul a-way,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

2.     Got hard trial in my way,

Got hard trial in my way,

Got hard trial in my way,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

O when I talk, I talk wid God,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

O when I talk, I talk wid God,

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

3.     I dunno what de people want of me,

I dunno what de people want of me,

I dunno what de people want of me

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

I dunno what de people want of me

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

I dunno what de people want of me

          Heav’n shall-a be my home.

 

 

These things are for remembering...

I had some catching up to do in my Bible reading calendar today. After I was finished, I found myself writing this in my journal...

"I read a lot, today, about [leaving Egypt] and the laws given to Israel. I was struck by the emphasis on 'remembering' throughout the generations. We no longer take the time to remember - as Christians, as Americans, as humans. We are so obsessed with the present that we avoid the past and ignore the future. These things are for remembering..."

We have been reading The Devil's Arithmetic in class the past few weeks. A book about the Holocaust in which past, present, and future all collide. Hannah, a young Jewish girl, is transported from a present-day celebration of the Passover with her family to 1940s Poland. While preparing for and practicing the Passover, Hannah doesn't want to remember, she doesn't understand why they have to eat bitter herbs while her friends are eating jelly beans.

Several chapters later, after being loaded into trucks by German soldiers, about to be sick, the taste in Hannah's mouth reminds her of those herbs. "And those were for remembering..."

It isn't until she experiences her own bitter experiences in the camps that she can appreciate the past of her heritage and her family...it is in remembering the past that she appreciates the present.

It was with all of those thoughts running through my mind that I walked into my room and caught sight of my Grandmother's picture hanging above my bed...

...the woman I never really understood, and yet, the one I wish I would have had an opportunity to get to know better.

My Grandmother died of cancer just before my 13th birthday, so my memories of her are childish ones, full of things I didn't understand or appreciate until I was older...

I didn't understand why we only ever got a dollar bill in a card for our birthdays, or why our Christmas gifts were almost always something she had made herself....I didn't understand that the only money she had for these things was what she could save from the household expenses.

I didn't understand why we always had the same meal (which I hated) at their house...pan-fried chicken, lettuce with Miracle Whip and pepper, and corn she had canned herself...I didn't understand that was her favorite meal and the only time my Grandfather let her fix it was when they had company.

I didn't understand why my friends got to do cool things with their grandparents and I spent my time learning how to thread a needle, sew quilt pieces together (never quite got the hang of that), and follow a pattern...I didn't understand she was giving us part of herself.

I didn't understand why she would marry someone like my Grandfather, stay married to someone like my Grandfather...I didn't understand just how much she valued family and was willing to sacrifice for them.

I didn't understand, but these things are for remembering...

Where to start...

Because I really spend very little time at home, I use a  downloaded calendar to make sure I get to all those cleaning tasks I would otherwise forget.

I just printed off this week's list.

Tomorrow's tasks include...

"Sort books...

...de-clutter...

...organize...

...bookcase"

This.

Might.

Take.

A While.

The Best Nest

Almost every Sunday, as soon as we finish our craft, I get the amazing privilege of reading to my little cluster of four-year-olds. Some nights we squeeze onto the chairs and other nights, like the one just gone by, I sit on the floor with one or two on my lap and others standing, sitting, or kneeling close enough to see. This book, The Best Nest, happens to be one of their favorites.

We gasp in surprise when the raccoon pops out of the tree; we plug our noses when they investigate the smelly, old shoe; we wince when they pull out the man's hair; we "BOING, BOING, BOING" with the church bell; and together we say "I love my house. I love my nest. In all the world, my nest is best!"

I was a little like Mrs. Bird this morning. I wasn't too happy with my nest. Waking up to record cold temperatures, in a place that uses insulation sparingly, is not fun. One of the only motivations for dragging my self out of a nice, warm bed was the prospect of a nice, hot shower. I turned on the water, tested the temperature, pulled the lever to turn the shower on .... and was greeted with the clanging of empty pipes.

This is not the first time I have lost water because of cold weather (although never this early in the year), but the experience never gets better. Before I could stop them, the thoughts were filling my mind ... "If I lived in town, this wouldn't happen." "If I lived some place better, this wouldn't happen." "If I had better landlords, this wouldn't happen." As I stumbled through my morning preparations, that phrase started echoing in my still groggy brain. "I love my house. I love my nest. In all the world, my nest is best."

My thoughts paused long enough to register the truth that I have a house and I should be grateful. Three hundred and sixty-four (give or take) mornings a year, I have running water and I should be grateful. I have this amazing device in my utility room that heats the water as it passes through so I can take warm showers, wash my clothes, and sanitize my dishes and I should be grateful.

That was this morning, but this afternoon I began to recall all of the other reasons why my nest is best.

There aren't many people who know all that was involved in my move to South Carolina (and there are more dimensions to the story than I have time to tell in this post), but it was a whirlwind of a trip. When I arrived I had no place to live. It had been arranged for me to stay with someone at the school until I could find a house, but that fell through the first night. It was the next evening, after a hotel stay and my first day of work, before I could go looking.

A local realtor took me to the only place they had openings, an apartment complex on the other side of town. We pulled into the lot and my already low spirits sank a little further. Trash and other debris littered yard. Everything looked dirty and in a state of disrepair. I think the realtor noticed my lack of enthusiasm and tried to reassure me with the knowledge that the police kept an eye on the area...it didn't work. Touring the inside didn't help with its stained carpet, dingy walls, and cramped kitchen.

He took me back to his truck to wait while he looked at something that needed his attention. I sat there, trying not to cry (for the millionth time that day), praying "God, if I have to live here, I will, but PLEASE have something else!"

I managed not to break down when asked what I thought of the apartment, but my voice was a little shaky when I asked if he was sure there was nothing else. He mentioned some unfinished duplexes and asked if I wanted to see them. Not knowing what else to do, I said yes.

This time when he pulled into the driveway I wanted to cry again...because this time there was pretty little porch, bright windows, and clean white walls. And I knew...this was my nest.

It wasn't as easy as that, I had three life-changing weeks (another story, for another post) to wait on them to finish the construction, but I knew I had found the place especially prepared for me by loving Father. This is why I can say...

I love house.
          I love my nest.
                         In all the world, my nest is best.
                                                                  ...Thank You, Lord, for how You've blessed!