Pullin' Out the Paint

I love our home.

Our family moved in on the last day of July 1987. We overlooked the worn shag carpet, the1970s flowered orange wallpaper, and the steel windows, which we had to push from the outside to close. We knew we'd someday remodel the kitchen with very little cupboard or counter space surrounding the old ceramic sink. Yet to us, it became our home. With a wonderful job opportunity for my husband and two little girls underfoot, we moved in with young energy and resolve.

Over time, we tore up old carpet, tamed walls with quieter colors, replaced windows, reworked the bathroom, and after much deliberation, gave the kitchen a makeover. In 1998, we tore down the tiny garage and replaced it, doubling its size and adding a guest room in the back. More recently, we sided and insulated. In between all that, Barry mowed the grass, cleaned out gutters, and repaired broken faucets and leaky pipes. He primed and painted. He took good care of our little "estate."

He's gone to live in his heavenly home now, where he's free from all the chores he so faithfully took care of day after day, year after year. I suddenly inherited all those responsibilities. And I'm finding it a bit overwhelming.

Our daughter, a senior in high school, has done a wonderful job keeping the yard looking trim. I've appreciated help from extended family, neighbors, and friends. Yet I worry about how long I can live here and keep the place up. Our place. Our home.

In the past couple weeks, I've noticed a couple of neighbor friends, single like me, caulking and painting. One just retired and the other is 70-something. There's courage to be found in the initiatives of those around us. I've set mouse traps, cleaned siding, and fixed doorbells the past few months, so why couldn't I scrape the doorway leading into the garage, pull out the paint, and brighten up the side entry a little?

I suppose someday I'll have to trade this property for something smaller, but in the meantime, I want our home--my home--to be more than plaster and paint, I want it to be warm and inviting, a safe and nurturing space for all who cross the threshold, with room to sense God's presence and study His Word, to pray and write and laugh and cry. 

To grow.

So next time you're pulling' out the paint, remember the deeper purposes of home. And even when we have to downsize, we can take that part of it along with us.

 
   

The Best Halloween of All

I've never cared much for Halloween!

Oh, it's not because I think it's a bad holiday--although there's a dark side to October 31st that deserves some caution. There doesn't seem to be harm in dressing up, carving pumpkins, and dunking for apples.

But for me, the ultimate introvert from a young age, I found going door to door trick-or-treating the worst possible form of embarrassment. It just wasn't worth the bag of candy we brought home. I even insisted my younger sister go to each door ahead of me.

Our neighborhood had TWO nights where droves of kids thumped up on our front porch calling "trick of treat." Beggar's Night (October 30th) and Halloween.

Then there was the year we had huge piles of leaves lined up in front of our house, waiting for the town leaf vacuum truck. Some kid dropped a match or two, and before long a fire blazed high and wide. To my elementary-school eyes, seeing the leaping flames and fire trucks left a lasting impression.

Halloween became a little friendlier when I became a mother. I didn't take my kids out to gather candy, but we always carved pumpkins while my husband answered the door and gave out candy. If no scary faces presented themselves, he'd invite our little girls to take a peek.

The best Halloween weekend of all came years later in 1997. We had our usual pumpkin carving, a rollicking fire in the fireplace, and a special snack. I never let on that a surprise treat was soon to arrive. Halloween night labor brought our third baby girl into the world just before 1:00 p.m. the next day! 

I'm glad God never tricks us, taunting "Gotcha!" He treats us to His blessings every day of the year. 

And this Halloween, we have been blessed with another treat: a sweet baby boy to add to the family, born October 29th. Welcome William Conrad! 

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. 

"We Read to Know We Are Not Alone" (C.S. Lewis).

Have you noticed the Little Free Libraries popping up here and there? Here's the idea. Take a book. Leave a book. Nurture the love of reading. Promote a sense of community.

I took the top two photos in our town on Depot Street near the new pocket park and the bottom photo in Michigan this past summer. All three stand proudly by the roadside, offering books to passers-by. These tiny libraries come in all shapes and sizes. As unique treasure houses, they represent the spirit of freedom, the love of learning . . . and the beauty of story.

If you study a person's reading list or peruse his or her bookshelves, you understand him better. As I've poured over my late husband's volumes of books, I've gotten to know him in a new way. Sounds strange, I know, but as I've read his comments in the margins, his sticky notes pasted on random paragraphs, and his hand-written notes paper-clipped to various pages, I'm getting a feel for his thoughts and opinions on a variety of topics as he interacted with what he read.

Authors introduce us to new ideas. They broaden our thinking and help us see beyond ourselves. They challenge us to reach higher, to see farther.

Good stories do the same things in a little different way. How many times have we identified with various protagonists? We feel their vulnerability and watch them face their fears. By the last page, we take their strengths with us to conquer our own fears. We better understand our relationships. We find ourselves blessed with hope, often against all odds. Reading helps us gather the courage we need to follow through on our resolve. 

C.S. Lewis wrote, "We read to know we are not alone." 

So why do you read? And what have you been reading lately? Perhaps a nearby Little Free Library will offer just the right book!   

Decisions, Decisions

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So, how are you at making decisions?

 

I've had to make a lot of decisions over the last few months. And I'm not finding it easy. I've agonized over replacing my old car, deciding what to keep, what to pass on, and what to save, and everything in between. How did Barry always seem to know what to do?

 

How often I've cried out to God to help me over these weeks. I'm learning that making a decision is a little like crossing a river, taking one step at a time.  

 

Decision

I size up the rushing river

 overflowing its banks, full of unknowns,

the other side far away and obscure.

 

Alone now,

with only distant dreamlike memories left,

I wring my hands and pace the shore.

 

What if my foot should slip?

What if misjudgment sweeps me downstream?

What if ignorance pulls me under?

 

I feel the hand of time upon my back,

driving me ever closer to the current’s edge.

-

My heart beats fast.

Tears escape their hiding place.

I cower at the brink.

 

 “Oh dear God, please help me.

I need your grace.”

 

First one foot. Then the other.

And as I take each faltering step,

the Red-Sea-waters part.

Just enough for me to take another step

and then one more.

 

On dry ground

 

Slowly

Slowly

 

All the way to the other side.

 

 

 

 



The Epitaph

I wanted more than just his name and his dates.

There's something special when a gravestone gives an inkling about the person's life, a line to two to sum up the years. Perhaps the engraved words create a sort of bridge between the living and the dead. 

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Once or twice a week I walk to the cemetery to visit my husband's plot, tissues wadded up in my pocket to catch the inevitable tears as I kneel down to tell him how much I miss him and love him. It's been four months today that he passed from this life into the next--a long four months. And now the permanence of being alone seems to haunt me more than at the beginning of this journey. At the same time, I've found hope in the presence of a living God who promised never to leave me.

Before I ordered Barry's monument, I walked up and down the paths between the stones, reading the names and dates and searching for inscriptions that said a little something about their untold stories. I didn't find many. Only a few had verses. One had a word puzzle. Many displayed hearts and crosses.

How do you summarize a life? What's left after you boil it all down to one or two lines to etch into a piece of granite? How does a family sort it all out and decide just the right words?

This is the epitaph our family decided to have engraved under Barry's name:

Lifelong Learner

Loved God and Others

Barry had a love of learning that still baffles me . . . languages, philosophy, history, math, health, gardening, investing, sports, religion, politics, the arts, and on and on.

He also loved God, "the Creator and Sustainer of the universe." And growing out of that relationship, he took time for others. Time to listen, encourage, help, offer sound counsel, give of his resources, and nurture their gifts and passions.

I think he had it right, don't you?

It's a bit sobering to see my name beside Barry's, already indelibly etched into the stone. I wonder what will be engraved beneath it someday. On my walk home, eyes still moist, I remind myself that ending well starts with the present. 

So . . . what epitaph would you like to have on your headstone someday?

Scrawled on the Back of a File Folder . . .

Some years ago, I found the following poem hanging on the wall in a waiting room and copied it down on the only paper I had with me - the back of a file folder. I could find no author's name. I filed it away and just recently ran across it. Perhaps some good thoughts to consider as a new school year begins . . .

Help Me Grow



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Please

Be consistent with me,

Then I can trust your words and actions.

 

Comfort me when I'm scared, hurt, or sad,

Then I'll know I'm okay even when I'm not feeling strong or happy.

 

Take responsibility for all your feelings and actions,

Then I also won't blame others and I'll take responsibility for my life.

 

Communicate when you feel hurt or frightened or angry,

Then I'll learn how to constructively deal with my feelings.

Tell me clearly and specifically what you want,
Then I can hear you and I'll also know how to
communicate my needs in a positive way.

Express to me that I'm okay
Even when my words or behavior may not be,
Then I can learn from my mistakes and have healthy self-esteem.

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Balance your life between work and play,
Then I can believe that I can grow up,
be responsible, and still have fun.

Remember what you wanted when you were my age,
Then you'll better understand my needs and interests.

Understand and accept me.
I may be different from you and that's okay.

Treat me as an individual,
Then I'll know that I can be my unique self.

Hug me and tell me that you care about me,
Then I'll feel lovable and I'll express caring to others.

Thank you for hearing me.
I love you!

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