Thirty-five Years . . . Together

Thirty-five years ago today, Barry and I began our lives together promising to love each other for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Thirty-five years is a long time, yet it slipped through our fingers so quickly. Through it all, we've seen God's faithfulness over and over. Happy Anniversary, hon. I love you!

Together

We dance together, you and I, in step to life's music.

Sometimes the sound of trumpets and flutes

Twirls us around dizzy, back and forth.

The driving bass and roll of drums

Bring matching steps of duty.

And when the soft whisper of violins catches us close and slow,

I look into your eyes

And know, whatever the orchestra plays,

We will always dance . . . together.

An American Tradition: "Take Me Out to the Ballgame!"

Photo by Elisabeth Phillips

We joined nearly ten thousand people gathered at PNC Field to support the Scranton-Wilkes-Barre Rail Riders. Had a great time - despite the breezy cool temperatures. 

Besides keeping an eye on the game, I found myself doing a fair share of people-watching. The kids with Mohawk haircuts, the chummy couple sitting in front of us, the man whose wife made sure we knew he served in the military, the dancers who jived to the music, the constant parade of junk food addicts stepping up and down stadium stairways . . . . Americans, young and old, came out to celebrate Independence Day with a ballgame and fireworks.

Our time at the stadium represented more than a ball game. A young boy sang "The Star-Spangled Banner." Half-way through the game, we again stood to sing "God Bless America." We acknowledged veterans medaled with purple hearts and years of service. Old Glory blew in the breeze. Several times, the loud speaker blared Lee Greenwood's lyrics:

Photo courtesy of bing.com

And I'm proud to be an American
Where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the ones who died
Who gave that right to me

And I gladly stand up next to you
And defend her still today
'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land
God bless the U.S.A.

And there I stood, wiping my eyes, indeed proud to be an American, grateful for freedom's ring.

America's traditions . . . her melodies of patriotism . . . her symbols and all they stand for . . . . Somehow they've reached deep into the hearts of ordinary citizens like me. 


By the way, the Rail Riders won the game with a walk-off home run on the last hit, a memorable take-me-out-to-the-ballgame moment! 


Which country claims you as a citizen? What do you treasure about being a part of this tradition?

Are You Picking White Strawberries?

The end of June marks the time of strawberry season here in Northeastern Pennsylvania. The local strawberry farm takes loads of us locals to the fields in a wagon pulled by a huge tractor. We come back with heaping containers of red, luscious strawberries along with red tongues and a few stains on our shoes and shorts. After the workers weigh up our bounty (and accept our carefully-saved cash for this very occasion), off we go to make jam, pies, and shortcake. Yummy!

Last night as I was making jam, I remembered a story my mother used to tell. One warm June day, she took my sister and me to pick strawberries. We must've been in the lower elementary grades. Crouched in my row, I suddenly heard Mom say to me, "Sarah, why are you picking white strawberries?"

"So everyone else can have the red ones," I answered. Needless to say, after a mild scolding, I have not picked a white strawberry since . . . at least not in a strawberry patch. 

But there have been occasions I have been guilty of picking white strawberries over the years. Times when perhaps I didn't feel worthy or deserving. Times when I purposely took the short end of the stick, hung back, or allowed other people to determine what should have been my choices to make. Times when I needed to speak up, ask questions, and hold my ground.

Maybe you've picked a few white strawberries, yourself?

I'm learning that although compliance, humility, and service have their place, strength of character also includes backbone, holding your chin up, and choosing what's best for you, too. Always balanced with kindness and grace.

So, come. Take my hand. Let's pick strawberries together. 

Red ones!

*Photos courtesy of bing.com

Daddy's Story

To Dad . . .

On this Father's Day, I finger your name on the front cover of your story.

Leafing through the pages, I discover early sketches in black and white,

later scenes in faded color, and current prints, vivid and bright.

Each chapter shares your story. Yet tucked between the lines,

a mystery echoes with silent, secret spaces.

You are a blend of caraway and oregano.

You are the haunting melody of a trombone.

You are a smiling bridegroom in the pouring rain.

You carry red, white, and blue in your heart, an anchor in your soul.

You are a rainbow of pigment on canvas.

A wooden bookcase brushed with silk.

A building project in a foreign land.

You are a little girl's playmate, a father of the bride,
"Poppy" who comes for dinner.

You read meters, the morning paper, your Bible, and my rough drafts.

You are shaving cream and Old Spice.

You are hands that fix what's broken, serve church dinners, 

vacuum the living room carpet, and color with Crayola crayons.

You are an honest day's work.

You are a tall, white steeple against clouds of charcoal gray.

You mirror my smile yet feel my tears running down your cheeks.

You build an altar on my behalf.

Every story leaves its impression.

Yours has left a indelible mark, deep and unmistakable . . .

Thank you for being a wonderful dad.
 I love you!

Dad and Mom - December 2007

A Date to Remember

June 8, 1940.  

Seventy-four years have passed since the day Max and Katherine Phillips exchanged wedding vows. In 1997, she slipped away into eternity. He followed in 2003. But today, on their anniversary date, we lovingly remember them and all they contributed to each member of our family.

They were, after all, my husband's parents and our children's grandparents. Twice a year we packed up the girls and made the long twelve hour pilgrimage back to the farm, back to their welcoming hugs, and back to the ever-present stories of days gone by. It seemed to me they knew the dates of every birth and death of every relative. Even the names intrigued me, names like Opal, Mildred, and Zella. 

During our summer visits we ate our meals on the porch and sought out a fan in the breathless humidity. Mom's green thumb lured us out into the yard to admire the array of colorful perennials. One time I went to pull a weed, only to hear her cry of alarm. "Don't pull that. It's Globe Thistle." I now have some of those "weeds" in my own garden beds, along with others she shared over the years. Dad's vegetable garden boasted perfect rows, rock-less soil, and not a weed to be seen. During those summertime visits, we also meandered in and out of rows of grape vines, where my husband and his siblings had learned to work side by side with migrant workers who came to pick the grapes before they used machines.

At Thanksgiving or Christmas, we worried about icy roads and weather conditions, but somehow the family managed to converge in one place. Mom loved Christmas. She had the cousins putting bows on every package. She played games, did puzzles, and read stories with each child in turn. She encouraged them to play the little organ in the back room and sing the songs she loved so well. Dad kept his eye on the forecast and recorded the daily temperature on a calendar that hung behind the kitchen door while rosy-cheeked cousins and uncles slid down the snowy bank. Whoosh!

I miss them. We all do. When the family gets together every year, I find myself wishing they were here to enjoy all their great-grandchildren. How they would have loved the little ones. The farm and the grape vineyard have sold, but the memories and the heritage Dad and Mom left to us live on. I'm grateful to have known and loved them.

if you're a member of the Phillips Family, what stories can you add to round out this day to remember them? And if you're not, I invite you to add a few memories of your own! 

Yes, You Can!

"Chug, chug, chug. Puff, puff, puff. Ding-dong, ding-dong. The little train rumbled over the tracks." Before bedtime this past weekend, our little grandson asked me to read The Little Engine That Could! Written by Watty Piper in 1930, it's a delightful story with a positive timeless message that somehow appeals to the kid in all of us. 

An engine breaks down pulling a train loaded with dolls, toys, and good food for all the boys and girls on the other side of the mountain The little toy clown flags down passing engines to ask for help. The new passenger engine insists he's too important. The strong freight engine can't be bothered to help such a little train. The old rusty engine sighs, "I must rest my weary wheels." 

Finally, a perky little blue engine rolls up, and although she's never been over the mountain, she's eager to help and give it a try. As she slowly begins to tug the toy-laden train up the mountain, she chants the famous lines, "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can." She finally crests the top and coasts down the other side with a smile. "I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could."

Makes you feel like maybe you, too, can conquer mountains for the benefit of others, even when you feel small and inadequate.

Piper's tale reminds me of the story of The Good Samaritan in Luke 10. When several religious leaders encounter a man who's been robbed and beaten on the roadside, they pass on by without a second look. The most unlikely candidate takes the risk and makes the effort. He doesn't think about all the reasons he can't help: race, time, inconvenience, fear, financial sacrifice, etc. His "I think I can" attitude brings hope and healing - and makes all the difference in the story.

It's all about attitude. When we think we can't, it affects our performance negatively. When we think we can, we often accomplish far more than expected. We may even find ourselves encouraging others over their mountains of difficulty and distress. I want to be like the little engine that could, don't you? Positive, kind, helpful, hardworking, willing to take a risk. A first century writer put it this way, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me . . ." (Philippians 4:13).

Yes, you can!

Reflections From a Button Box

Last week, my dad noticed one of his shirt buttons missing, one belonging to his button-down collar. "I dug around and found Mom's button jar," he told me. "And I think I found two that match pretty well."

Dear Dad. Nine months ago now, Mom slipped into a better world, leaving behind her husband of over 56 years. She'd be proud of him. When I go over to the house, I notice that he's kept up their cleaning routine along with all the other housekeeping chores they did together. He's learning to cook a little, and he even irons his shirts. Thus, the missing button discovery.

The next day, when he came for dinner, he brought his shirt and two buttons. My button box did not reveal anything better, but as I threaded a needle my mind flooded with memories.

"Do you know where this tin box came from?" I asked Dad. The next few minutes found us chatting about our next door neighbor, a dear sweet lady who always spoke a kind word. She'd given my sister and I Peanut Butter Puffs for Christmas one year - and I kept the tin. A perfect place to collect buttons. Then I shared this story:

During sixth grade

when the bus stopped at the corner for the first time

and locker-lined hallways stretched on like railroad tracks

and first period swimming lessons became mandatory . . .

During sixth grade

when boys and girls found themselves caught between

sunny days of kickball and clouded contests of relationship and SATs,

when girls went back and forth between sneakers and high heels . . .

Mr. Heaton taught science.

It seemed a day like any other

except he tore a piece of paper into square bits

and sprinkled them like white confetti on the floor.

"So the cleaning lady has something to do."

As my eyes followed the last of the fluttering cascade,

I thought of the only cleaning lady I knew, the lady who lived next door.
With snowy hair, too-thick glasses, and a smile

that warmed you like hot cocoa on a chilly day,

she walked to the neighborhood elementary school every afternoon.

Mom said she worked hard.

During sixth grade, 
a shadow fell.

I took off my sneakers. 

"I'll never forget that day," I told my dad. "I guess part of growing up is realizing that people don't always live up to our expectations. Even people who are supposed to be role models."

I finished the sewing job, then added, "Every time I get out my button box, I think of Mrs. B. and that day in my sixth grade science class."

Expectations. They're tricky, I think. Shouldn't we have some expectations, especially of people in responsible positions? Yet, we're all human . . . very human. We often find ourselves disappointed in each other - and even in ourselves. Would you agree?

Perhaps the writer of Psalm 62 grappled with expectations when he wrote, "My soul, wait only upon God . . . for my hope and expectation are from Him. He only is my Rock and my Salvation; He is my Defense and my Fortress, I shall not be moved" (verses 5, 6, The Amplified Bible).  

Reflections from a button box . . . What comes to your mind when you think of expectations?