Archive for the Family
Monday, May 30th, 2011
Memorial Day: Not all our fallen are vets
Southern families whisper memories of brother fighting brother. Maybe that’s why we called it The War Between the States, instead of The Civil War. A fractured family was a symbol of the fractured nation. More recent wars also have splintered families, and not always on the battlefield.
Decoration Day, 1956
We 3rd graders stood on the playground watching the big kids—the 7th graders—line up on the eroding side street. Each held a bunch of flowers that ladies had picked from their gardens that morning. The boys’ fistfuls of daisies and delphiniums dragged limply toward the 4-inch cuffs of their dungarees, and the scrabble of their black Keds hightops scuffed up swirls of red dust.
“Line up straight. Hold your flowers in front of you. Follow me,” fluted their teacher. The procession wormed its way to a nearby cemetery, where the children laid their bouquets on the graves of some of the South’s fallen heroes.
Fall, 1964
I waited in the concessions line for my usual—a bag of Tom’s peanuts and a green-bottled Coke to dump them into. “Can I watch the game with you?” came a voice from behind me. I’d seen him before. He went to the “town” school and bagged groceries in the afternoon.
After that, I always did the groceries for Mother. The other bagboys knew he’d take my stuff out to the goldish green ’60 VW bus.
There wasn’t much happening in our town. We’d drive fifteen miles to the nearest movie theater or cruise in his ’57 Ford to see who was hanging out at the Burger Palace or the Rec Center.
The next school year, I went north to college. He went further south. We saw each other that first Christmas holiday, but not at Easter.
Christmas Vacation, 1968
Back home during Christmas break, I looked up from counting oranges in the produce aisle and saw him where I’d seen him so often a few years earlier. “Hi,” he said.
“Oh, hi.”
“I hear you’re getting married.”
“Mm-hm. Next week,” I answered.
“Yeah, well, good luck.”
Spring, 1970
Mother’s letter ended, “You remember him? Well, he died in Vietnam. We went to the memorial service last week out at his mother’s church.”
Far away in my new home, I sobbed. I had never gotten as far as loving him. But he had been a steady friend through my last year at home.
By now the South had conceded; Decoration Day had become Memorial Day, a day for a whole nation to remember together all who have fallen in all its wars.
Summer, 1984
The blue-and-white trolley stopped at the Lincoln Monument. I stepped down and walked toward the Vietnam Memorial. I found his name among 58,228 others—lines of emptiness chiseled from black granite.
Summer, 1992
Vacation biking was reacquainting me with my childhood countryside. From one vaguely familiar crossroad, I pedaled onward several miles between grassy hills. Suddenly I recognized where I was. There was the farmhouse that had been in his mother’s family since before the Civil War. I rolled my bike to the door and knocked.
His brother greeted me. “Come in! Come in! You’ll want to see this! These are his things.” We stepped into the entry hall and faced a wall of certificates, souvenirs from his travels, letters, pictures of him, a rubbing of his name from the Wall, and more—too much to remember. His brother eagerly pointed out each thing. I wondered, did this living brother have to run the gauntlet of dead-brother memories every time he entered the house?
But the dead brother was in the living room too—a life-sized portrait sat on the TV alongside a vase of roses. “Mama keeps fresh flowers by his picture.” Anyone reclining in the Lazy Boy for the 6 O’clock News would be peering into his smiling, forever 23-year-old face.
But we were living people in the living room. I turned to his brother, “What’s happening with you?”
“Well, I was married, but . . . and I’m out of work, so I’m here with Mama a while. It’s not what we expected. It would’ve been different with him. I couldn’t hardly finish school, but he was always on the dean’s list. He had great ideas of what he’d do. He never got the chance. Sure wouldn’t’ve been like this. Mama thought he’d have children as smart as him. But now . . . life’s so different than . . . maybe the wrong one . . . .” His voice slipped to nothing.
“Uh, well,” I broke the silence, “it’s getting to be suppertime. I better go.”
“But Mama’ll be back soon. She’ll want to see you. Can’t you stay a little longer?”
“No. I have to go now.”
“Well, watch for her—’76 Cordoba, burgundy—big old thing.”
I hugged the right shoulder and glared at hayfields and heifers on my right as I pumped my pedals. I didn’t see a car.
2005
Mother’s email ended, “Remember? There was a brother who died in Vietnam. Well, this other brother still lived at home and was killed in a farm accident. There was a memorial service last week out at his mother’s church.”
Memorial Day, 2011
As we honor our war dead today, I’m remembering that not all of our fallen were front-line veterans.
Sunday, May 8th, 2011
When Mothers Day isn’t a celebration
(Update: I have added to the lists below as God has brought more of you to mind during the day. And I hope you will read Julie’s blog which I added later.)
God knows, Mothers Day is the hardest day in the year for some of you.
Large bouquets of white roses are at the front of our church. If you were with us this weekend, one of those roses would have been for you.
Your sadness may be related to your mother:
- Your mother is not alive.
- Life with your mother was too difficult to celebrate.
- Your mother wasn’t part of your life.
- You can celebrate with your mother because she lives too far away.
- Your mother is ill or suffering dementia.
It may be grief related to your own mothering:
You have longed for children but have never been able to be pregnant.- You have experienced miscarriage or stillbirth and never had even one sweet moment of looking into your baby’s eyes.
- After that loss, you fear it might happen again.
- You laid your baby down to sleep one afternoon or evening, and your little one never woke again.
- After losing that child, you feel fear when you look at your other children or think of having another.
- You were so close to adopting the child you already loved from a distance, and then the plans fell through.
- Your child–whether a child or adult–lost the battle to a disease, or died accidentally, or was murdered, or took his or her own life.
- Your child was placed for adoption and has another mother now.(If this is you, I hope you will read Julie’s blessing and thanks to you.)
- You grieve over a pregnancy you chose to end.
- Your child is alienated from you.
- You’ve always dreamed you’d be married by now, with children, and that hasn’t happened.
- Your child has a disability that doesn’t permit you ever to hear “I love you” from him or her. (If this is true, I hope you will be comforted today by John Knight’s post about his wife and son)
God knows. That wasn’t a throw-away phrase I used at the beginning. God does know. He knows your fear, grief, anger, anxiety, love–the welter of emotions today that you hardly know how to name. He knows that even though you may be mostly composed most days, this day stirs it all up.
I pray that your church and others close to you will be Christ’s hands and heart for you today.
Even if other people aren’t aware or sensitive, I pray for you today that you can feel deeply the com-passion (together-suffering) of Jesus who bears our griefs and carries our sorrows.
Friday, May 6th, 2011
The beauty of my mother
It’s true that “All flesh is grass, and all its beauty is like the flower of the field” (Isaiah 40:6). But still, God does create beauty for us to enjoy short-term. Sometimes short-term is quite a few years.
This week, I’ve been organizing some old photos of my mother from the years before I knew her.
Of course, there’s a beauty that’s much deeper than what a photo can show. “Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised” (Proverbs 31:30).
Thank you, Lord, for a mother who fears the Lord.
Tuesday, May 3rd, 2011
Virtues of a weed
I’ve heard tell that old-fashioned mint plants are a nuisance–plant them and they’ll take over your garden and you can’t get rid of them. I guess that makes them a weed–a plant no normal person would want in her border.
They’re one of the first things thriving in my border this cold spring, so I guess Shakespeare might agree they’re weeds: “Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.”
But wait. “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered” (Ralph Waldo Emerson). So no way is my mint a weed. I know its virtues.
- It’s hardy, growing where nothing else has survived all these years.
- It’s handy, right by my back steps, so when my hands are free, I tear off a leaf on my way into the house.
- It smells wonderful when I brush against it or hold that torn-off leaf to my nose until I need my hand for something else.
- It brings to mind my sister who planted its great-grandparents there soon after we moved into this house 28 years ago.
- It’s a bit of nostalgia, because she brought those ancestral sprigs from our home in Georgia.
So I’m going to have to disagree with Francis Bacon who said, “A man’s nature runs either to herbs, or to weeds; therefore let him seasonably water the one, and destroy the other.” Wrong on both counts, Francis. My hardy, minty herbs don’t need me to water them, and I’m certainly not destroying these valuable “weeds.”
Oh yes, one more virtue of my mint–it reminds me not to be a hypocrite, but to love justice and mercy and faithfulness.
“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint and dill and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faithfulness. These you ought to have done, without neglecting the others.”
Saturday, April 30th, 2011
Like mother, like daughter
Our small group women met at Caryn’s house recently. Here’s what I saw on a handy shelf in Caryn’s kitchen.
Guess what was on Carysse’s kitchen shelf?
That little green book is a New Testament.
My mother used to tell me that actions speak louder than words. That may be an overstatement, but actions–examples–do indeed shout.
Saturday, April 16th, 2011
Easter Mountain
Several years ago, our son Abraham gave instructions for making an Easter Mountain to use with his family during Holy Week.
Sunday, April 10th, 2011
What would make church work better for parents with young children?
We’re taking care of our grandtwins this weekend. After church, I tweeted:
Glad I could listen this morning despite walking circles with the twins. [because the speakers were loud enough in the Commons area]
Jonathan Davis, Technical Director for Media Ministries at Bethlehem, tweeted back:
How can media ministries make that experience better for moms?
I’m not the best one to answer that, since it’s rare anymore that I need to try to hear the sermon and hush the baby at the same time.
So please help me answer Jonathan–and appropriate people at other churches. This question is not just for Bethlehem parents, but for everyone who cares about small children and their parents during church service wherever you are.
We parents all know that the “small child” chapter of our lives isn’t the same as the chapters that come before and after. Lots of things are not the same as they used to be. In that regard, the frustrations of our desire and effort to participate in worship is not unique.
But worship matters more than most of the other things that are less than ideal now, like trying to eat out or find a quiet moment to read a book. What can help minimize the frustration at church?
Let’s broaden the question beyond just media and other technology to any sort of thing that helps parents worship.
So, let’s brainstorm:
- What does your church do to help you combine parenting with public worship or what have you seen other churches doing?
- What do you wish your church would do?
Be as specific as you can. What will be most helpful will be positive suggestions rather than descriptions of what doesn’t work.
It would be great if you could include links to examples at ministry or technology websites. But if you have only a quick moment to dash off a thought, do it. Your ideas are most important thing you can do here to bless other parents and the people in your church who care about you.
Saturday, April 2nd, 2011
Japan: The wind blows where it wills
Follow-up email from my cousin Daniel, who lives in Japan. He wrote earlier about heading north to do relief work.
__________
Last night we went to a shelter in Iwaki to help a church serve food to refugees who are staying in a university gym. They received it gratefully.
I spoke to a Korean man who is working for a Christian television network. He is making a documentary to better inform east Asia of the needs of Japan.
Radiation levels have not spiked in this area, but are slightly higher than normal. We are wearing radiation detectors of sorts, that help us see how much radiation we are gathering in a single day.
Thank God that we have been within the safe zone so far, however radiation is as unpredictable as the wind.
Japanese churches are working together during this continuing uncertain crisis. Let us pray that they remain cooperative in the future.
Thank you for your continued prayers. Our team remains in good health.
__________
The Holy Spirit is like the wind and blows where he chooses. May he blow his winds over Japanese churches to give them great unity in practical life-giving relief work and great power and love in being the hands and mouth of our eternal-life-giving Savior.
Thursday, March 31st, 2011
Happy birthday
It’s a rare pleasure that we get today to share Barnabas’s birthday with him and his family.
Happy birthday, Barnabas. Son #4. Son of encouragement.
I’m remembering the annual birthday poems Daddy wrote for you boys. Here’s one from 1989.
For Guess Who at Six
by Daddy
I know a brand new six year old.
When he was made they tossed the mold.
That means he’s just one of a kind.
Look high and low; you’ll never find
In all the world another lad
Who makes a more contented dad.
Who might this rare young fellow be?
I’ll give you clues, so you can see:
He talks a lot. He even talks
When no one’s there to hear. He walks
With courage through the battlefields
Of bedrooms, halls and stairs, and wields
His everpresent plastic sword
To slay the beast and evil lord
That lurks behind the rocking chair
And falls dead like a grizzly bear.
Sometimes a princess in distress,
With crimson cape and azure dress,
Must be delivered from the brute,
And this brave lad takes aim to shoot
The monster with a broken saw
While princess Krista stands in awe.
Sometimes his brothers think he’s cute,
With brown bowtie and little suit.
And then he tries hard not to smile;
He tries, but misses by a mile.
Sometimes you’ll find him with his back
Against a pillow, with a stack
Of Bible books, and on the tape
A story of some great escape
God gave to Joseph or to Paul;
And this young lad has learned them all.
I think, perhaps, that’s all you need
To guess his name, but one more lead:
He has a kind of pleasant roar;
We sometimes call him Number Four.
We’re glad that he is one of us:
His name? You’re right. It’s Barnabas.
Some things change. Some don’t. Talking. Courage. Slaying “beasts” for your princess (playmate Krista having given way to your love Lesley). And now there are two little princesses who pile onto the pillows with you to hear Bible stories of great escapes.
Happy birthday, dear Barnabas.
Wednesday, February 9th, 2011
Black History Month: Christmas colors
On Christmas morning in 1969 we two sat on the floor on either side of the small chess table that was my wedding present to Johnny. On the table was a tiny clay nativity scene I’d bought at the UN Gift Shop in Pasadena. The figures were pretty typical, but since they were made in Mexico, the faces were more brown than the color that was called “flesh” north of the border (whose flesh anyway?)
Beneath the table were our gifts to each other. From that first Christmas together grew a tradition for us–a creche is always the visual focal point of our family’s celebration.
I have no idea how many scenes we have now. I always hope to find one when I’m traveling in another country. Or I get them when they’re less expensive after Christmas to use at home or give as wedding or Christmas presents.
But not just any manger scenes. My daughter has brown skin and dark hair, and it’s not likely that Jesus was a fair-skinned, light-haired boy. His mother and the other people who surrounded him probably looked more like Talitha than like me.
Christmas is the second most important celebration in our year. While it’s not a time that we are intentionally emphasizing race, race is always an integral part of who we are. And I do want Talitha to be able to resonate with what she sees of Jesus.
The nativity sets that interest me don’t have northern European coloring. They are made of unpainted materials like metal, glass, or wood that don’t portray skin tone, or they have Mediterranean or darker coloring.
Some of my favorites come from Cameroon or Guinea and the people look sub-Saharan African. I suppose that raises a question: Isn’t that just as unrealistic as portraying him white and blond? Yes and no. Yes, I know it’s not likely Jesus had very dark skin and tightly textured hair. But no, because his human heritage is in that part of the world.
I’m not asking anyone to throw away their sweet little light-skinned baby Jesus scenes. But won’t it be wonderful if our sweet light-skinned children find it perfectly natural to picture Jesus as brown?
From here on out, white sisters and brothers, let’s keep asking ourselves: Can we love Jesus as much when we picture him with darker skin?
(You are invited to submit a true story to be considered as a guest post during African-American History month. Details.)
Friday, February 4th, 2011
Black History Month: 2 & more by Tim Ladwig
I have admired Tim Ladwig’s work since I first discovered it in Psalm 23. The inner-city morning-to-night day of a brother and sister illustrates the truth of this favorite psalm.
His portrayal of The Lord’s Prayer follows a little girl as she accompanies her handyman father when he helps a neighbor.
Yesterday I recommended a favorite of mine by Nikki Grimes. Today Grimes’ poetry and Ladwig’s illustrations join to present the sweet bond between a father and his son in When Daddy Prays.
(Please submit a true story to be considered as a guest post during African-American History month. Details.)
Thursday, February 3rd, 2011
Black History Month: Books
(Please submit a true story to be considered as a guest post during African-American History month. Details.)
When we adopted Talitha, we became a multiracial family. African-American history became part of the mix of our family’s history.
The books on our shelves started to change. Now I was noticing whether the illustrations in a book included children of various ethnic backgrounds. I hope many of you will be wiser and more into real life than I had been before that: I hope you will be seeking books that are multi-racial and multicultural even if your family is all one color.
A number of people have asked me for book recommendations. My best first advice is to keep your eyes open wherever you usually are finding books. But of course, it helps to get recommendations too. Pamela Toussaint has collected about 250 titles and descriptions in Great Books for African-American Children. It was published several years ago, so newer books won’t be listed, but it’s a good start.
One of my favorites is Come Sunday, by Nikki Grimes. It begins with Mama waking LaTasha on Sunday morning. “Time to shed dawn’s cozy quilt” has become part of our home language.
Then each short poem, paired with an evocative, luscious illustration, leads us with affection and tender humor through LaTasha’s Sunday. Mama braiding her hair, the imaginative hats at Paradise Baptist, the pinches on the cheek, the music that brings the congregation to dancing, the potluck meal of ”collards and ham and honey-glazed yams, fried chicken and black-eyed peas, and pumpkin pie” . . . .
Oh, now I’m thinking of another book and another. Another day.
What are your favorites?
