Thoughts of my son on Mother’s Day

For the second time since becoming a mother, I will celebrate Mother’s Day without my one and only child, my son in whom I am well pleased.

After he married, he lived close enough to our house for more than 14 years.  Not so now.  He moved to Tulsa in 2011, taking his sweet wife and his three children, our only grandchildren.  I have not gotten over it yet.  I don’t think I will.

I’m aware that many moms do not get to spend Mother’s Day with their children.  Bear with me.  I am still trying to adjust to it.

My thoughts are on my son this day, the babe in my arms, the toddler waking in the middle of the night, the boy riding his bike saying, “Watch me, Mom,” the teenager taking the car alone for the first time as I stand at the window and pray for him, the man who took a wife with all its responsibilities, the young father who made me a grandmother.

I think of him with tenderness.  The struggles of parenting don’t matter any more.  I just remember the joy of being his mom.

His birth changed my life forever in ways he will never know.  But I will always thank God for it.

My very first Mother’s Day picture was taken in 1973 while I was about 8 months pregnant.  The handsome man beside me is my Sweet William.  I was full, like the moon.  My belly was big, my smile was bigger.  My hair looked stupid – it was the 1970′s.

Big as a barrel and happy about it.  I loved wearing maternity clothes and sewed most of them myself.  People thought I was having a girl by the way I carried the baby.  One friend told me she could not imagine me with a boy; it had to be a girl.   Did she think I was I too prissy to mother a boy?

Yet a boy child is what the Lord gave us.

And what a joy that boy was, a tiny little found-faced creature.  I felt the weight of the world as the nurse placed him in my arms the first time.  How was it possible that the Lord Almighty had entrusted this tiny helpless human being, this everlasting soul to Bill and me?   I knew nothing about rearing a child except what I had seen my own parents do.  They did it so well.  So I tried to do it like they did.  I failed often.

I was cross too many times.  I expected a lot.  I doled out punishment when I could have given more grace.  I should have played more and cleaned less.  I wanted to be such a perfect mother.  But I was not.  I did what I thought was best.  It wasn’t always.

Oh, but I loved that boy with all my heart, and I prayed to be a good mother.  The Father took the feebleness of my efforts coupled with my prayers, and miraculously made a fine man from my tattered efforts.  What a great miracle that He took what little I had to offer and redeemed it to create something good and wonderful.

I wish I had understood more and acted differently when Travis was small, growing up, emerging into a teenager, becoming a man.  I wish I could undo some events and wash away others.  But alas, the days have gone by and I am left with the memories of them.

My son grew to be a good man.  He adores his wife, loves and plays with his children.  He takes his role as provider and spiritual leader seriously.  He loves the Father above and seeks to do His will.

I’m thankful for grace that accomplished much with what I gave to this son of mine.  I call him my Son of Consolationn because he brightened my darkness and lightened my heart.  Truth be told, he has done more for me than I think I ever did for him.

To my son I would say:  Never could I have imagined the joy, the pain, the surprises, the laughter, the delight, the tears, the wakeful nights or the fun-filled days of being your mom.  You are a treasure to my heart.  Though the birth cord was cut when you were born, the cord that connects my heart to yours is never severed.

I love you, son.

Good Friday?

Good Friday.  Why do we call it good?  From all appearances that day looked like anything but good.

A false arrest in the wee hours of the morning.  Friends who ran in fear.  One denies he even knew Him.  One betrays Him for a pittance.

Accusations that fly in the face where slaps and spit follow.  Soldiers who had all compassion trained out of them, beating Him to near death.

Mocking words that contradict all He ever said.  A crowd jeering, crying out for death.  Religious leaders leading the rabble-rousers.  Political leaders afraid to do what is right.

A heavy splintered cross laid on a back where the flesh has already been torn away.  Crown of thorns piercing the brow with its poison.  A long and hard Via Dolorosa.  Golgotha in view.

Sound of nails in flesh and sinew.  Thud of crosses in deep holes.  Cries of pain and agony that only the crucified know.

A few lone followers, women and John, deep in the throes of grief and grasping for some understanding behind all this suffering and finality to a ministry that flourished only a week ago.

Alone     *     Forsaken     *     Separated     *     Darkness     *     Earthquake     *     Storm

Sin exposed to the judgment of a Holy God.

Nothing of this day looked good.  This was a day gone horribly wrong.

Or was it?

“The King of the Jews” was written in three languages, a foretaste of the Gospel preached to all nations.

A thief on another cross entered into Paradise, giving us hope that salvation is still offered at the very last hour for those who believe.

Two secret disciples, Joseph of Arametha and Nicodemus, come out of hiding to do the right thing and acknowledge the One come from God.

Forgiveness offered from a heart only understood by a loving Heavenly Father.

Words spoken from parched and bleeding lips that shout the victory battle cry, “It is finished!”

A veil torn in two so that all people will know they are welcomed into The Presence.

The penalty paid in full, judgment recompensed.

A Redeemer revealed

Blood of The Lamb poured out to take away the sin of the world.

The Plan, laid foundationally eons before by Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, is brought to completion.

And I see it.  And it is good!

Remembering the cross of Christ I recall my sins and His suffering.  My debt and His payment.  My hopelessness and His free gift.  My searching and His love.  My past and now my future.

Jesus paid it all.  All to Him I owe.  Sin had left a crimson stain.  He washed it white as snow.

Good Friday.  It was a good day – for me, for the world.

And remember, Sunday is not far behind.

So this is life?

The call came early, before the first pot of coffee was emptied.  “Your dad is on the way to the emergency room.”

I ask a few questions, assume auto pilot to get myself dressed and to the hospital.  It will be the first time Dad has ever been in the hospital.  Ever.  It must be bad for him to submit to an ambulance, to poking and prodding, to needles and hospital beds.

Blood is drawn from small veins.  Tape attaches to paper-thin skin.  IV needles invade his body in too many places.  He looks uncomfortable yet submissive and compliant.  He cries out in pain, grimaces. And is there a gentle procedure in a hospital?

News travels.  Channels of information run quickly to family and friends.  Facebook posts prayer requests.  Responses simply say “praying.”  And praying is always more than just a simple response.

People come to sit with my step-mother and me, to share our angst, to whisper silent prayers.  To tell their stories of my father.  Stories that reveal a compassionate heart, a tender concern, a promise made to pray and a promise kept.  And lives are changed by the power of the almighty God my father serves.

Tests reveal infection.  Pneumonia.  Internal problems.  The heart beats regularly, not strong but true and faithful.

Dad is frail and thin, a mere wisp of the man he was when I was a child.

He was a builder by trade and craft, a carpenter, like Jesus, with strong muscular chest and arms.  I felt safe with him.  He was always busy building.  Houses, churches, businesses, play houses for his little girl, dog houses for her pets.

When he was in the prime of his life, the Lord called him to build people.  He exchanged his nail apron for a towel and wash basin, the garb of a servant.  He visited, counseled, encouraged, taught, and built up the kingdom.  His materials were the eternal kind, not the wood and stubble used to build the kingdoms of this world.

He lies still, breathing regularly but not full and deep.  He has few teeth now and his mouth hangs slightly open.  His hairs are white and fine, barely covering his scalp. His face is sunken, showing the outline of the skull, fine wrinkles on skin that covers but just barely.

I stand in the doorway gazing at the ravages of sickness, the strong hold of a sin-cursed world on these earthly bodies to the very end, even those who are sanctuaries to the very presence of the Almighty.

And I ask myself, so this is life?  Is this how a life ends?

He was once a sturdy man, strong and capable, working long hours and toiling hard.  It seems he has always taken care of others.  He marched off to war to help defend his country.  He stayed at the task until it was done no matter the cost to himself.    Now he can barely lift his hand.  Unable to speak clearly, unable to chew food, unable to hear the conversation, unable to hold a glass of water to his parched lips.

I’ve seen this happen before.  I’ve watched this same struggle as other loved ones came to stand at Jordan’s stormy banks, casting a wishful eye to the other side.

So this is life?

The days of sitting in the hospital give me time, time to think and remember.  Time to hear how my Dad’s life and prayers and teaching the Word and loving people are living on.  His life, the one lived for his Lord, is not lying in a hospital bed languishing between white sheets.  It was cast upon the waters of service, and it has not returned void.

The breath of life may be slipping away in the body that holds my dad’s spirit and soul.  But the life he lived in Christ lives on in me.  In others.

I hear it from their own lips, the fruit of his labors bearing fruit in their own lives.  Prison ministry.  Wisdom to raise a child in the fear and admonition of the Lord.  Deliverance from an addiction to pornography.  Marriages salvaged.  Demons cast out.  Broken hearts mended.  Encouragement to keep pressing on.  Proclaiming the Lord’s return and people get ready!

Jesus said, “. . . whoever loses his life because of Me will find it.”  Dad wore himself out in his servant’s role.

And I see that THIS IS LIFE!  This is how to live.

It is not in gaining the world but in giving oneself away.  This is life!  Proclaiming to any who will listen the goodness of God and the salvation He provided.  This is life!  To visit the widows and care for the orphans and the lonely and the unlovable.  This is life!  The way it was meant to be lived and used up and wasted away for the sake of the Gospel.

This is a man who spent himself on others.  Even now in mere whispers, he  prays for those visiting him in his shadowy hospital room.

In the stillness of the evening, I hear him say it softly.  “Praise You God.  Praise You God.”  The Father knows this man’s voice.  He has heard it countless times as he  daily knelt by his chair to pray, as he prayer-walked every night for how many years (?) as long as he was able.  His voice has called out my name in prayer countless times, and I see that I have been left an amazing heritage.

A life lived this way has no fear of what is left of it or how it will end or what lies beyond when he breathes his last.  His times are in His Father’s hand.

So this is life and the way it should be lived?  Yes, it is!  Of this I am sure.

This is my life

I’m sitting in the waiting room at Bob Montgomery getting the oil changed in the little black Honda while the Today show on the TV keeps me company.  Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb are talking with a physiologist about a new phobia she said is sweeping the planet.  It is called Fear of Missing Out.  FOMO for short.

In this information age, we can look into other people’s lives in a way our parents never thought of.  This I not gossip over the neighborhood fence. Social media is available on demand to investigate everyone’s business literally, at my fingertips.

I see what so-and-so is doing and wonder why I’m not doing that?  Someone bought a new car.  A friend and her family are on vacation, and look at all those fabulous pictures on Facebook.  Another person is headed out of state to see the grandchildren, and wasn’t she just there last month?

I fear that I’m missing out.

FOMO is envy of every other person who is doing something I want to do.

There is so little time and so many options!  And my time is running short.

The result is a bad case of malcontent, of wanting another’s experiences and possessions.

If I dwell on it too long, I risk letting it evolve into jealousy, known to be cruel as the grave.  Because jealousy keeps one from living one’s own life to the fullest.

If I am constantly looking at other people’s lives and comparing theirs to mine, I miss my own present season.  I do not enjoy the gifts God gives to me today.

I think it has something to do with learning contentment.  I’ve been thinking about contentment lately.  Perhaps because I have struggled to really be content.

I’ve said it out loud to myself lately.  “This is my life.”  I say it sometimes with resignation, when I am tired, discouraged, feeling left out of the fray of the action.  It’s a sad case of FOMO.

I need my vision checked.

When I stop looking at “what isn’t”  and the “have nots” and instead turn my focus to the “what is” and the “haves,” I take on a different perspective.

When I count the gifts I see all around me, the grace and mercy stored up for me each morning, I realize I am blessed beyond measure, more than I deserve.

I am queen of Quite-A-Lot.

So I determine to keep my focus turned upward, to look for gifts and grace falling down from above from the Father of lights who gives because He is good.

For the last several Wednesdays, twenty plus women and I have gathered in the upper room at Little Flock Baptist Church to practice.  We are learning to count.  We are doing a small group Bible study together, One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.  The study has challenged us to look for grace, the gifts the Father gives each of us moment by moment.  And then we give thanks, listing them in simple notebooks, counting to one thousand and more.  We are learning that in the counting there is joy.  And as Voskamp asks, who doesn’t want joy?

By counting gifts, I notice the small things, the simple everyday things that I overlook on too many occasions as I am rushing this one life of mine.  Taking notice of all that God has given me, I slow down to enjoy and find I have more than enough and then some, that I am not missing out on a single thing He has planned for me.

This is my life!  God designed and planned it before I was born.  He handpicked my family.  He guides where I live.  My steps and stops are directed by Him.  He purposes my experiences to form and mold me.

I have this one beautiful life to live to my fullest.  It is a gift.  I receive it with open hands, lifting my eyes Heaven-ward to the Giver of all good gifts.

Counting to one thousand and more . . .

. . . chicken pot pie with Sweet William and a dear friend

. . . red cardinals at the feeder on a grey day

. . . hot coffee

. . . geese on winter pond

Are you counting with me?  I’d love to know and hear about your list.

A time to speak

“There is an occasion for everything, and a time for every activity under heaven . . . a time to be silent and a time to speak . . .” Ecclesiastes 3: 1, 7a 

I’ve been silent for a while on this blog.  For many months there were no words, at least no words I cared to print.  My journal is full of words and emotions that should stay in the journal, on pages hidden away. No one wants to read those kinds of words.

But once again, it is time to speak.

With only minutes of January left on this year’s calendar, I think of other Januarys.

The first month of each year used to afford me the opportunity to write out goals.  I enjoyed the process and became good at it.  There were categories to my goals:  spiritual, career, ministry, home projects, gardening, health, and financial.  It gave me a sense of accomplishment to check off an item when it was completed.  At year’s end, I analyzed my list to determine how many of my goals I had met.  It was a measuring line for me.  Was I doing OK?  Was I spending this life well?

Last year, I didn’t write any goals.  Sweet William’s health continued uncertain, requiring surgeries, medicines, long hours of care-giving, and I just didn’t have the time or the energy for lists, plans, goals.

Life still happened to us.  Did it ever.  My main objective became simply to keep up and to somehow get enough rest to start the process all over the next day.

At the end of 2012, there was no measuring line for me to gauge my success for the year.  Except that journal with all those words unspoken.

The journal reflected that I sometimes (dare I admit it?) had a less than positive attitude.  Too often I had been cross and irritable.  I had said unkind words.  I had grown impatient.  I had bewailed my situation and felt sorry for myself.  I had been very poor in spirit.

That’s what my journal said.

So 2013 begins, and I am presented once again with the opportunity to list goals and set about to fulfilled them.

But really, does the checking off of a list of things completed, my accomplishments, give a fair judgment of a life well lived?

I remember what was written about Jesus by Dr. James Allen Francis in an essay called One Solitary Life.

“He never writes a book. He never holds an office. He never raises an army. He never has a family of his own. He never owns a home. He never goes to college. He never travels two hundred miles from the place where he was born.”

Yet who on this earth ever had such a lasting impression on humanity?

I must conclude, then, that when life is all said and done and people stand around my grave site, it will not be the goals I reached that will matter.  It will not be how much money I made or saved or invested.  It will not be about houses and lands I owned.  It won’t be how far up the career ladder I went.  It will not be how well traveled I was or how many Bible studies I led.

What will count is whether I lived my one solitary life in the Father’s will and for His glory.  Did I complete His plan?  Did I fulfill His purpose?

Scripture instructs me to love the Lord with all my heart, soul, mind, strength, and to love my neighbor as myself.  It says in another place that I am to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with my God.

Those commands are not exactly a concrete list of do’s and don’t’s I can write down in a nice neat list and then check off when completed.  It is so much more than that.  It is purposeful living moment by moment, a daily surrender, a joyful obedience.  It is a life filled with the grace of God, a cup running over so that it spills into the saucer and drips over the side and onto the table, and it cannot help but saturate those close by.

This is no ordinary bucket list.  And I wonder how it will be accomplished.

Paul, the apostle, wrote this truth to the church at Galatia:

“I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” (2:20 NIV, emphasis added)

Crucified.  Dead to my own wants and desires.  Christ’s breathe breathing in the fresh wind of the Spirit who knows how to do the Father’s will.  His heart beating mine with tender compassion.  My hands and feet an extension of His.  Living my faith not living my feelings.

Jesus said this:  ”I came that they may have and enjoy life, and have it in abundance to the full, till it overflows.” (John 10:10 Amp.)

I perceive life is a gift to be received with open heart, open hands, to be enjoyed in joy.  It’s measure will be summed up when I hear longed-for words, “Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a few things . . . ”

Glories of the morning

The plants and trees in my yard have struggled this summer.

The unusually high temperatures and the lack of rain wilted them often. I’ve regularly watered flowers near the house with hose and carried buckets of water to sapling trees at far ends of the yard while sweat poured from my face.

Those little trees planted in spring have lost leaves and grown new ones time and again. Their roots are still struggling to go deep into the ground.

Sometimes I struggle.

I try to cover it most of the time.

I have developed the art of applying a little mascara and blush, of combing the hair and putting on something bright and accompanying it with a smile. I respond to the question, “how are you” with “I’m OK.”

But sometimes I’m not.

Sometimes I’m barely holding my head above water. Sometimes the load is too heavy. Sometimes I just want to cry.

I want to be a faithful woman, a faith-filled woman. One who counts it all joy when I enter into trials of every kind knowing that it is meant to produce perseverance in me.

But lately, I have felt more like a wounded solder in a dugout somewhere, wondering if I will survive this battle.

I don’t want my faith to falter or my hope to be less or my joy to wane.

I should be more than I am. Growing. Maturing. Joyful. Loving. Full of faith. Rooted deep. 

I should be more like Christ, reflecting His glory in ever-increasing ways.

Paul’s words to the Romans reflect me. “What a wretched [woman] I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?”

I want desperately to be past verse 24 of chapter 7. I want to get on to verse 25. “Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

Jesus is the Banner over me, the One who brings victory. I don’t want to lie in the dust of defeat.

A friend sent an email to ask how I was doing. I responded:

“I am where God has put me right now. . . . Like Paul, I am learning to be content, tho’ the process seems slow for me. . . .  trying not to fret over anything, praying with thanksgiving, knowing the peace of God is mine when I think on what is true, honest, pure, lovely, and good. I look purposefully for His grace throughout my day, and what do you know, it is everywhere!

All the above my spirit longs to do well and to be an obedient servant. My flesh struggles with it, and I bow often and ask for forgiveness for not doing it good enough.”

Yes I long to do it well. But sometimes I struggle.

I am very poor in spirit.

And yet I remember . . .

The Name that I whisper most often and silently pray all day long is “Jesus.” I know in my heart that He is my only hope and help.

The first waking moments of my early morn surprise me with a song. My thoughts are singing words that encourage me and lift up the only God. Who could that be singing to me but the Spirit?

My early morning quiet time finds me looking at the Word on the page and knowing it is true even if it doesn’t “feel” like it nor seem to make sense at the moment.

When I try to encourage a fellow sojourner who is on her own hard road, the words that come out of my mouth or that are typed into an email are Spirit and they are Life. I know no other Truth. And where does that come from but the depths of my soul that has seen His glory?

The Light that shines within me that came when I was just a child and believed is still there. Though the darkness has tried to extinguish it, the Light shines on. Because darkness cannot overcome it.

It is not the Light of a mere mortal. It is not of my own making. It does not depend on how I feel!

It is the true Light who gives light to everyone who asks.

So I consider that my struggles are not with flesh and blood, not with my present circumstances, not even so much with myself. I struggle against the powers of darkness, the enemy of my soul who tries to reign but cannot because Jesus has claimed that place.

And He will not let me go!

 

Each early morning as I walk outside with our little Buddy, I look over the garden of flowers. The cooler nights and dew it brings makes things look a little less stressed. Today I noticed the morning glories are blooming sky blue and fuchsia red. I have looked forward to them this year.

Though the heat has threatened to sap the life from them, they reward my efforts with their glory.

And I remember the words of Jeremiah the weeping prophet who did not fully understand his suffering.

“ Yet I call this to mind and therefore I have hope. Because of the Lord’s faithful love we do not perish for His mercies never end. They are new every morning. Great is Your faithfulness!” (Lamentations 3:22-23)

There are glories yet to be discovered. The Lord’s tender compassion, His care, His love last longer than the suffering.

And one bright morning I will find myself in a place where my struggles will cease and my tears will be dried and my faith will be sight.  I’ll see clearly He who controls my life and had a plan all along.  His glory will shine brighter than a 104 degree sun. 

And it will be worth it.

Leave your comment, sweet fellow traveler.

Who am I?

 

WHO AM I?

I’ve worn a few hats in my work-a-day-for-a-paycheck life, professionally speaking. Personally, I’ve been daughter, niece, cousin, wife, mother, mother-in-law, friend. But the one that tenders my heart the most is being grandmother.

Just this week, the one and only son brought his family from their Tulsa home to visit for a few days. Just a few short days. Not nearly enough days. But I will take what I can get.

As they came in the door, there was a sudden invasion of joy brought by five precious souls, and this house was full again. Full of talk and catching up. Full of games, toys and laughter. Full of kids running in and out. And hugs! Lots of hugs.

Tucking sleepy heads into beds was my privilege. Cooking meals to fill hungry tummies was not work but pleasure. Keeping the coffee pot full and hot was no chore at all.

The few days went by too swiftly.

Already they are gone. Out the door, into the SUV, and down the road before I can hardly blot the tears from my eyes.

For me the time is too short and the distance is too long.  Because those three precious grandchildren and I, we share something that cannot be explained. 

If you are a grandmother, you know what I mean.

I am very much a relational woman. I love my family and friends.  I gladly make room in my heart for one or two or many more, and I feel rich because of these precious gifts from God above.

But this grandmother thing, it’s just something not easily described in words. It is deep like the ocean.  It is like priceless ancient treasure while being fresh and new each time the children and I are together.

In honor of the three stars that shine in my sky, the sunshine that drives away my rain clouds, the faces that melt me every single time,  I will tell you who I am.

I’m the . . .

• Bubble blowing – wagon towing
• Game playing – “be kind” saying
• Story telling – letter mailing
• Walking, biking, sometimes hiking
• Lesson teaching – WORD “preaching”
• Favorite book reading – hungry tummy feeding
• Sometimes singing – Front yard swinging
• Together chatting – love patting
• Picture taking – cookie making
• Apron wearing – Popsicle sharing
• Hug giving – Christ living
• House cleaning – crock pot beaning
• Clothes washing – dish washing
• Kid washing – foot washing
• Dinner fixing – pies a-mixing
• Table setting – doggie petting
• Swim time taking – fall leaves raking
• Movie time snuggling – sleepy head tucking
• Bible reading – Flower seeding
• Journal writing – bird nest sighting
• Papaw loving – grandkids loving 
• Others loving, loving, loving 
• Whisper praying - blessing saying
• Chair rocking – Time tick-tocking

 EVER LOVING GRAMMY!

“Grandchildren are like a crown to older people.”  Proverbs 17:6 (NIRV)”

Are you a grandmother?  Do you know what I mean?  Please tell me I’m not alone.

Senior Day and the USA

It is the Fourth of July today, but it’s also Senior Day at Kroger which occurs on the first Wednesday of each month.

When I was nearing my 60^th birthday, one of the things I anticipated was being old enough to get in on the bargains at Kroger on its one day of the month dedicated to us senior citizens. Ten percent off my entire order is nothing to sneeze at. And those of you who know me know I love a bargain!

I’ve tried going at different times of the day. Around 9 am it gets really crowed, and if you are under 60 be afraid, be very afraid! The parking lot is full, and cars are waiting to get the spot of anyone emptying her baskart. Three o’clock isn’t a bad time to go.  Folks may be home watching Dr. Phil.

Don’t go late at night. The shelves run low of stock and the tired staff have gone home to rub liniment on their feet.

I’ve discovered the best time for me to go Krogering is 7:30 in the morning. Parking places are available close to the store. There are still plenty of baskarts and product on the shelf, and the checkout lines are not too long.

So this morning I put on comfy clothes, pull my hair back, and don my garden hat with a colorful scarf tied around it to perk up my outfit, and I’m off with list, coupons, and Kroger card in hand.

The plan is to move quickly, grab the sale items and stock up on the non-perishables like dog/cat food and laundry detergent. I sure don’t want to miss the toilet paper isle where the good stuff is usually on sale.  I grab several packages because you just don’t want to run out of toilet paper whether you are a senior or not.

The atmosphere at Kroger is electric. The music over the speaker system is playing the oldies from the 60s and 70s. I catch myself bouncing along to the beat or humming the familiar melodies of my youth.

I usually see people I know. Today it was some folks from Little Flock where Sweet William and I attend church. Some days it’s a neighbor or parents of my son’s high school friends. We are there for the same reason.

The manager is quite visible on this particular day of the month. Or at least I notice him more. He stands as a sentinel before the checkout lanes, calling for additional checkers if the lines back up. He smiles at the customers as they go from aisle to aisle. He quickly responds to questions and moves at the speed of someone who knows this will be a very good retail day.

And what does Senior Day at Kroger have to do with the 4^th of July?

I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. Is this a great country or what?

Sure, I know we have our problems. I agree that the United States is in a moral decline. I am of the baby-boomer generation who watched it happen when prayer was removed from the schools and the resulting land-slide that has followed.

Yes, we are in a great financial crises and only God knows where that will take us. I see the graft, the political maneuvers that create harm for the masses while padding the pockets of a few.

I too fear for our young ones who must find their own way while pornography gropes for their minds, drugs are available on most any street corner, sex before marriage is expected, and the family as we know it is being threatened.

And yet . . . I still have the freedom to pursue happiness as I see it, to choose a career path and decide where I want to live. I can walk out my house and not fear that bombs may drop or hidden land mines may explode at my feet.

Our children can go to school or they can stay at home and learn their ABCs from mom and dad.

While the argument about healthcare reform will be ongoing, we still have some of the finest medical facilities the world over.

The United States is the county that sends aid when disaster strikes. We are the ones sending missionaries and mission groups to places where poverty is like nothing we have ever seen.

And as a citizen of this great country, I can still vote and make my voice heard though I am only one. I can step out and try to change something I don’t agree with.

I can get up on Sunday morning and drive to the church of my choice without fear.

I can freely talk about God and tell people about Jesus without worrying that I might be arrested.

I am humbled by the memories of soldiers who fought on foreign fields, like my grandfather in WWI and my dad and uncles in WWII; and the friends my age who endured the horrors of Viet Nam are dear to my heart. 

I am proud of young men and women who still join the military knowing they will face uncertain and often horrific situations but choose to serve me anyway.

God has blessed America with an abundance, and we will be held accountable for what we have done with it.  To whom much has been given much will be required.

I am commanded to pray for the leaders of my country, and I will personally be held accountable for that.

I am proud to be a citizen of this great country. I pray that her flag waves long and free, that her leaders will be godly and lead us in the path of righteousness.  I pray that we will make God our Lord so that His blessings will continue. 

I want to be a good member of society, to make a difference for good, and to pave a better road for my children and grandchildren.

I am glad to be an American where I can shop at Kroger on the first day of the month. I can choose veggies and fruits or I can grab the chips and ice cream. They are my choices and my consequences.

Freedom is still mine.

So I say:  I’m proud to be an American.  God bless the USA!

Is this a great county God has given us or what?

Wonderful weekends

As we endure 100 degree plus record-breaking temperatures here in Kentucky and much of the eastern United States, I am thankful for room-darkening shades, insulation, and air conditioning.

May your weekend be cool, and perhaps you will stay indoors to do some reading (here’s a Kentucky author who has captured my bookmark), or playing indoor games with the children, or sipping iced mint tea.

Remember last winter and the snowfall?  Was it only a few short months ago we were bundled in layers and shoveling snow?

Keep your body hydrated and soak your soul in the sounds of Fernando Ortega’s beautiful rendition of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.

How about starting an organizing project, like dealing with all those digital pictures on your computer, stored in your camera, or taking up room in your iPhone.

I am seeking to have a glad heart so that Sweet William will be refreshed by my spirit of joy.

Whatever you do this weekend, spend it with the people you love.  And tell them how much they mean to you.  Today is precious.  Make it count.

Much blessing to you, dear friend, on this wonderful weekend ~

I’d love to get your feedback on “wonderful weekends,” what I hope to be regular posts.

Remembering Nell

I lost a good friend last week.

Nell Sanders Pike was my son’s fourth grade teacher at Roby Elementary. She was the kind of teacher I wish could be in every classroom in every school. She cared about her students. She expected good results from them. She was tough but she was tender.

Travis was in her class the year his beloved Granny, my mother, died, the year when our worlds seemed to collapse. Ms. Pike offered comfort to both of us for she had known sorrow, and from that shared grief experience came a friendship that lasted.

Nell was older and wiser than me. She had been a wife, a mother, a non-traditional older college student, and she had started a new career later in her life out of necessity. I would find myself in each of those roles, and Nell was there to offer me advice and guidance.

She made her home in a neat-as-a-pin house on Lee Street. It was always ready for company because she loved people. If she knew I was coming, my knock on the door would bring a “Come on in.” And I was welcomed.

Nell served many a cup of tea at her kitchen table. Sometimes we shared a simple lunch of chicken salad, fruit and crackers.  She always had something to offer from her well-stocked refrigherator.   

Most often she sent me home with a little something extra because she said I was “a busy girl.” It might be candy for the grandchildren, the beginnings of supper for Sweet William and me, or a sweet treat she had stashed in her freezer.

We “talked the corners off” her round kitchen table, conversations that were open and honest and never judgmental. We shared things with each other freely because we learned to trust each other.  She asked questions out of a genuine interest.  Then she listened well.

At birthdays and Christmas, we exchanged simple gifts because it was more about remembering the friendship than the cost of the gift.

During her teaching career, Nell taught her students about Christmas around the world in order to learn the traditions in different country. It was also her way of getting the true meaning of Christmas across to the children, letting them know about the birth of a Savior in a day when separating church and state was the mantra of public school education.

She had a Christmas tree fully decorated each year. I think she could name almost every student whose ornament was hanging there.

One year, she invited her students to come to her home for Christmas stories, cookies and punch, and she asked me to helped her serve. We talked about that experience recently, how it would be nearly impossible to do that sort of thing today. But to Nell it was her way of sharing her life with her students.

Nell’s faith was strong in a God who loves and a Savior who saves. Some days we talked about spiritual things; and often she asked me to pray before I left.

Even as her health began to fail, Nell was still interested in my life. When I came by for a visit or called on the phone to check on her, she never failed to ask about Travis and his family, about Bill and his health. 

Nell left her imprint on me.  Ever the educator, she challenged me, believed in me, and enticed me to be a forever-learner.

She taught me the importance of friendships, that they are a treasure in one’s life.

She taught me that writing a note of thanks or encouragement is a way to help someone on their journey and that neat penmanship is still in style.

She taught me that a present does not have to be expensive, and that time spent together is the most precious gift we can give.

She taught me not to judge another person because I have not walked in those shoes.

She taught me there is something to be said for being content in your present circumstance.

She taught me that little things make a difference, be it a pretty placemat and folded napkin at the lunch table or the lovely bow on the package.

She taught because she was a teacher at the deepest part of her being.

So often after a visit with Nell when I was about to leave her, she looked at me and said “Peggy, you’re a good girl.” She sort of made me think it was true.

I will miss my friend, Nell Sanders Pike.    

I believe God brings people into our lives to make us better, to help us grow, and to learn something from them.

Nell was that kind of person to me.  I thank God for how she poured herself into my life.  And I will remember Nell.