What's the Point?

Do you read the obituaries? 

I only get the newspaper on Saturdays and Sundays, but I do find the death notices and skim each one. Maybe it's a sign of getting older myself? I usually note the age of the person listed and, if it's mentioned, the circumstances surrounding his or her passing . . . a brief illness, a long battle with cancer, a car accident. 

Recently, several in my circles have lost spouses, siblings, or parents. When I heard the news, I felt the same way as when I walk to the cemetery and happen to see a fresh grave with flowers laid on top. It saddens me. A life lived. A life gone . . . so quickly. Reminds me of the book of Ecclesiastes where the writer talks about the vanity of a life that is soon snuffed out.

The melancholy part of me grieves. I feel unsettled . . . and vulnerable.

There's a little phrase tucked in one of Paul's sermons in Acts 13 that I go back to often. It offers hope and focus, especially when, in our more human moments, we might be tempted to wonder, "What's the point if we all die and after a while nobody remembers us anyway?"

Here's the verse: "David, after he had served the purpose of God in his own generation, fell asleep and was laid with his fathers . . ." (Verse 36). 

Did you see it? Yes, David lived and died, but he also served God's purpose in his own generation! He was a man after God's heart who gave himself to his contemporaries in multiple ways . . . from caring for the family's flock of sheep to governing the nation of Israel. He wasn't perfect, yet with intention, he fulfilled God's purposes for him and those under his influence.  

Three millenniums later, we walk this earth to live out the same objective as David. To faithfully serve God's purposes (not ours) in our own circle of influence, for this generation - for the glory of God. 

So the next time we read the obituaries in the paper, let them remind us of David's example. A worthy goal. A noble aspiration that sheds a whole new light on life and death. 

Reading Between the Lines

For months now, I've eyed that quiet shelf in my office closet, the third one down, with a lifetime of journals and prayer notebooks arranged in order by date. Over the years I've moved them from place to place as we've repurposed and rearranged, but not once did I crack one open to read the chronicles within.  

If you've followed my journey, you're familiar with my occasional yet repeated references to simplifying and downsizing. I've spent the last four years wading through a lifetime of accumulated "stuff," highly motivated by my desire to spare my children the weight of it all.

It's one thing to toss 1984 homeschool catalogs, donate dozens of VHS documentaries, and find teachers and students who gladly receive Latin and Spanish curriculum. It's quite another to decide what to do with decades of handwritten stories. Stories about family, events, celebrations, school days, worries, fears, regrets, life lessons, and well . . . whatever else happened to come to mind on any given day. Memories recorded in black and white . . . someday to be remembered in living color.

On my birthday last September, I decided it was my job to take care of these volumes in one way or another. In March, I finally mustered up the courage to begin. Page after written page, I read. Sometimes I found myself smiling . . . like the time one of the girls danced around the living room singing, "I can read! I can read!" Or when said daughter couldn't decide on which socks to wear to make her "shoes feel good." Or the day she got her head stuck in a chair at school. Another of them dressed up like Polly Pepper, and at Thanksgiving, a native American, complete with fringe and papoose.

I found the record of when we paid off our house and the season we harvested 49 quarts of strawberries and canned umpteen quarts of tomatoes and pickles. I noted the day when Patches the Guinea pig died and how Daddy helped bury him in the garden under a stone painted yellow. I leafed through the celebratory stories of birthdays and end-of-the-school-year-parties, prayers and baptisms, swimming lessons and family outings.

But lest you think our lives were mostly idyllic, my eyes also traveled over pages of weary fatigue, frustration, busyness, uncertainty, and desperate prayers for wisdom and guidance. I scribbled, "God, where are you? I'm trying so hard. Why does it seem I will never be enough? Please take care of my girls." Tears sprang to my eyes as I laid the book down. 

Can you relate?

I happened to mention my bittersweet experience to a friend who parroted back to me what she and I had talked about in times past. "What is true?" she reminded me. "Read your journals as an act of worship as you recall God's work in your life. Let go of the pages that are no longer beneficial." 

An act of worship. Letting go of the If Onlys leaves room for us to read the grace of God between the lines. His unfailing presence. His steadfast love. His promise of redemption. He brought us through those days . . . the learning days . . . the growing days . . . all for His glory. 

It's been good for me to review my life through my own pen. Humbling, really. Words have a way of representing a more accurate picture than memory. All these years later, I find myself worshipping God with a sweeter appreciation for His faithfulness . . . and for His readiness to listen to the broken, hopeful prayers of a mother's heart. 

Behold, I am doing a new thing . . . 

I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

Four Questions to Ask Your Kids . . . and Yourself

When's the last time you "happened" to hear or read something not directed toward people in your season of life but nonetheless that grabbed your attention?

I turned in to Focus on the Family this past week while driving home and happened to catch an interview with Dr. Kathy Koch (Ph.D. in Reading and Educational Psychology) centered around her book, Start with the Heart: How to Motivate Your Kids to Be Compassionate, Responsible, and Brave (Even When You're Not Around).

Although my 24-hour-a-day parenting days are behind me, I found the discussion intriguing. She talked about (among other topics) the five basic needs of children, the four roles of parents, and the difference between rewards/punishment and consequences. But what I took away were four questions to ask children in order to understand them better . . .  perhaps every year on their birthdays or at the beginning of a school year. Asking questions requires active listening, follow-up questions, and healthy discussion.

And these four questions are just as good for parents/adults to ask themselves and perhaps talk over with a significant other. 

Here they are:

1. What do I want to BE in my life (can include character qualities, professions)?

2. What do I want to DO in my life?

3. What do I want to HAVE in my life?

4. What/Who do I want to HELP (causes, interests)?

It's good to take a few minutes now and then to prayerfully evaluate where we are and where we would like to be in, say, six months, a year, five years. Not that God can't change our plans (Proverbs 16:9), yet goals propel us forward. For me, if I don't have a list, I get nowhere!

C.S. Lewis once said, "You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream." I have a little dreaming to do this week.

So what do you want to BE, to DO, to HAVE, and who do you want to HELP? 

Here are the links to the programs from Focus on the Family:
https://www.oneplace.com/ministries/focus-on-the-family/listen/motivating-your-kids-to-reflect-the-character-of-god-i-746232.html
https://www.oneplace.com/ministries/focus-on-the-family/listen/motivating-your-kids-to-reflect-the-character-of-god-ii-746439.html

Photos from bing.com/images/free to use

A Fresh Look for Some Old Chairs . . .

Last week's frigid temperatures kept me inside with a project that had been on my list since last fall. I recovered my dining room chairs. I had enough of the same fabric to recover four of the six, and since the fabric is reversible, I just turned two of the old covers over. Much better! Mission accomplished.

As I stapled away using my kitchen counter as a work bench, my mind wandered to the history of the table (with two leaves), chairs, matching china cabinet, and buffet. As the story goes, my great-grandmother purchased the entire set in 1929. Ninety years ago! At that time she was 48 years old and only enjoyed her new furniture for six years before she passed away in 1935, a year before my dad was born. After the Depression, Dad's immediate family moved in with relatives for a time where he remembers seeing the set in the middle room in the upper family flat on Edison Street in Buffalo. 

As a young girl, I remember this same furniture in the same house in the same room, arranged the same way. (Dad and I compared notes over dinner the other evening, drawing out the floor plan and furniture arrangement.) By this time, my great Aunt Anita and her brother, Uncle Freddie, lived there.

Sometime in the mid-80s, while Barry and I lived in Rochester, NY, my great aunt sold the house, and the furniture was given to me. I was thrilled. We hauled the chairs into our front enclosed porch and began the painstaking task of refurbishing the seats, by now in need of repair. Barry removed the tiny tacks and old straw "padding" and nailed thin boards onto each seat frame. 

As a young twenty-something, I had no idea how to cover chairs, so I brought one of the

frames to an old fabric warehouse in Rochester and left with foam, batting, material, and determination. Over the years I've changed the seat fabric many times. By now the chairs creak, the legs look worn, and a few of the wooden frames have grown brittle, yet I've managed to cover the seats by improvising here and there.

If my chairs could speak instead of squeak, what stories they would tell! Six generations of families have sat in them around the old table. . . telling stories over spaghetti dinners, birthday celebrations, and Saturday night suppers. Children wearing bibs have graduated from booster seats. Guests have come and gone. Shared memories keep traditions alive.

I still treasure the times when family and friends gather. Most recently, a ladies' Bible study, my writers' group, and a Moms in Prayer meeting gather around the table on a regular basis, using the same chairs my great grandparents, my grandma, my dad, my children, and grandchildren have used . . . all to the glory of God.

"One generation shall commend your works to another, and shall declare your mighty acts." Psalm 145:4

Empty Yet Full

Empty . . .

An apt description of the house when the last one leaves after a holiday. Can you relate? No bags stashed here and there. No toys to trip over. No sippy cups in the kitchen sink. No crowded bathroom counters and towel racks. No half-open suitcases. No scattered shoes and boots in the breezeway. No extra cars in the driveway.

And more obvious, no adult children and grandchildren gathered around, playing games, laughing, or eating around the table. All may be calm and bright, but as the emptiness echoes its stillness, I feel the loss.

At the same time, my heart is full . . . full of memories. Talking until 2 a.m. the night my college-age daughter flew in. More hours of talking, talking, talking. Shopping at Kohl's because her internship is right around the corner. Listening to her play the piano and sing. Welcoming the older girls and their families. Catching up. Cuddling a two-month-old and seeing his wide smiles for the first time. Reading stories. Singing carols by a crackling fire. Taking my oldest grandson to see The Nutcracker the day after Christmas. Enjoying a roast beef Christmas dinner, along with my dad and a friend. Playing Jenga. Sharing gifts and stories. Missing those no longer with us.

One family came on Sunday the 23rd and left the very next day due to our three-year-old's bout with vomiting and diarrhea. After a hurried gift opening, we all had tears in our eyes when they pulled away to try to get home, mommy and bucket in the back seat just in case.

Today, I said my last good-bye of the season. Our youngest drove off in her daddy's 2005 Corolla, new wiper blades in place, EZ Pass transponder and GPS attached to the windshield and, just to make me feel better, a few maps tucked in the passenger door pocket. Since 2015, I've babied this car . . . inspections, tires, maintenance . . . because I knew this day was coming, the day when she would drive it back to school in the mid-west. Barry would be proud of her (and all of them) if he were here. 

After a good cry, I got busy. Putting things in order has always been my way of coping. Does it ever get easier? 

As I mopped the bathroom floor and folded towels, I thought about what happened after Mary's encounter with Gabriel. Luke 1:39 tells us, "In those days Mary arose and went with haste into the hill country, to a town in Judah" to visit Zachariah and Elizabeth. Although the Bible doesn't mention Mary's mother, I couldn't help but wonder how she felt when Mary said a hasty good-bye to take a 70-mile trip. Did concern for her daughter's well-being and safety occupy her thoughts? Did she wake up to pray in the dark of the night? 

Somehow this ancient un-named mother gave me courage as I said my own good-byes today. She invested years sharing biblical truth and practical knowledge, then moved out of the way to allow her daughter to follow God's leading. In the same way, I want to be supportive of all three of my daughters. I hope we've given them roots. Now it's time to give them wings (and wheels!). 

Empty? Yes, but with a heart full of thanksgiving and anticipation in a brand new year. 

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The Christmas Countdown . . .

I eyed my calendar, making a mental note of all I had to do before the 25th. Decorate the house, purchase gifts and wrap them, plan menus, attend holiday events, write our annual Christmas letter and mail out cards, pick up last minute gifts and grocery items . . . all before they come trooping through the door and the quiet turns a bit chaotic with three little grandsons, their parents, and a favorite aunt. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

Timing is important this season of the year, like planning a celebratory meal so every dish finishes cooking at the same time. We feel the strain of getting it all done just right, on time, making it special and memorable. Does anyone else feel the pressure?

Over the last few years, our family has talked a lot about simplicity. How can we keep the traditions alive that are important to us without doing everything we've always done . . . without "doing it all"?

The answer to this question varies, but we've learned to be okay with a little less baking and decorating and fewer gifts. And our time together is just as meaningful. We treasure every bit of stimulating conversation and laughter around the table that feeds a feeling of belonging.

On the other hand, no holiday is perfect. The kids cry. A new toy breaks. A part is missing, and we can't find the receipt. The roast doesn't get done in time. The empty chairs, seen and unseen, remind us of those who are no longer with us. We feel the loss . . . more so than on regular days. 

So then, there's the matter of trying to adjust our expectations . . .

 . . . and focusing on the first Christmas where a government tax bill shuffled people around the land of Israel, making it necessary for a young virgin to give birth to her firstborn son in a stable miles from home. Not ideal by any standard, yet somehow in God's perfect time according to His perfect plan.

But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons (Galatians 4:4-5).

This Christmas, I want to be purposeful and embrace those traditions that are meaningful, don't you? And to see the wrinkled newborn in the manger with fresh eyes, to hear the brilliant announcement and glorious song of the angels with the shepherds, to follow the mysterious star with the wise men, and to embrace the wonder of it all with Mary and Joseph. 

No matter how our holiday week plays out, a simple story from long ago makes all the difference. And in this wonderful story, the baby's name is Immanuel. 

God with us. 

Your thoughts?

Brushstrokes of a Father

My mother would be proud of him. 

Five years ago, ill with cancer and waning in strength, she surprised my dad by asking me to take her to his art show at the Abington Senior Center. His smile showed how much her coming meant to him. He introduced her to his art-colleagues as they walked hand in hand around the room to view the paintings. We still talk about it. She passed away two short months later.

Photo by Ben Freda

Last Sunday, my sister and I made it point to attend this year's art show at the Senior Center. Barb arranged her visit from Indiana so she could attend, and my daughter and her friend also popped in to support "Grandpa." Live music, refreshments, and handshakes all around made it a memorable occasion. Ben Freda from the Abington Journal took Dad's photo and summarized the event HERE.  

Dad uses water colors to create his paintings . . . usually a still life or a scene from nature. At 82 years old, he attends class every Thursday after he has had lunch at my kitchen table and has helped me take my garbage and recycling to the curb. Our Thursday lunches have become a ritual for us, one I look forward to. 

As another Father's Day rolls around, I've been reflecting on Dad's brushstrokes in my life. He's modeled the steady colors of consistency, godliness, and loyalty. His dry sense of humor and funny comments add light to our conversations. His having lived many decades brings perspective to my thinking, and His love for God's Word challenges me to remember what's truly important when "the cares of this world" seem to be calling my name. We've both lost our spouses and understand loneliness and loss, yet we help each other move forward with God's strength and with grateful hearts.

I love you, Dad. Along with Mom, I'm proud of you, too. Thanks for the brushstrokes of character you've painted for me and Barb and for your wonderful example of quiet strength and hope. Happy Father's Day!

Here are a few samples of Dad's paintings, most watercolor:

This scene is done in colored pencil.

When the Passing of Time Brings Change

The emotion I felt surprised me.

Another first since my husband passed away. . . which should have been the first clue this would trigger some feelings of nostalgia mixed with loss.

The last two years, our youngest daughter and I "decked the halls" of our home, but this year she and the others plan to arrive for an early Christmas on the same day. Our time is short so I planned to have everything ready - and honestly looked forward to decorating the house. Umpteen trips up to the attic and back saw me pull out the old familiar simple, homespun Christmas garlands, stockings, and lighted village. And, of course, the wooden manger my dad made when the kids were little . . . and all the holiday stories. 

I cranked up the Christmas music on Pandora and went to work . . . but instead of seeing my hands sort lights and greenery, I saw little-girl hands hanging their stockings on designated hooks by the fireplace. Added to the carols, I heard their voices and laughter. I watched their daddy in the recliner, taking it all in, giving his two cents now and then, snacking on popcorn, and feeding the fire. I smelled pizza in the oven and freshly baked cookies as the celebratory ending to our annual tradition. 

Tears ran down my cheeks. Those busy, hectic days slipped away so quickly . . . only memories now. 

Even as I reached for the tissue box, I thought of our girls and how proud I am of each one. Two of them are now mothers, creating their own family traditions. I thanked God for the privilege of being their mom all these years.

And I rehearsed the blessings God has offered me today . . . family, friends, community, health, the ability to do my work and help others. . .  and even events to look forward to over this holiday season . . . blessings I want to receive with gratefulness and contentment.  

Even though time changes so much of life, Christmas is still about Emmanuel, God with us. It's still about a loving God who sent His only Son to be our Savior. It's still about joy and peace . . . and everlasting hope. 

When the family all comes trouping through the back door in a couple of weeks, the house will be festive, the tree bright, the frig stocked with their favorites, and the gifts wrapped. The little grandboys will dress up as shepherds, and we'll read the familiar story from Luke 2 together. We'll ponder the miracle of Christmas.

I plan to savor every minute!

Back to Bethlehem

Just like a preprogrammed clock, the question came every day.

"Is it Christmas yet?"

Written by Lillian Ewert, my wonderful mom, who did Christmas so well.

Our granddaughter, Elisabeth, age 3, anticipated something she could not remember experiencing. The Christmas tree, the pretty lights, and the wooden manger scene caused her excitement to mount with each passing day. 

Christmas finally dawned. The family gathering at our house always included a Christmas play presented by all the grandchildren, which I enjoyed directing. The adults provided the appreciative audience. However, changes had occurred over the years. Some of the grandchildren could not be there, and the adult audience had dwindled considerably. Elisabeth's teenage sisters no longer looked forward to wearing bathrobes and angel wings.

I wrestled with the idea of giving up the Christmas play but struggled to find a substitute to help us focus on the Savior's birth. As I watched Elisabeth at play, an idea began to stir in my thoughts.

"Elisabeth, would you like to be Mary and put Baby Jesus in the manger?" I asked.

Elisabeth's eyes lit up as she took my hand and we went into the bedroom to get ready. "Grammy, you be Joseph," she said.

I pinned a blanket around Elisabeth's shoulders and tied a scarf around her head. I placed the baby Jesus, wrapped in strips of cloth, into her arms, and together we stepped into the living room and slowly walked to the manger. Carefully she placed Baby Jesus in the bed of artificial straw. Mary and Joseph knelt beside the manger to admire the baby.

The family began to sing familiar Christmas carols previously taught by Elisabeth's mother. Sometimes the baby was picked up and gently rocked and placed back in the manger.

Elisabeth's eyes shone as she lived out the story that had become so familiar to her in recent days. It became obvious that she loved her role as Mary when she kept her costume on the rest of the day. 

As the day drew to a close, the adults remained at the table after dinner to talk while Elisabeth, who had been excused, played with her toys in the living room. Before long, I felt a tap on my shoulder and a little voice said, "Joseph, will you come back to Bethlehem with me?"

Back to Bethlehem. "A little child shall lead them" (Isaiah 11:6). 

So how do we come back to Bethlehem?

We find our way back to Kohl's, back to the grocery story, back to Amazon, and even back to church. But what about Bethlehem? How would you say we can be intentional about finding Bethlehem in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the season?

O come, all ye faithful, joyful, and triumphant,

O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem.

Come and adore Him, born the King of angels.

O come let us adore Him, Christ the Lord.   

The Most Meaningful Easter

What Easter traditions do you remember from childhood? What activities, sights, tastes, and smells bring a wave of nostalgia? Which customs and rituals do you still carry out? 

For my sister and me, Easter meant Mom sewing us each a new dress. On Saturday evening, we colored eggs with the kind of dye that floated in droplets on top of the water in a large bowl. We used a toothpick to mix the colors around, then slowly dipped each egg into the swirly water on a homemade wire egg holder.

We often attended an Easter sunrise service, then a breakfast at church. Mom made what she called "kuchen." She mixed up a yeast dough, and after the first rising she rolled the dough out into a large rectangle, filled the center with plum or apple filling from end to end, and then cut the flat dough on the sides into one inch strips. She brought the strips to the center and braided them to cover the filling. After a second rise, she baked it until it turned golden brown, then drizzled the top with a thin glaze.

We joined my grandparents for Easter dinner, where all the aunts, uncles, and cousins also gathered. Grandma's best china and table linens graced the big dining room table. After a solemn blessing, we celebrated together. We went home with jelly beans, chocolate bite-sized bunnies, and a cake in the shape of a lamb, complete with white frosting and coconut.

However, the most meaningful part of the day for me took place while still snuggled in my bed. In the quiet of the dawn, I read the Easter story from the gospels. I thought about the Good Friday service at church, where our pastor did a chalk drawing depicting three crosses against an ominous sky. I tried to imagine in my young mind what it would have been like to be there and witness the death of the very Son of God. How sad and lonely. And then how wonderful to arrive at the tomb that Sunday morning when the angels announced, "He is not here. He is risen!" The miracle of it all made a deep impression on me.

This year I find myself thinking about the resurrection of Jesus in a new light. It's the first Easter Barry is on the other side. When someone so dearly loved has died, the words from 1 Corinthians 15 give hope and perspective: 

But now Christ is risen from the dead, . . . So when this corruptible has put on incorruption, and this mortal has put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written: "Death is swallowed up in victory." O Death, where is your sting? O Grave, where is your victory? . . . But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ (verses 20, 54-57).

Remembering the resurrection means so much more than listening to a once-a-year sermon. Because Christ lives, Barry's story isn't over. He lives! The resurrection has birthed the unwavering hope of eternal life. "So shall we ever be with the Lord" (1 Thessalonians 4:17).

Now that's worth celebrating, wouldn't you agree?

Photos from google images.   

A Time to Plant and a Time to Uproot

To everything there is a season,

and a time for every matter or purpose under heaven:

A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot . . ."

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 2

Today, we uprooted . . .

For nearly 25 years, my husband planted a garden every spring, using a parcel of borrowed land near our home. He planted strawberries, lettuce, potatoes, asparagus, beets, cabbage, beans, peppers, onions, broccoli, Swiss chard, chives, tomatoes, and flowers of every color. Over time, He also "planted" pavers, wooden planks, and even unused siding to keep the weeds down. He dug shallow ditches to drain the land when it rained too much and to irrigate the rows when it didn't rain enough. His system worked--most of the time.

Barry and Sharon in the Garden

He became a legend in the neighborhood, easily visible from the road and from the back yards of our neighbors. He planted, weeded, and did most of the harvesting. My thumb isn't as green as his, so I prepared, canned, froze, and shared. We have memories of our girls picking rock, pulling weeds, picking beans, and cleaning broccoli. Each of them has Dad's green thumb, a wonderful legacy for the next generation.

After Barry passed away in May, we did all we could to keep the garden going. We planted, weeded, and watered. We ate the asparagus he pampered, dug the potatoes he planted, harvested the cabbages and onions he bought and Elisabeth planted per his instructions. We put in ten tomato plants which, thanks to his drainage system, flourished.

But today, we uprooted.

It became apparent that we could no longer keep up the huge garden across the street. It wasn't an easy decision. Summit University's Community Appreciation Day brought a wonderful group of students and a couple of faculty members to the garden. They gathered and hauled planks, buckets, and siding back to the house. They pulled stakes and fence (over 800 pounds in all), loaded it into a pick-up, and hauled it away for scrap. All accomplished with a willing cheerfulness and kindness I will never forget. Sincere thanks to each one. Bless you all.

Yet, there's a certain grieving that comes with uprooting. Uprooting marks the end of an era, the end of one more memory associated with Barry. And because of that, I had a good cry tonight while washing the supper dishes.

It seems we spend so much energy planting, getting established, gathering possessions, living out the American dream. And then, as the years slip away, we find ourselves downsizing, giving things away, simplifying. It's time to uproot.

I'll miss Barry's garden. At the same time I'll treasure the memories and all I learned from the man with the green thumb.