by jphilo | Sep 5, 2010 | Family
On Saturday, I said good-bye to one of the bravest men I know – my Uncle Marvin. In June, at age 86 and after two bouts with pneumonia, tests revealed that when he swallows, sometimes food goes into his stomach and sometimes into his lungs.
The doctors gave him options. He could have a feeding tube down his nose. Or one could be surgically implanted. Or he could do nothing and let nature take it’s course. Having lived a full, independent and healthy life until this complication arose, he declined treatment and has been in hospice in a small Minnesota town ever since.
So last Saturday, when we were in Minnesota for our annual family reunion, Mom and I stopped to visit. His wife Letha, my mom’s sister was there, along with several of their children and extended families. I watched Marvin, thin but alert, make small talk with his children, his wife, and Mom.
While they talked, I signed his memory quilt. I thought of all the visits to Marvin and Letha’s big, white farmhouse – torn down many years ago – of all the overnight weekend stays with Karen, their daughter, of the summer weeks spent on their farm gathering eggs, climbing in the haymow, eating supper in their crowded kitchen, and watching TV in the dining room.
Most off all, I remembered Marvin going into the living room after supper and sitting down at his electric organ. I remembered him playing tune after tune, with never a piece of sheet music in sight. I remembered how his shoulders relaxed, the corners of his mouth turned up, his body swayed to the music, and his eyes had a far away look the longer he played.
When I looked down to blink away tears, the marker was still in my hand. I turned to put it on the end table beside the couch where I sat. But it wasn’t an end table.
It was an electric organ.
Uncle Marvin’s organ.
I looked at my uncle visiting with those who love him. He was so thin and frail, but his shoulders were relaxed, a smile curved the corners of his mouth, and his eyes wore a far away look. Though I couldn’t hear the music, it was there. The final stanza of my uncle’s life.
Beautiful and brave.
Slow and soft.
Haunting and heart-wrenching.
Thanks for the music, Uncle Marvin. You’re playing it well.
by jphilo | Aug 24, 2010 | Family
Sadness kept me company on this morning’s walk. No matter how hard I tried to steer my thoughts to smoother ground, they continually strayed to the uneven place where we stood and buried Uncle Marvin yesterday.
All I could think about were his grandchildren, the honorary pallbearers, gathered from Minnesota and Iowa, North Dakota and Illinois, and one recently returned from Egypt. They stood tall and straight and lovely, in the tiny country cemetery where their grandfather joined his parents, grandparents, and grandparents, only a few miles from where he’d been born and lived all his years.
These sweet carriers of our family’s future stood guard over the coffin, grave and composed during the pastor’s committal service, through the military gun salute, the folding of the flag, and it’s presentation to their grandmother. But when haunting notes of Taps filled the air, they began to cry, realizing for perhaps the first time in their young lives, that there is an end to every good thing.
Will this be the end of their connection to the family farm? I wondered, as they placed flowers on their grandpa’s coffin and said good-by. Will they return to their homes far away and forget their family’s long history in this place, the connection to the land that binds their parents together?
Sadness weighed heavy on me, and my head drooped lower. It’s over, I thought, and tears came to my eyes. For a moment, the sky wept, too, and raindrops wet my shoulders and hair. Maybe I should just give up and go home, I thought, too sad to fight life’s changes or the weather anymore. I looked up to check the sky.
And there against the grey clouds in the east was the beginning of a rainbow. A small, faded streak at first, it grew brighter and brighter the longer I looked up. Slowly, my sad weight lifted, and when I turned the corner I walked beside the rainbow. The further I went, the brighter the rainbow grew, until finally it stretched across the sky, bold against the grey clouds.
When those sweet grandchildren and their far-flung adventures came to mind again, the rainbow whispered to me.
Hope, it said so softly I had to strain to hear the word.
Hope.
by jphilo | Jul 27, 2010 | Family
Whoever came up with the saying “A picture’s worth a thousand words” sure knew what she was talking about. We just received the disc of pictures taken in the photo booth at Anne and her husband’s wedding, and they are priceless.
Hiram and I have laughed ourselves silly looking at the shenanigans of friends and family during the wedding reception. Give a guest, young or old, some costumes to wear and a black box to clown around in, and whammo, the inner child comes out.
My inner child, along with my innate fashion sense, emerged once I put on a furry hat, Groucho Marx glasses and a clown collar. And Hiram, in Gerald Burghduff’s old cowboy hat and googly glasses was one handsome hunka-munka. How could I resist either sticking my finger in his nose or kissing him?
Lest you think my actions were highly original, let me assure you that there were at least 5 other nose pokes and 14 couples who took advantage of the photo booth’s privacy to have a quick smooch.
Most of those couples were as old as me, which brings up the second subject of this post. Today is my birthday, and yes, I’m old enough to know better than to stick my finger in my husband’s nose. I’m also old enough to think twice about posting a picture of the two of us smooching. But after thinking twice, I decided it was exactly the right thing to do. After all, both my recently married children indulged in a photo booth smooch with their respective spouses. I need to set a good example, right? After all, my greatest hope for our children’s marriages is that at age 54 they still want to catch a smooch with their sweeties when the opportunity arises.
Happy marriage to you, Allen.
Happy marriage to you, Anne.
Happy anniversary, dear Hiram,
And happy birthday to me.
by jphilo | Jul 26, 2010 | Family
Since the end of May, our nest has been anything but empty. First Anne came home from college the weekend before Memorial Day. Since all her summer sewing projects were of the large variety, she was into weekly baking extravaganzas, not to mention her constant concocting of environment-friendly hygiene products, her flotsam and jetsam gradually oozed into every cranny of our nest. Of course, her sweetie came for several weekends between then and their wedding, so for much of the summer, the spare bedroom was occupied, too.
Then there was the wedding shower for both couples in mid-June. That weekend, Allen and Abbey were in the spare bedroom, Anne was in her room, and her sweetie slept on the sun porch until the mosquitoes drove him into the living room.
Mom kept the nest hopping, too. She used the spare room a night or two before we drove to an all-school reunion Fourth of July weekend, one week before the wedding.
I barely had time to change the sheets before the influx of wedding house guests hit: Anne’s sweetie on Thursday, Allen and Abbey on Friday, five girl cousins on Saturday night. Add to that crowd friends and family – the groom’s immediate family, the groomsmen, bridesmaids, Anne’s personal attendant, my extended family – but somehow, the nest expanded to accommodate the masses.
Two days after the wedding, which wasn’t enough time to tend to our nest, Hiram and I went to Idaho for a week of R & R in the cool, mountain air. When we got back, Anne and her new husband were packing their vehicle with a mountain of wedding presents and boxes of Anne’s possessions.
Over the weekend, we put set things right, and this morning, Hiram went back to work. So today, for the first time in months, I’m alone in our empty nest.
Anne’s room is vacant. Most of the pictures are gone. All but three dresser drawers are empty. The closet is clean and organized. There’s no thread, fabric scraps, or stray pattern pieces on the floor. Strange toiletry concoctions aren’t perched precariously on the sink or bathtub rim. The bathroom floor isn’t littered with dirty clothes. No wet towels hang from doorknobs.
For a minute or two, it weirded me out.
Until I remembered the unanswered emails waiting for answers in my inbox, the thank you notes waiting to be penned, the www.DifferentDream.com blog posts that need to be written, the workshop to practice for next week’s International MOPS Convention, the research to be done so I can write Different Dream Parenting by deadline, the weeds in the flower beds, and everything else on the to do list in my planner. Then I realized I don’t have time to mourn our empty nest. God has given me a very full life.
Now’s the time to live it.
by jphilo | Jul 20, 2010 | Family
Kids are almost as numerous as mosquitoes at Family Camp this year. I’m exaggerating, of course, but with three toddlers under three years of age trying to keep up with two active seven-year-olds, the constant darting about rivals the insects.
But last night, one seven-year-old created his own peace and quiet in the midst of the crowd. I wasn’t aware of his clever strategy until one of the more observant adults among us nodded to the tall grass beyond the pavilion and asked, “What’s going on down there?”
We watched the grass sway. The movement was more than what the little camp dogs could generate. “One of the neighbor’s dogs?” someone else suggested. A patch of blue cloth nixed the suggestion.
A flash of recognition, and the observant adult said, “It’s Lewis. He’s hiding in the grass.” We grinned and watched as a round, blond head peeked out, then ducked back before the toddlers saw him. For a good long while he lay there. When the peace and quiet he had manufactured turned to boredom, he slowly and stealthily crept through the grass and joined the younger crowd. Soon he was darting about again, eyes twinkling, while pint-sized hero worshippers followed hard after him.
Laughter and squeals filled the air.
Tears filled my eyes.
A prayer filled my heart.
God, may Your peace hiding in the grass of Family Camp surround our children wherever life takes them, wherever you lead them. May they always follow hard after You. Amen.
by jphilo | Jul 19, 2010 | Family
Every now and then, though not nearly often enough, I am startled by God’s sharp grace. This morning was one of those now and thens as our family and friends gathered to worship.
In our midst were believers equipped to meet every need:
- a worship leader
- musicians to accompany the singing
- a congregation ready to make a joyful noise
- preachers who interpreted God’s word so hearts of all ages could understand it
- children who needed adults to serve them
- adults with servant hearts for children
- believers who know God is bigger than any box we make for Him
- mountain views to remind us God is bigger than our boxes
- master cooks and bakers who prepared a feast to share once worship was done
Throughout the morning and since our banquet ended, several questions keep running through my mind:
- Has ever a family received so much grace as this one?
- Why should we receive such grace?
- How does God want us to respond to it?
- How can we steward it?
- How can we share it?
- What work does He have prepared for us?
The answers to these pointed questions will be revealed throughout lifetimes and generations. The answers will cut us to the quick, transforming us in the process. Much is required of those to whom much is given. And we have been given much.
Sharp grace. Startling grace.
My awareness of it is awakened every now and then, not nearly often enough.
But when it is awakened, God reminds me that the adventure will last a lifetime…
and then some.
