Rex

I traveled to Olean a couple of weekends ago for a birthday party.  It was a big one.  My brother Rex turned 60.   His wife Gale rented the pavilion at War Vets Park right across  from Bradner's Stadium, our favorite place to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July.  It seemed fitting.  Rex has always loved to watch things explode,  especially when they're high overhead splattering the sky with color.  There's no one I'd rather watch with than my half-man, half-child brother who shouts out in pure delight and joy at the best of them, his eyes never once leaving the sky.  A couple of years back he had the audacity to go to a major league baseball game on that day and watched the fireworks from the stadium there.  He said they were awesome, some of the best he'd ever seen.   But for me, that day wasn't quite the same.  


I still remember this washtub from my grandparents' house

Rex came along just thirteen days short of my first birthday.  We didn't always get along during those growing up years.  My younger brother Karl was pleasant and easy going.  Rex, on the other hand, was much more, how do I say it, intense.  If I annoyed or upset him, which seemed to be quite often, he'd give me a good punch to the stomach, knocking the wind out of me and putting me to the ground.



We were still getting got along when this was taken

  

But occasionally we got along.  One of our favorite things was to go down into the canal that ran by our house and look for snakes and lizards.  One day we picked up a piece of sheet metal and were suddenly set upon by a swarm of yellow jackets.  I immediately went one way, he went another.  I came through the incident unscathed,  but Rex wasn't so lucky.  In no time he was covered with ugly red welts from the angry bees' stingers.  My mother, hearing the screams, came flying from the house, snatched him up and ran for the driveway where she proceeded to thoroughly roll him in a mud puddle.  Obviously he survived. 

Speaking of puddles, another incident I specifically remember involved a live lobster that my dad was going to prepare for dinner after he got home from work one night.  A meat cutter with five kids doesn't generally include lobster in his food budget, this was a luxury.  But Rex managed to spoil it for all of us when he got a hold of the crustacean and decided to take it for a swim after a good rain. I never heard my mother use one curse word her entire life, but I doubt she was ever closer than she was on that particular day.    I wasn't anywhere near when my father got home from work that night, but he never brought another one home.  It would still be several years before I'd get to taste my first lobster.  I had my brother to thank for that.
 

Karl would grow up to be the good brother

We loved to fish as kids, and nobody more than Rex.  We'd often walk to Haskell Creek with our poles and spend a couple hours just waiting for a bite. Honesty, I don't ever remember catching a fish in that place. I don't know if any of my siblings ever did either, but we spent more hours there than I could probably count.  One particular day I was standing high on the creek bank with my two brothers when Rex pulled back on his pole and gave it a hard yank, wanting to cast his line out past the trees and into the water below.  As the line jerked forward, I suddenly felt a sharp tug at my upper lip and then heard the snap of the fishing line. There, dangling from my mouth, was his hook and an entire worm, still intact.  First stunned and then upset, I begged him to ride home with me.  But fishing in a creek where we never caught anything obviously came first.  He refused.  But the good brother had ridden on ahead and my mother was waiting for me in the car as I pulled my bike into the driveway.  It would be several days before the swelling would go down because of the stitches,  and for the longest time there was a little bump on my upper lip where the hook had lodged itself, a continual reminder of that day and of my horrible brother.

I'm not sure if over time that little bump simply faded away or if just became so insignificant that I no longer noticed it.  No matter.  That's often how relationships evolve between siblings.  I grew up,  he did the same.  The crises of childhood somehow faded, no longer all that important. I'm not sure  when it was that I began to see my brother as a friend.  I just know that it happened.

Rex and his co-counselor at Circle C Ranch after a ride down a mudslide  

Around eight years ago I noticed that Rex was slowing down.  A lot. Always full of energy, he was considered the fun uncle.  He loved  baseball, amusement parks and roller coasters and would often  set off  his own private stash of fireworks to the delight of his nieces and nephews.  One day I watched as he put on his jacket, it was as if he were moving in slow motion.  Something was very, very wrong.  We pushed him to see a doctor.  It was Parkinson's. 

When you don't see someone very often, you can't help but notice the changes.  Medications  help, but they don't heal, so he moves somewhat slower, tires more easily,  talks softer.   But he seems to take it all in stride and continues to see his life as blessed and lives it to the fullest.  

Oh, by the way, when I got to the party the first person Rex insisted I meet was some Bona's basketball player.  Rex is probably the biggest St. Bonaventure basketball fan out there.  He never misses a home game and is known by all the players and most of the people in the stands as the flag man.  That's because he has flags representing all the countries that these young players come from and waves them when they're on the floor.  He's even been written up in the newspaper and has been featured on the news. 



There's no bigger St. Bonaventure basketball fan than Rex

Rex has always been a bit crazy for sports.  He knows the teams, the players, the stats.  From the time he was a kid trading baseball cards he's loved the Yankees, and when baseball season is over, he's totally immersed in keeping up with his football team, the Buffalo Bills.   And then there's his beloved Bonnies that kick their basketball season off just as football is winding down. 

The party was scheduled from two o'clock to five.  It wasn't hard to see how tired he was, but there was someone else he wanted me to meet.  One of the bosses from work had come to congratulate Rex on his milestone birthday.  Rex is the manager of the frozen food and dairy department of a large grocery store in Olean, a physically demanding job.  And cold.  The last time I was there he was wearing gloves as he loaded up the ice cream freezer. He sometimes goes in early and often stays late.  It takes him longer nowadays.  But he likes to work and says he wants to do it as long as he possibly can.  He's well-liked and respected there. I can understand why.     

Five o'clock came and we began to take down the decorations and gather up the food and gifts.  We needed to head home, but Larry loaded some of the stuff into our car to drop off at the house on the way out of town.  We found the living room already full of people, some who had come a long ways to share this special day with Rex, and I knew that though the party was officially ended, the celebrating would continue on for a bit longer.   I hope that someone thought to set off a few fireworks in the backyard as the sun dropped behind the horizon.  There's nothing Rex would have liked more.

Rex in his Bills' jacket among his family

 

Singing

It's been over ten months since I last went to New York for the injections that let my vocal cords work. The best part is that I've been able to sing during most of that time.  I'm going back in a couple of weeks because the spasms are slowly starting to return, but amazingly, I can still sing some harmony.  I think this would be a good time to repost what I wrote almost two years ago:  
 

When I asked my voice doctor in Atlanta if I would ever sing again, he guaranteed with the treatments I would be speaking almost normally again.  And he was right.  A few weeks after the muscles on either side of my vocal cords were injected with botox, I was speaking again.  If someone didn't know that I have spasmodic dysphonia, they wouldn't have realized that I have a voice disorder.  But he offered me no hope where my singing was concerned.  The vocal cords work harder to sing than to talk, and it was highly unlikely that I would ever sing again.  And as grateful as I was to finally speak without forcing almost every word, I missed the singing terribly.

I remember reading the story of Dave Dravecky, a professional baseball player who lost his pitching arm to cancer.  He wrote in his autobiography about the deep grief he experienced during that time.  And though this thing in my brain that makes my vocal cords go spastic is not life threatening, the grief was just as real as if I had lost a limb.  I used to wonder what it would be like if I could no longer play the piano or hear music.  But to think hypothetically of losing my voice, the thought was just never there.  So when it happened, I was completely unprepared.

I imagine there are times when Dave dreams that he's playing ball again, throwing the fast ones.  I know, because I have the occasional dream where I am singing again.  I used to dream as a kid about flying down the deep, narrow staircase of our home.  Even in my sleep I could feel the freedom of no longer being restricted by gravity.  I was always a bit disappointed to awaken and find that I couldn't fly after all.  When I dream now, the words I speak and sing come out flawlessly with no catch in my throat.  It's liberating.  Then I awaken to reality, always vaguely disappointed.

It took me almost two years to work through the grieving process.  It was during that period of time I lost my dad and brother, moved from Alabama and said goodbye to many dear friends.  I also left the wonderful preschool where I had served as music director for 11 years, as well as three of my four children who were now living independent lives.  I arrived at our new home, emotionally exhausted and with my voice at its worst.  I was vulnerable, and grief washed over me like a tsunami.

A number of factors working together brought me through that difficult time.  A friend sent me the right book dealing with grief, someone else recommended an excellent doctor trained in the treatment I needed, I found some part-time work, and I was beginning to use some of my talents again.  In group settings I was no longer tearing up as those around me sang.  Life was getting good again.

When people ask about my voice, especially after the spasms have returned and I need another treatment, I can tell them with confidence that I'll soon be speaking somewhat normally again.  But the injections will not give me the ability to sing.  That only comes from God.

Today I sang as in my dreams.  Only I wasn't dreaming, and for an afternoon I sang to the One who stilled the tremors long enough  that I might praise Him.  I don't know how tomorrow will be.  I have no guarantees that what I had today will be a part of any of my tomorrows.  But I know that today He gave me what only He could give. He let me sing.

The Letter

Mom and Dad visiting us in Costa Rica,  1986 

Dear Mom,

You would have turned 90 last week.  What a great time it would have been to have a big celebration, an ideal time to get all the family together.  We would have had a picnic with a store-bought cake and a huge dessert table in honor of you,  that being your favorite part of the meal after all. Then, after we finished eating, we would have said lots of nice things about you, some to make us laugh and perhaps a few to make us cry.

But we all know it's pointless to plan a big party when the guest of honor has no intention of showing up.  After all, even if you could come, nothing would ever entice you back here, even for just a few short hours and a promise of the most delectable sweets imaginable.  Even so, I think it would be a good time to mention some of those things I might say if you were here.  And if by some chance there is but a thin curtain between your world and mine, you just might hear what I have to say.  So here goes.

Even though you've been gone a long time, I still think about you a lot.  It's hard not to as there are reminders of you everywhere.  This parsonage has a nice patch of rhubarb out behind the garage, and I can't make up a batch of sauce or a strawberry-rhubarb pie without thoughts of you.  I took a couple of pies made with your homemade crust to the Marvin reunion last month.  They were a hit.  In fact, I use several of your favorite recipes.  Larry's family especially loves your carrot cake.  In fact, I just made one this past weekend to take to his sister Paulette's for a picnic.

Do you remember after Beth started kindergarten and you went to work,  how you'd start dinner in the morning and have me finish it up when I'd get home from school?  I'd complain sometimes, like when I had to help with the canning and freezing during the summer.  But when Larry and I took our first church in Bradford Country,  I couldn't begin to count all the corn we froze or the applesauce we canned.  Our big chest freezer was always packed with vegetables and meat that came from farmer friends,  and the shelves in the basement were covered with mason jars filled with tomatoes, peaches and jams among other things.  I never lacked, and that allowed me to invite people into our home week after week. You prepared me for that.

I wish I had expressed so much more how grateful I was for all you had done for me. One day I went into  Stroehman's Bread Store here in Elmira and told the lady at the register how my mom had put me through four years of college working in a bread store just like theirs.  I don't know if I ever thanked you for that, the sacrifices you made so that I could not only attend school but come out debt free.  And on top of all that, you managed to find time to write me once or twice every week, long hand-written letters with five-dollar bills often tucked between the pages.  I looked forward to those letters more than you can imagine,  I was so lonely for home.

I still have most of your letters, hundreds of them.  Besides my college stash, there's quite a few you mailed to Costa Rica that year we were in language school and an entire suitcase packed full of those addressed to Honduras.  When we returned stateside, you kept writing. There's a smaller stack from when we were in Colorado Springs trying to work in a very difficult church and a few that you even sent to our place in Alabama, even though you were so sick at the time. And then they stopped coming altogether and I knew. 

But it wasn't just the letters.  You were sending us stuff all the time, especially while we were in Central America.  No matter what we asked for, you took care of it.  If we needed clothes, you found the right sizes.  If we sent film home, you had it processed.  If a work team was coming down,  you'd always get a package to them before they flew out.  You even sent a basketball hoop to Larry that he requested after building that small basketball court in our back yard.  And you never fussed at us, never complained.  You always gave so willingly.

Always giving!  Here she is with Fawn, Joel and Angela in Costa Rica

I know we always said thank you.  I don't think we took you for granted, but if I had to do it again, I would have written you a letter just like this one.  You loved words, especially when they were written down.  You would have read it over again, maybe several times.  You might have even put it in your Bible. That's where I keep one that you wrote to me right before we left for Language School.  Most of your letters were filled up with the details of your days, the happenings of my siblings and what you'd eaten for supper that week.  But this particular letter was full of your heart,  sadness at our going, pride that we were, and gratitude that we were serving the God whom you had loved for most of your life.  I wish I had written a letter like that to you.

There are a few things more I would have said.  I have some regrets, especially about the times I was particularly selfish and difficult.  But when I apologized to you towards the end of your life for the times I'd disappointed you, you acted as though they had never happened.  Grace.

There was never any doubt that your love for others was the directive of your life.  Even in those last days,  you didn't want to talk about yourself.  You would always turn the conversation towards others.  And that caring was genuine.  Your entire life had been a reflection of God's love invested into others.

And finally, one last thing.  Do you remember when we were traveling to Guatemala and stopped by the roadside to eat our lunch and all the children gathered around our vehicle?  You looked in the lunch bag to see how many sandwiches were left, and when you saw there weren't enough to feed them all, you began to cry.  "There aren't enough," you said.  "There aren't enough."  That scene never left me, your visibly broken heart.

I mentioned all those letters I have in my attic, I hope someday to have some extra time when I can go through them.  I know there are some wonderful stories and memories to be relived.  But there's a passage in the Bible that talks about us being living letters.  That's what you were to me.  That's what you were to so many others.  You were the greatest letter of all.

I have only a few pictures of just the two of us--1986 in Costa Rica  

The Double Brown Doors

They weren't in their room.  The door stood open,  all the furniture gone.  It had been some weeks since we'd been able to get over to the nursing home to visit with the couple who always greeted us with wide smiles and an invitation to find a seat in one of the chairs that fit snugly into the tiny living room.  They had been on the first floor in this small suite complete with a small bedroom and a bath.  There had been no need for a kitchen, all meals were provided in the dining room just down the hall.  They had especially enjoyed that part, dining in the large, cheery room that seemed more like a restaurant with its small, festive tables.  There were even menus so that they could select each day what they wanted to eat.  It might not have been the home they had shared for many years, but it would do.  Best of all, it allowed them to be together.

Someone passing in the hall stopped and told us they'd been moved to the second floor, that we'd find them behind the double brown doors.  We climbed the stairs, passed through a long hall and found what we were  looking for.  Larry gave one a push.  It didn't budge, obviously locked from the inside.   I don't know why I was surprised.  I vaguely remembered a mention on one of our visits of  the second floor residents being there because they could no longer care for themselves.  I don't believe the word Alzheimer's was used,  but it was fairly obvious what she had meant.  Their names had been on a plaque outside their little home on the first floor along with a welcome wreath on the door that was usually open when we stopped for a visit.  I suddenly felt weary, sad, at the sharp contrast.   A worker told us to try the double brown doors again,  that someone would open them from the inside. But be careful, she warned, not to let anyone come out as we were going in.   

He was sitting at a table with some of the other residents playing a memory game. We watched for a bit then wandered into his wife's new room.  A twin bed sat in the middle of the floor, her daughter plopped down on the corner putting pictures in a frame while her mother sat close by watching.  She talked as she worked, expressing concern that her mother needed to get more rest, that she needed to sleep in the bed each night like she was supposed to.  She looked up at me and explained that her father had been coming to her mother's room at night.  One would take the bed while the other slept in the chair. "You both need to sleep in your own beds," she said, gently scolding her mother.  One of the sons stood a bit awkwardly on the other side of the room, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with himself.   His father was becoming increasingly disoriented and had recently wandered off the premises, he confided to Larry.  That's why they had been moved out of their little suite on the first floor.

"We've been together for sixty-two years."  Her voice came from the corner where she sat. "We've never been apart."  The daughter picked up an album and pulled a few pictures for the frames that would hang on the walls, something to make this sterile little room feel a bit more like home for her mother.  Suddenly her father appeared and plopped down in the chair that sat empty next to his wife.  His eyes twinkled. He looked at his bride of sixty-two years.  "So I've been wondering," he said.  "Who gets the bed tonight?"

Perfect Timing

I went back home for a couple of days last week to celebrate the Fourth.  It was nice being with family and sitting on the field at Bradner's Stadium to watch the fireworks.  But the best part of the trip had nothing to do with the occasion,  it had more to do with meeting up with a friend.

I hadn't seen Debbie for several years, the last time was when her husband Gary was pastoring a church in Olean.  Her kids were still home then, teenagers I think.  Now they're adults with families of their own.  But a few months ago I happened to see a picture of her on a  friend's facebook page and felt a nudge to contact her.

I need to go back a few more years.  Karen is married to Gary's brother Will.  While visiting their son  in South Carolina,  they came to spend a day with us.  I was not having an easy time with my voice, my Spasmodic Dysphonia was making it especially difficult to speak during their visit.  Karen remembered, and when Debbie started having problems with her voice,  her sister-in-law mentioned that the symptoms were similar to mine.  I heard from her a few days after making contact.  Included in her message she wrote,  "I hear that you have experienced vocal loss in the past.  I was diagnosed with Spasmodic Dysphonia.  Have you heard of this?  I am struggling with vocal issues."

I don't know why I am always surprised and amazed that our lives somehow manage to intersect with others in ways that I know to be far beyond mere coincidence.  I never dreamed all those years ago  that the day would come when we would both be facing the same health challenge.  But I am the veteran, six years of working through the questions and frustrations.  This is still pretty new for her, and if her experience is anything like mine, quite overwhelming.   I am convinced that this was a divine directive, perfectly timed, designed to bring us together through a series of circumstances and individuals.  This was just the latest, that we would both be in the same town visiting family and friends for the Fourth. 

We were heading South a little over a year ago when I tuned into a Christian radio station a few hours into our trip.  I knew as soon as I heard the news announcer that there was something seriously wrong with his voice.  The words were forced as if in a tug-a-war with his vocal cords. I looked at Larry.  "Listen to him, I think he has what I have!"  I quickly wrote down the call letters and sent an email to the station after returning to New York.   I explained that I suspected one of their staff had a voice disorder that I could identify.  It wasn't long before I heard back from the station manager, appreciative at my concern and curious at what more I could tell him.   We exchanged a few messages and then I heard nothing more.  I still don't know the end of this story or if I ever will,  but I've no doubt that my tuning into that station during those few minutes of news broadcast was devised ahead of time.

Larry and I were married his senior year of seminary.  We had little money and didn't own a television set, so we would go over to the student center to watch The Waltons on Thursday nights.  One particular evening it was snowing hard as we drove back to our apartment, and we came upon a lone figure walking along the side of the road.  Larry pulled over and asked if he could give the man a ride somewhere.  His name was Bob Scott,  a pastor from New York taking a sabbatical from his church to work on his doctorate.  He would be separated from his family for several weeks, so I asked if he'd like to come for dinner some night. He accepted.

We sat around the table for a long time the night Bob came.  I guess he liked us, because before he left, he asked if Larry might consider letting him send a resume on up to his district superintendent in New York.  We looked at each other.  What could it hurt?   Not too many months later, we were in that very district, settling into our first parsonage in beautiful Bradford County where we would spend the next eight years. I can't watch an old episode of The Waltons without thinking of that night, over thirty-five years ago now,  and the man we just happened to pick up on the side of the road.  That simple act would determine not only where we would be in those early years of ministry, but would shape our future steps as well.  

So back to Debbie.  She's still trying to figure out what recourse to take with this voice stuff.  I opted awhile back to go with botox injections,  she's seriously thinking of trying voice therapy.  It was nice to reconnect and have someone to talk over these things, something that impacts both of us.  Come to think of it, the timing couldn't have been more perfect.  

Debbie Beers and me (she's on the right) on July 5, 2012 in Olean, New York

Directionally Challenged

I have never made a secret of the fact that I have a horrible sense of direction, or as I prefer to call it, being directionally challenged.  The person who gets to his destination with little mental effort has no idea how difficult it is for those of us who sometimes get discombobulated just leaving a parking lot.

A few days ago I had to be in a certain place at a certain time.   Larry gave me what he considered a simple map.  I knew the exit, no problem.  I was positive he had told me to take the first left and then the next right after getting off the ramp.  But something about the road wasn't right.  I pulled over to the side, pulled out the map and looked at the part he had highlighted in yellow.  I was still confused.   But I wasn't going to panic yet, he promised me that he'd have his cell phone close at hand, just in case. I dialed and it rang.  And then it rang again and then again and a few more times before going to voice mail.  My palms started to sweat and my chest tightened as I began to talk out loud.  I always talk to myself when I'm feeling out of control.  This time I added Larry to the conversation as well, addressing him through clenched teeth as I tried the church and house numbers.  The only one who answered was my sixteen-month-old granddaughter who's visiting with her mom from El Paso.  She obviously didn't call her grandfather to the phone.  

Several years ago, long before cell phones were even a concept, I got lost in Rochester, New York.  Larry had spoken at a men's breakfast earlier that morning and I was supposed to meet him at the entrance to the New York thruway around nine or so.  We were driving to Buffalo where I would be speaking at a women's luncheon that afternoon.   I would soon find out that the pastor's wife who told me how to get there is as directionally challenged as I am. 

It wasn't long before I was driving on the widest highway I had ever seen with cars whizzing past me at high speed.  I had no idea where I was, where I was going or how to find my way back.  My two youngest were in the backseat watching, their mother with her hands clutched vice-like to the wheel, talking to herself while blubbering like a baby.  It eventually occurred to me that it might be a good idea to get off the highway, find a gas station and ask for a phonebook.  I was able to stop my shaking long enough to look up the phone number to where we had been staying, to tell the mutually directionally-challenged pastor's wife where I was and to inform her that I wasn't moving from that spot until someone came to get me.  The first thing Larry asked when he saw me was if I realized how far out of the way I had traveled.  Let's suffice it to say that I was considerably late for my engagement, the women had already had their lunch and were waiting for me in the sanctuary.

And then there's the time that we were in Allentown, Pennsylvania.  We had made arrangements to meet our friend Mick at the school where he was studying for the ministry.  Larry immediately jumped out of the car upon seeing him and before I knew it Mick had suggested I might want to drive on over to the trailer park where they lived.  Cindy and their two girls were waiting for us there.  He hastily gave me the directions, assured me that I'd have no trouble finding the way, and suddenly they were gone.

I wasn't too far out before I knew I had no idea where I was, for not only am I directionally challenged, I also have trouble retaining a lot of information at once.  I remembered the first few turns, and then nothing more.  My mind was blank,  I was completely lost with no address, no phone, no number.  And so I did what I do so well in this situation,  I gripped the wheel as tight as I could and cried.  "Sing."   The voice wasn't audible but it spoke nonetheless.  So I sniffed one last time and started singing one of my favorite songs, "Praise the Lord." I don't think I was hardly out of the first verse and chorus when I remember descending a hill and coming up on the other side to find directly in front of me the most beautiful scene imaginable,  a trailer park. 

Last August some friends came from South Carolina to spend four or five days with us.  Unexpectedly, a dear friend from Alabama died right before their arrival and Larry was asked to fly down and perform the funeral service.  I was in a panic. Granted,  I wouldn't have to drive, but they would need me as navigator, getting them where they wanted to go.  When I actually found my way to Watkin's Glen one day, I inwardly breathed a huge sigh of relief.  They had no idea how terrified I was that we might end up somewhere else. There was one afternoon, however, that went particularly badly.  They love thrift stores, and we put some extra miles on their speedometer getting to the Salvation Army.  I knew where it was, I had been there on several occasions.  I just couldn't remember how to get there. 

But I do know how to get to the airport where we picked Larry up the following day.  I was never so happy to see him, a tremendous burden lifted!   On the way home I asked him if he minded making a stop.  It was one of those thrift stores they'd wanted to check out.  I'd tried to take them but ended up somewhere else.  He didn't even hesitate, knowing right where to go.  I wish I could do that,  head somewhere and get there without getting lost first.  

I read an article in Reader's Digest several years ago about people like me.  Turns out there is something in the brain making it difficult for some of us to get to where we want to be.  I suppose that should make me feel better, the realization that it's not my fault, that  I simply don't have the same neurological GPS setup that my husband has.  No, it doesn't make me feel better.  But on the other hand,  he has been there time after time to get me to where I needed to be or at least heading in the right direction.  He rescued me in Rochester all those years ago and just a few days ago, when he realized that he missed my call, he traveled some extra miles to make sure I found my way home. 

While living in Alabama I was hired to play an extra in a movie that was being filmed in our part of the state.  I got word that I was needed in a place about forty-five minutes from where we lived, and had specific instructions to arrive before dawn.  I was terrified I'd not be able to find my way, especially in the dark.  So very early on that first morning Larry drove ahead of me, led me to the movie site, then headed back home.  That was all I needed, and I was able to find my way up and back on the final two days of filming.  I just needed someone to show me the way.           

Rhubarb

My first picture taken with my mother

I picked the first of my rhubarb on Saturday.  I think it was early this year due to the short, mild winter we had.  I cooked it up into sauce, set some aside for us and then took a container over to my neighbor John who really likes the stuff.   I was glad some of it was ready.  It was Mother's Day weekend and it brought back some special memories for me, especially of my mom.

I love rhubarb, so you can imagine my delight when I discovered a small patch of it after we moved into our little parsonage three summers ago.  It sits back behind the garage so it was several days before I even noticed it.  One day I decided to take a stroll around the yard and voila, there it was!  I could hardly wait for Larry to come home to share my find with him. 

Growing up, there was a row of rhubarb that popped through the soil every spring in the far corner of our back yard.  My parents purchased their home when I was five years old, and I don't ever remember a time when the rhubarb wasn't there.  I can't begin to imagine how much I must have eaten over the years, the desserts, the jam, the sauce served in little bowls still warm off the stove or as a topping over vanilla ice cream.  I never tired of it.

My mom loved her kitchen and could bake most anything , but of everything she concocted, her pies were the best.  Her crust was melt-in-the-mouth perfection which she would first roll out into a perfect circle and would then bake to a golden brown, the filling bubbling through the narrow slits she'd cut into the top.  They were all wonderful, the apple, the peach, the cherry, the blackberry.  She made a mincemeat in a ten-inch pie pan every Thanksgiving, with a light sprinkling of sugar over the top crust.  It was exquisite, I've never had better.  But of all the pies she made, my absolute favorite was the strawberry-rhubarb.

Frances Lea Marvin, my mom!

My first year away at school was especially lonely for me.  I was in South Carolina,  nine-hundred miles away from home and terribly homesick.  But someone who was traveling through from New York came to my room one day bearing gifts from my mother.  In the first container was a dress she had made, a green one to match my red hair.  And in the other container, much to my delight,  was a strawberry-rhubarb pie.  There would be more packages.  Each birthday she would send a new dress, every one of them green.  And if she knew of someone coming my way,  I'd get a hand-delivered strawberry-rhubarb pie.

My sister Dawn and brother Rex visiting me my junior year.  Take note of the green dress!

When Larry pastored in Pennsylvania, one of the members had some at her place and insisted we help ourselves to all we wanted.  And I did, making my share of rhubarb sauce and rhubarb crisp and rhubarb pie, just like my mom had.   And like her, I'd make sure to freeze some so it would be on hand during the winter months. But eventually we left the north land and headed to the far south where rhubarb refuses to grow.

I missed my rhubarb,  but occasionally one of the grocery stores would bring it in and I'd pay a ridiculous amount of money to buy enough for a couple of pies.  One time Larry flew home to see his ailing mother in New York.  He had a surprise for me when I picked him up at the airport a week later, a carry on full of rhubarb. 

Now back to this past Saturday.  Early that evening I decided to go see my octogenarian friend Rena and check out the seedlings she's been growing to put in her garden.  I  spent several minutes in her little greenhouse admiring the young plants and walking around her backyard to see where everything would eventually go.  Then suddenly she raised her hand and pointed to the far fence which bordered her property.  "Do you see what I have growing there?" she asked.   My mouth dropped open.  The entire length of the wall was nothing but rhubarb!  Then she pointed to the right of where we were standing and there was more yet.  I had never seen so much rhubarb growing in one place in my entire life!  "Do you like rhubarb?"  she wanted to know.

Some of Rena's rhubarb

The next morning I got up early and cut up what I had brought from Rena's house.  She had insisted I take some and to help myself anytime I'd like more.  So I made what I had into sauce, filling a couple more containers full.  I delivered them that afternoon after church.   I think my mom would have been pleased.  It was, after all, Mother's Day.

Albert

Larry will never forget the first time he saw him.  We were pastoring in Herrickville,  a farming community in Northeast Pennsylvania.  I've written a bit about our early years in Bradford County, a beautiful little chunk of God's creation made up of dirt roads and green vistas.  He was traversing one of those very roads when he came upon a lone figure dwarfed in a large trench coat, wearing a crumpled hat and carrying a gas can.  Larry pulled over to ask if he could give him a ride somewhere.  He was met with a toothless grin as the gentleman slid in beside him.  He introduced himself as Albert.    

He showed up for church the following Sunday with his wife Jeanette and their son Joey who was probably twelve at the time.  Albert was scrawny,  I don't think he weighed much over a hundred and twenty pounds.  His son, however, was built nothing like his father.  He was big for his age, favoring more his mother who was a bit on the plump side.  They settled in and we began to see a lot of them. Jeanette was intelligent and pleasant.  But we soon discovered that Albert was a different matter altogether.  He was slow, simple, and at times difficult. He wanted to play softball, for example, so joined the church team but would curse every time he missed the ball.  He found it difficult to control his emotions and was easily offended. But in spite his lack of social graces, most in the church were patient with him. There were a few, however, who complained about him, tired of his poor manners. Thinking back,  I might have been one of them.

Then came Father's Day.  Larry had asked his Sunday school class to write down and then share something they had learned from their dads.  During the course of the discussion,  Albert said he had learned nothing from his father because he'd never known him.  He then told his story, that he was the result of an illicit family relationship.   When I later heard what Albert had said that morning, I felt a deep sadness, imagining the difficult childhood he must have had.  After that I found myself becoming more patient with him and less critical. 

There were still some episodes with Albert after that, at one point he even left the church for awhile.  But Larry was always attentive towards the family,  and after paying them a few visits, we saw them once again back in the pews. I remember well the time they invited us into their home for a meal,  so proud that they were able to extend hospitality to the pastor and his family.  Larry happened to take a  picture of Albert in his kitchen that day.  He looked a bit frazzled, but I know that he was trying the best he could to express his gratitude to us for caring about him and his family.  

Albert in his kitchen the day he and Jeanette invited us for dinner

Albert had been given the important job of counting heads on Wednesday evenings when we ran our children's program, and Jeanette was helping pretty regularly in the nursery.  It was also on a Wednesday evening in early December that we would see them for the last time.  As they headed out the church door for home that night, Albert turned to Larry and told him how glad he was that he took the time to pick him up on the road that day. 

The phone call came during dinner the next night.  Albert's house was on fire.  As Larry pulled up to the property, he saw no sign of the family among the crowd that had gathered there. It wouldn't be until the fire was extinguished that the horrible, gruesome discovery was made. There were three bodies in the garage, so badly burned they were unrecognizable.  An investigation would later reveal the truth.  They'd been murdered and their place doused with gasoline and set ablaze to cover the crime.

It was sometime afterwards that Larry sat down with the man who would spend the rest of his life in prison for their murders. He had asked for the preacher to come, wanting in some way to explain how an ordinary day had turned so tragic.  Ironically, Albert had considered him to be one of his closest friends.  But it was a female companion, also a so-called friend,  who suddenly snapped and pulled the trigger, killing Joey first and then his parents.  I can't imagine the shock, then the unimaginable horror of that moment when Albert and Jeanette heard the blast and saw their son fall to the ground.  He was everything to them, his being that gave them both purpose.  So as horrible as those next moments were,  when those final shots rang through the air,  I do believe that God was showing mercy to Albert and Jeanette.

There was a memorial service for the three of them and the church was packed.   I think they would have been surprised but pleased to see how many people had come to pay their respects.  I was in Herrickville a couple of months ago and passed the place where their home used to sit.  All traces of the house are gone,  nothing there to remind us that a very simple man and his family died on that bit of ground almost thirty years ago.

But Albert never really went away,  I've seen him many times since, pretty much everywhere I've lived. He looks different and his circumstances have changed, but it's him.  He can be difficult and sometimes demands more of me than what I have or feel like giving.  And his story often makes me uncomfortable,  it's so different from my own. It's then that God speaks to my spirit.  "Except by my grace," he whispers, "that could be your story."  

Jeanette, Joey and Albert in 1983, a year before they died

Getting Well

I still see him sitting there in the same spot day after day on that street in La Ceiba, his ankle and foot extended for all to see, deep purple and grotesquely swollen.  His cup lay close by to catch the coins and occasional bills from those who gave either out of compassion or pity.  No matter.  The important thing was to get it filled.  That's how he lived.  Or better put, how he survived.

I don't know a lot about medicine, but from pictures I've seen, I believe the gentleman probably had a really bad case of the gout, a form of arthritis and very painful.  I've no doubt, it hurt to even look at it.  Nor do I pretend to know how debilitating it might have been, I've not lived with it.  But that beggar sat on that same street with his cup the entire time I lived in Honduras, always with his leg protruding outwards, everyday drawing the passersbys' attention to it, to him.  I wonder if he ever wished that his life was different, if there was ever a time he wanted to be well.  Or did he prefer this life on the street that drew on the sympathies of others and guaranteed an income, as little as it might have been.

I've been reflecting on this getting well quite a bit lately, in part because there are so many people in my life who aren't. Jesus once confronted a lame man at the pool of Bethsaida.  Supposedly it was believed that at certain times the waters had supernatural powers to heal, but the man came up with some excuse about nobody ever being there to help him.  I find that odd.  He'd been crippled for 38 years, many of which I'm sure he had spent in that very spot.  So in all that time no one ever offered to help him get into the water?  Hard to believe.  And then comes the clincher, the all-important quesiton.  Jesus has the audacity to ask him, "Do you want to be well?"

Seems like a no-brainer doesn't it.  Of course he wants to be well!  But no one understands the human mind better than the Creator and His question was legitimate.  Did the lame man really want to be well or did he prefer the security of knowing that his condition would at least get him a little sympathy and something to eat? But something changed when he met the Son of God.  Strength came back into his limbs and he walked away from that place, no longer a beggar. 

I see the ugly, purple swelling in some lives and I want to shake them and say, "Just go for it!  You can do this! You can be well!"  But the drive, the motivation to be free of their sickness just isn't there.  With some it's bodies that have been neglected or abused.  Sometimes it's food or alcohol or drugs that has a hold of them.  And they know what they should do, they'll even acknowledge it, then constantly berate themselves when they don't.

Sometimes it's emotional, hanging on to things of the past, harboring stuff like anger and resentments and unforgiveness.  This is the sickness that concerns me most of all, because it eats away like a cancer at the spirit.  I know a woman who is so bitter towards everyone, I suspect there will be a great sigh of relief when they close the cover of her casket and lower her into the ground.  That is if anyone is there to see it.  How tragic to live a life with so much vitriol, despising and hating everyone who has ever offended you.  I read a true story recently about a circus pony that was retired and sent to live out the rest of its years in a lovely pasture.  But the animal refused to venture out into the lush, verdant field.  All it would do was stay in one small area of that pasture and walk in circles.  The analogy is simple.  Hanging on to the past prevents us from enjoying the freedom of kicking up our heels and enjoying the pleasures that God has in abundance for us. 

Jesus asked, "Do you want to be well?"  There was a time in my life that I wouldn't have thought to ask that question of someone.  But I'm so tired of knowing way too many people who are sick and have simply resigned themselves to the fact.  I see them in my neighborhood, among my friends, in the churches we've pastored, in my own family.  So now I'm asking,  Do you really want to be well?  Or does the hurt and resentment and refusal to forgive supersede your desire to be free of it all?  To be truly well, free to explore and enjoy all that God has for you.  Or maybe you just don't feel strong enough to fight the things that are controlling the body that God made under certain specifications, uniquely for you and intended for your enjoyment.  And please don't use the excuse that there's no one out there to help you.  The man at the pool used that excuse too.  But that fell flat when he was confronted by the all-powerful Son of God who can do anything in a life. 

Jessica Hicks is a young mom with a couple of children.  She was recently diagnosed with Non- Hodgkins Marginal Zone Lymphoma.  Sounds scary, huh?   It is.  She is still early in her journey towards wellness.  But recently she posted a passage from Isaiah 40 on her facebook page. This is just a portion of it: "He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.  Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."   If you were to look her up, you'd find her profile picture has her in a headscarf, her young daughter next to her, her head covered with one to match.  Jessica is beautiful, radiant, her countenance revealing a strength that comes from Someone beyond herself.  There's no doubt here.  She will do what it takes to be well again.

Beautiful Jessica

The Parking Ticket

I saw it as soon as I walked out of Angela's apartment,  the piece of paper secured beneath one of the windshield wipers on my green minivan.  Oh no!  I had been in there no more than ten minutes, just enough time to help her finish getting the kids ready for school and to grab them a quick breakfast to eat on the way.  I had never parked in that spot in all the years she'd lived there, even though it was directly in front of her place.  But I'd been in a hurry that morning and when pulling in hadn't thought much of the blue lines that set this particular parking space apart.  I just knew it was close and I was running  late. All these years without a ticket, and it had to be now.  I read the charge and then the amount I was going to have to fork over.  Eighty dollars.

It had been a difficult few months.  I had flown to New York in February to see my father who was not well,  never dreaming he'd die while I was there visiting.  During this same time Larry had become very sick and was losing a great deal of weight, becoming weaker by the day.  He was seeing several doctors and having every kind of procedure imaginable, even being tested for cancer.  But up til now we were still without answers.  On top of all this, we were going through some personal problems with a couple of our  kids.  One situation was especially serious, involving money and the courts.  I was worn out, frazzled.   And now I had this stupid ticket.  I knew that paying the fee wasn't going to break us, but it was the last of an accumulation, the proverbial straw that was about to break the camel's back. 

I mulled over that ticket for several days and finally determined that I was going to City Hall to fight the charge.  Sure, I had parked illegally. One time. But my record was stellar, and hopefully they would see that.  I'd go to that office that handled all the court fees,  promising it wouldn't happen again,  and ask if they would consider letting this one go.  So on Wednesday, the only day one could contest a ticket, I headed to town after finishing up my morning music classes, swinging by the church first, asking my ailing husband if he'd go with me for moral support.  He did.

As we approached the office, I was surprised to see such a large number of people already there, sitting on benches, standing in the hall or waiting near the window for their turn.  I looked at Larry disappointed, we were going to be here for a long time.  Suddenly, out of the office door came a young, slender, dark-skinned woman holding some papers. "I've been waiting for you," she exclaimed.  Then without warning she reached over and snatched the ticket out of my hand.  "This has been taken care of," and without another word quickly turned and went back through the door, closing it behind her.   

Stunned,  Larry and I walked silently back down the hallway and through the outer doors.  It wasn't until we were outside that we turned and looked at each other. "What just happened here?"  he asked.  I shook my head, bewildered. And then I started to cry.  God had taken care of my ticket!  And in that moment He spoke these words to my heart.  "If I can take care of your parking ticket, don't you think I can take care of these other things, things of much more importance.  Like your husband and your children?"

There were still several difficult and challenging months ahead for us.  Eventually Larry would find out that the infusions he'd been receiving for his Rheumatoid Arthritis had caused a horrible, almost lethal reaction in his body.  With a change of medication, his strength and weight came back.  And somehow I got through the rest of the stuff as well.  Yes, it was hard, even painful at times. But I was never again overwhelmed by the events that were happening in my life.  How could I be?

There are still times when hard things happen, scary things.   Like when the disciples were terrified of the storm, of drowning, even though Jesus was there with them, sleeping in the hold of the boat.  They woke him up and asked him if he cared.  Seriously?  So he asked them right back why they were so afraid.  They had just seen him do some amazing things, like feeding thousands of people with a couple of fish and a few rolls.  Geesh!  And then he asked them why even after all that, they still didn't have faith, how they could forget so quickly what they had seen and experienced.  But I probably shouldn't be so hard on those guys.  I do the same thing at times, especially when I am afraid.  Then God scolds me and reminds me of what He's done before, and asks if I trust Him to do those things again. 

By the way.  I'll never know for sure if that young woman who took care of me was an angel or not.  Larry had been at that office several times over the years and says he never saw her until that day and never saw her again.  But that isn't the most important part of this story anyways.  What does matter is that my Heavenly Father was concerned for me then and still is today.  And that means that whatever storms may come,  He still whispers, "If I can take care of a parking ticket, won't you trust me with the rest?"

Rena's Sweaters

I was in a bit of a panic.  I had read for the lead in a community theater production and the director called the next day to tell me I'd won the part.  I felt honored and flattered that she thought me good enough to take on the role. But to be honest, that wasn't the character I had hoped to play when I went to audition.  I had really wanted another role, a crazy lady with some of the best lines and far fewer than what they were asking me to learn.  But it wasn't just about memorizing the extra pages of script.  This particular character was a knitter, a skill required for the part, and something that I had never attempted to do or was even slightly interested in.  It was later that summer while on vacation in New York that Larry's mom and sister put a pair of  knitting needles in my hands and slowly and patiently instructed me on the basics,  enough so that I could pull off the character and convince the audience that I knew what I was doing.  But if I hadn't been careful to hold what appeared to be a scarf-like object close to my lap as I flashed those needles,  it would have been seen with all its dropped stitches and gaping holes.  I knew just enough to fake it and to have a brand new appreciation for those who are much more adept at this than I am. 

Like Charlene for example.  She knits the nicest gloves and hats and donates them to organizations in the area who help the poor.  Lisa likes to do afghans and gives them away as gifts.  I have been one of her beneficiaries as has every young child in our toddler church of which she is the director.  And then there's Faith. She likes to do scarves, and yes, she gives them away too.  That seems to be why the ones I know do what they do.  They love to bless others with their creations.    
 

Rena VanAmburg

And then there's Rena.  I haven't known her all that long, she started coming to the church a little over a year ago with her daughter and son-in-law. She twinkles, so naturally I liked her immediately.  It wasn't too long after, that Larry and I decided it was time to pay a visit to her little house on Sherman,  just a few streets over from us.  We found her in her easy chair knitting. "I knit sweaters," she informed us.  I probed a bit, asking who they were for.  She set her project aside and looked directly at me.  I could see her eyes sparkling behind her glasses, as if she had a wonderful secret that she was eager to share with someone."  I send them to World Vision." she answered.   I know World Vision, one of the best-known and most effective Christian relief organizations in the world.

I called Rena one afternoon this week and asked if it'd be a good time to stop by.  I wanted to know more about her sweaters, her story.  I grabbed my camera as I headed out the door.  I found her knitting a small pink one.  I felt the yarn, it was particularly soft, perfect for a baby.  "How long have you been doing this?"  I wanted to know.  And she began her story.  Her husband was ill and pretty much confined to his home.  "He'd sit right here, in this chair where I am now," she said.  "I didn't dare leave him but needed something to do.  So I started making these sweaters."  It had been around five years or so that she'd been at it.  She handed me a small stack of yellow notebook pages, folded and clipped together with a pen.  I opened them to find a list numbering each sweater and its color.  My eyes went to the bottom of the last page.  The number 425 was written there and a description of her last completed sweater.   "You can take the pen and write in number 426 for me," she said.  I did and then wrote in the color.  Pink.

Rena holding number 425

Did I mention that Rena is eighty-eight years old?  I'm pretty sure she's on a limited income, but somehow she always has enough yarn to do another sweater.  Her first supply came from a rummage sale at the Ronald McDonald House in Rochester, New York.  A friend got it for her and it provided enough yarn to get her through the first couple of years.   In fact, all the yarn for her sweaters has come from rummage and yard sales.  And because everything she does is for children,  there's always enough on a spool for one size or another.   

But she does have some concerns.  Her fingers are getting numb and she doesn't know how much longer she'll be able to keep at it.  "But I'll be knitting until I can get my garden in, and that won't be until Decoration Day."  She had earlier pointed out the little pepper plants on the window sill in the kitchen that she had started.  Gardening is as big and as enjoyable a project for this remarkable lady as is her knitting. But that's a subject for another day.   I silently calculated.   Decoration Day, now called Memorial Day.  That would give her almost three more months of knitting.  That adds up to several more sweaters helping to clothe and warm even more children.  Being touched by a woman who finds great joy and purpose in her life even at eighty-eight.  And it simply doesn't get any better than that.

A box of Rena's sweaters ready to be shipped to World Vision 

A Post Script:
If you'd like to know more about this project that sends sweaters to children around the world, check it out at www.knitforkids.org.

Mary's Mattress (And Other Bedtime Stories)

I've been having some trouble sleeping lately.  Dozing off isn't the problem,  but all night long I dream crazy dreams and wake up tired.  Actually, it's not that I mind the dreams so much:  Queen Elizabeth and her entourage recently showed up for church, Denzel and Pauletta Washington came for dinner one night and Howie Mandel helped put extensions in my hair.  I've been meeting some pretty interesting people as of late!  But I'm also waking up with an ache in my lower back, not fun, and that makes the mattress suspect.  Periodically we flip it over, and this last time I got stuck with a pretty large indentation on my side from Larry's two-hundred pound body.  When I strip off the sheets in a couple of days, we'll turn it in another direction to see if that helps.

I've always liked a firm bed, in part because I like my space when I sleep.  We have a king;  I don't want anybody else's body heat as I generate enough of my own.  And I'm not a snuggler,  I occasionally will give Larry two or three minutes to make him happy or to get my feet warm, but then I'm back to my edge.  And as far as I'm concerned, there's nothing worse than meeting your spouse in the middle of a bed because of a sagging mattress.  I would rather that be of my own prerogative. 

When we were first married,  Larry's folks had the guest room right next to theirs.  It held a metal-framed bed with an old mattress that sunk in the middle.  Whenever we visited, I did everything I could to stay out of the center and get to the edge.  But not only was it quite uncomfortable,  it squeaked.  Terribly.  I never slept well in that bed.  Either I was trying to crawl out of the abyss in the middle or waking up every time a slight movement caused the frame to creak.   And being the newlywed I was,  it was a bit awkward sleeping in that noisy bed with the in-laws on the other side of the wall.  Sigh.  I was never quite sure what they thought and was too embarrassed to ask.   

When we packed our barrels for Central America, we enclosed a water bed mattress.  We thought it'd be easier and possibly less expensive than tracking down a large mattress set when we got there.  So shortly after we arrived in Honduras, we had a frame built and filled up the large bladder-like thing with water.  We loved it, using it the entire six years we lived there.  The only problem was that when we had to lift the bed for any reason at all, it was a pain to move and lots of work.

The first time was one afternoon when the kids were in school and Autumn was taking her afternoon nap.  I had spent two or three hours working in the kitchen when I heard her stirring in her crib.  As I walked into the bedroom to get her up, I was met by several inches of water creeping up the walls and the sound of water pouring out of the sink that sat outside our bathroom door.  I had been washing brushes and had carelessly forgotten to turn the water off when the kids had left for their afternoon classes.  Larry arrived home not too long afterwards to find Autumn happily scooting down the river in the hallway in her walker while I tried to mop up what I could   The hardest part was emptying the mattress so that the frame could be raised to dry out.   But all in all,  the bed worked well for us during our years in Central America.  And when it was emptied, the kids never tired of rolling over it to squeeze out the excess water, or when it was filled, to roll over it to get the bubbles out.

Hanging out with the kids on the waterbed in Honduras

We liked the water bed so much as a matter of fact that we went back to using one after returning to the States.  But after Larry was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, it became increasingly difficult for him to get out of the low-framed bed.  He needed something much higher and firmer.  So we gave the bed away and went back to what we now have, a large king-sized set of the regular variety, though with a nice soft pillow top.  Which unfortunately is beginning to settle.

That does, however, remind me of one more mattress.   Back in the Seventies,  Gene Barrett was a pastor, a late-night host on a Christian radio station out of Buffalo and chaplain to the Buffalo Bills. He was also a good friend.  We had worked together at Circle C Ranch in Western New York, and after I became engaged,  I asked if he would officiate at my wedding,  which he did.  His wife Mary had been ill for several years and was bed-ridden.  But while sick, rather than simply wait to die, she ministered to people from her bed, encouraging and praying for them over the telephone.  A few months after we married we got the news that she was gone.  When we arrived at our first pastorate in Bradford County, we had no furniture except for a dining room table sans chairs.  Gene contacted us, asking if we could use Mary's bed, mattress included.  Those first couple of years in Pennsylvania we slept in that bed, on that mattress with the slope in the center where Mary had lain.  And prayed.  And encouraged.  And for some reason, I always slept just fine.