The Scrapbook (Mom's America)

My mom loved this country.  If she heard the National Anthem played, it didn't matter where she was, she'd stand to her feet and lay her hand to her heart.  She was a huge baseball fan, and when the Star-Spangled Banner came over the airwaves, I remember her at times standing at attention in our living room, waiting out the duration of the song. Sometimes her chin would quiver just a bit, especially on the part where the music goes up an octave and talks about the flag still being there. There's no doubt about it, she loved this land.

I can't help but wonder how she would be handling the behavior of some of our professional athletes, refusing to stand at the playing of the National Anthem or the antics taking place on the eve of the next big election.  She wouldn't be pleased and would most likely pen a letter to the editor of her local paper, something she'd done on other occasions when she had something to say.  But mostly I think she would cry, grieving for a Nation that she would no longer recognize.

Recently I was rummaging through a box of old photos and came across a simple scrapbook that my mother had put together a very long time ago. On the front cover there is a picture of the flag with the caption America the Beautiful followed by several pages of pictures taken from magazines. Beneath each are the stanzas of the hymn, written out in her own hand. The rest of the scrapbook is filled mostly with newspaper and magazine clippings of mountains and rivers and farmland and tree-lined roads.  This was her America.   

A page from mom's scrapbook

Our society is to the point where it feels the need to express its disapproval in whatsoever way it chooses with virtually no manners or consideration for others.  I remember my brother punching me in the gut as a kid, putting me to my knees, trying to catch my breath.  I feel that's where we are as a nation, belly punched and gasping for air.  The idea of American exceptionalism is deemed offensive and pride of country shameful.   Not exactly my mom's America.

My parents were not idealists, they understood life's realities. My mother knew poverty when her father became crippled and could no longer financially support his family.  She grieved when her younger sister suddenly died and watched her mother sink into a life-long depression at the loss of a child.  My father fought in the War in Europe and lived with chronic pain because of a serious injury incurred during that time.  But they were proud of their American heritage and raised their five children to appreciate a nation that offered each of us opportunities like no other place place on earth. 

A few months before my mother died I flew to New York to spend a couple of weeks with her.  One thing she said to me still stands out.  A woman of deep faith, she had accepted the inevitable and had no fear at what was ahead.  She talked about how much she had loved this life, her family and friends and the simple pleasures that brought her enjoyment every single day.  Then at the end she paused for a moment, almost as if embarrassed to say it. "But I'm having trouble letting go."  That was my mother, full of gratitude for the life God had given her.  And grateful to the nation that had offered her so much.        

Another page of "America the Beautiful"  

Moshi

It was in the spring when Moshi found Joel.  He was just a bitty thing, a tiny bundle of gray and white who suddenly flew out from under a bush as Joel was mowing one evening. Nobody came around looking for a run-a-way kitten so my son claimed him as his own and gave him the name of Moshi.

It didn't take anytime at all to discover that the little guy had no intention of staying behind closed doors.   No matter where he was in the house, he had the uncanny ability to get to an open door before it closed shut. Those first several weeks we were either looking for him, chasing him around the yard or crawling under the shrubs trying to get to him.  He was the most determined cat I've ever encountered.  Nothing could stop him, he'd even worked his way out of one of our screen doors. So Joel figured he'd just lower the glass and raise the screen.  That didn't work either, he just climbed all the higher.

We have a nice walking track close to the parsonage, and Larry and I often take Rudy the dog for a couple laps in the evening. The first time I saw Moshi trailing along I panicked, concerned he'd not find his way back home.  But he always did.  One evening we had just left the park when a neighbor noticed him following close behind.  He asked if he was ours.  Kinda, I said,  and explained he belonged to our son.  He went on to tell us that he didn't care much for cats, but Moshi had been over there visiting on a few occasions.  "I really like this one," he confessed.

One evening Rudy and I were taking a walk down Charles Street.  He was especially excited, yanking at his leash, pulling me along at a pretty fast pace.  Just a few houses up from the parsonage a woman suddenly came bounding out her front door laughing.  "I'm sorry," she said, "but I have to say that seeing that little dog pulling you along and that little cat trailing behind you has to be one of the funniest things I've ever seen!"  I turned and sure enough, there was Moshi following at the rear.  Still laughing, my very amused neighbor headed back though the door as I made a grab for the cat.  But Speedy Gonzales wasn't about to let this outing end and he immediately flew out of reach. With a sigh, I turned Rudy around and we walked the short distance back home, Moshi not far behind. Following in a park is one thing, on a road at dusk is another.  

Some choose to live fast and furious.  That was Moshi, he had the DNA of a traveler, an adventurer. I always figured that as soon as he could crawl his way out of that birth box, away from his mama and siblings, that's what he did. Oh sure, he ended up living with us for a time and quite contentedly. He was small, but the motor-like purr that came out of him would fill an entire room.  He ate our food, curled up on our couch each evening, and crawled into one of our beds at night.  But when the sun was up, so was he.  There was no holding him in, he was ready to explore, to experience whatever and whoever he should encounter that day.  

Moshi was with us less than a year.  The very thing I feared is what took his life, the street.  Larry buried him in the back yard of the parsonage, right along the fence and placed a plastic bucket full of artificial flowers marking the spot.  That was a year and a half ago and the arrangement is still there. Larry asked me a few months back if I wanted it removed.  I told him to leave it.  There are some things worth remembering.  Moshi is one of them.  

A Valentine for Frances

Several adults with special needs attend our church.  Tim is one of my favorites.  After you read his story, I think you'll see why.

Tim rides the church van on Sundays.   Physically he's a man, mentally he's a child.  Frances, not without her own challenges, often rides the van as well.  "Frances isn't here today," he told me one day last February, looking disappointed.  He'd been noticeably watching for her from his usual place in the front pew, his head turned, eyeing the back doors that lead into the sanctuary.  "Maybe she and her mom are just running late," I said hopefully.        

I hadn't realized how much Tim liked Frances until the previous Sunday, the day after Valentine's Day.  He held up a small Walmart bag as I walked into the Sunday School classroom that morning, eager to show me what was inside.  It was a homemade valentine made out of a paper doily.  "It's for Frances," he told me proudly.  But Frances didn't come that morning.  She'd had her tonsils out that week and was recuperating.  And now a week later he was once again watching for her, eagerly hoping, still clutching onto that same Walmart bag.  But she didn't come that morning either.  I approached him after the service. "Why don't you let me take the valentine and I'll get word to her mom that I have it. Maybe she can pick it up for Frances."    

I peered into the Walmart bag after Tim left and couldn't help notice how rumpled the doily was by now.  That extra week in its confines had been hard on it.   But I sent word to Mom that I had a special delivery for her daughter and would she mind stopping by for it when able. Within hours Tim's homemade valentine was in the hands of dear, sweet Frances, still not feeling the best after her recent tonsillectomy.

Frances returned the following week.  "Did you get your valentine?" I asked. She nodded shyly with a touch of pink blushing her cheeks.  She obviously wasn't quite sure what to do with the attention. Tim sat close by smiling.  Frances was back and she had acknowledged his gift, his valentine.  It was but a simple homemade heart.  Much like coloring pages mounted by magnets on refrigerator doors, Tim had created out of childlike innocence something special for Frances, the girl that he thinks about and looks for when he comes to church each Sunday morning. And his heart was full.  

One particular Sunday as I was sitting at the keyboard leading worship, my eyes fixed on Tim, sitting there in that very same front pew.  As the song was concluding, he raised his head, closed his eyes and put both hands to his heart.   In simplicity, in childlike abandon, giving all he had, his heart to his Creator. The one who made him.  Exactly as he is.   And my heart was full.   

Thank You for Asking

The Macy's store located in our mall up at Big Flats is closing. That's big news here.  In fact it's so big that it was Breaking News the other day on our morning broadcast which irked my friend Mary considerably.  I can't remember her exact words, but it amounted to something like, "I can't believe with everything going on in this world, the closing of a store is breaking news!"   I tend to agree with her. Some things in the realm of information and news should definitely receive that distinction, but at times I scratch my head and wonder how other things make the cut.  Who decides what qualifies certain information to be deemed Breaking News anyways?

So back to Macy's.  I discovered the store a couple of years ago.  Well actually, it had been there all along, but I discovered its clearance racks a couple years back and was kicking myself for not walking through the doors earlier.  So when I heard the news that liquidation was starting this week, I headed for the mall.  A footnote here.  I rarely buy anything at full price.  I understand the principle of markup and know that overpriced items will eventually come down.  So I watch. And wait. And when the prices are slashed at no less than half with an extra twenty or thirty percent off, I hit the racks.  And that's what I did on Tuesday of this past week.

Tuesdays are relatively dead at the mall and the Macy's store was no exception, liquidation or not. There were shoppers and a few clerks attending them, but it already felt as if the life had gone out of the store. A couple of girls in cosmetics were chatting back and forth, and a few of the shoppers were conversing over pieces of clothing.  But it felt eerily quiet, a hush seemed to have settled over the place.  I carried a blouse to one of the scanners to check on the price. It was gone, already pulled off the wall.  Someone was certainly in a hurry to get this place closed up. And then it occurred to me. There was no music coming from the speakers.  Even that had stopped.

I was looking through some blouses on a long rack when I noticed a middle-aged woman wearing a name tag hanging a few items on the other end.  "Is this hard for you?" I asked her.  She looked up and after a moment nodded her head.  "Yes it is," she responded quietly.  And as she started to walk away she turned back towards me.  "Thank you for asking." 

I still think Mary was right.  In reflecting upon the horrific events taking place in our world, the closing of a store seems pretty small.  But to someone out there, it's anything but small.  I know nothing else about that clerk, how long she'd been working there or how much she relied on that paycheck coming in.  But I do know one very important thing.  She appreciated my caring enough to ask.      

  

             

Debbie's Story

Larry and I pulled through the gate of  Woodlawn National Cemetery and drove by the rows of white tombstones that spread out on both sides of the drive.  We were meeting with the family of the recently deceased, a veteran of the United States Navy, for interment.  It would be a small gathering, just a few family members and us.

It was a beautiful October day,  I had gazed out the car window the entire way, taking in the oranges and golds of the leaves that were still clinging to the branches, silently hoping they'd not let go quite yet.  I love the Autumn in New York, it's always been my favorite season.  But she is like the perfect guest who comes for a short visit, and despite all your imploring, never stays long enough. I hated to see her go.  

There was a cold breeze as we joined the others beneath one of the hardwoods that lines the driveway there.  I shivered and wished for a moment that I'd worn a warmer coat.  Two gentlemen in suits presented Debbie with the cinerary urn holding her father's ashes and then proceeded to lead our small procession out from under the trees into the sunlight and onto a pathway through the cemetery towards the columbarium, a bordering wall that harbors hundreds of niches holding the remains of service members who have gone on before. We stopped and stood quietly as the container was placed into its vault. Scripture was read, a hymn sung, prayers spoken, a few memories shared.

I'm sure those two men in suits standing to the rear of us wondered at the message of forgiveness that filled the conversation in those final moments.  But that is the theme of this story, one that tells of a little girl living an unhappy childhood with a physically and emotionally abusive father.  But grace came visiting when she was still a child, and she was rescued by another Father, the one who had created her and loved her unconditionally.

Many years later she would travel with her husband across several states to bring her father, now very old and sick,  back to her home in New York. Giving up her home daycare, she devoted her time to care for the one person in her life who probably deserved it the least. But because forgiveness has been the theme of her story, the same loving Father who had rescued a suffering child many years earlier mercifully reached down and rescued that child's father in his old age.  

The air seemed warmer when we walked back towards our cars and the colors of the trees appeared more vibrant than ever. The chorus to that old Fannie Crosby hymn was running through my mind as we drove back through the gates towards home.  This is my story, this is my song. Praising my Savior all the day long.  This is my story....

Here Lies Mark Twain. And Cecil Bullock.

Our friend Cecil was buried a few days after Thanksgiving.  There were only eight or nine of us at his graveside that day as he had no family and very few friends.  Larry and I had gotten to know Cecil and his ever-present dog Petey when he was attending the church for awhile.  He was odd, amiable one day and difficult the next. He'd been beaten years earlier, had suffered severe trauma to the head and was never the same after that.  But as unpredictable as he was, he could also be generous and hospitable. On those occasions when he knew that he had been particularly offensive,  he would apologize by leaving a gift at our door as a peace offering.   I could never stay mad for long where Cecil was concerned.

We were stunned to hear that he had died.  He was in his fifties, pretty young by today's standards.   A friend had invited him to Thanksgiving dinner but he never showed up.  Two days later that same friend found him in his apartment, his little dog Petey close by.  There would be no autopsy.  No funeral. No fanfare.  

Woodlawn Cemetery in Elmira, New York

There was quite a noise in Elmira recently over a missing plaque stolen from that same cemetery. Stealing from a grave is pretty despicable, but this was especially egregious, considering whose plot it was taken from, Mark Twain's.  Yep, the one and only.  You'd think he would have preferred burial in Hannibal, Missouri or somewhere else along the Mississippi.  But nope, he's buried here along with his wife, daughters and extended family. The thief helped himself to one of the plaques that was mounted on the monument that marks the very spot.  By the way, it was eventually found thanks to a little detective work and a thief who couldn't keep his mouth shut.

This was big news in Elmira

The plaque before the theft

Mark Twain is written all over this town, his name is everywhere. There's the Clemens Parkway, for example,  which goes right by the Clemens Center, a beautiful theater for the performing arts.  Hal Holbrook, the actor best known for his flawless portrayal of the man, comes back every two or three years and does his show there. Elmira College has a study program on Mark Twain, and the little octagonal study where he wrote most of his work sits on the grounds there. So naturally when we have out-of-town guests, it just seems right to ask them if they'd like to visit Mark Twain's grave. They always say yes. After all, he is one of the most celebrated authors in American history.

Mark Twain (aka Samuel Clemens) in his later years

Of course he is not the only notable person to be buried at Woodlawn. There are others with markers pointing the way to their graves. Perhaps they're not quite as famous as Mr. Twain, but they are celebrated as well. Ernie Davis,  the first black Heisman Trophy winner and Hal Roach of  Hollywood fame both have road signs. 

There are politicians, historical figures and others of prominence, all at rest beneath the sod of Woodlawn.  Some of them are not so familiar, but the mausoleums set into hillsides and the many monuments engraved with family names speak of power, prestige and position, a reminder of what Elmira used to be.   

Ernie had a movie made about his life

 

Mr. Roach went to Hollywood and produced "The Little Rascals"

We had a bit of trouble finding where Cecil's service was to be held that day in early December.  We spent several minutes driving the winding narrow roads past numerous grave sites and had just passed Mark Twain's marker when we saw some activity up ahead.  There was Cecil's name marking the spot with a blue casket directly behind, ready to be lowered into the earth.  I was grateful for those who had come out on this chilly day to remember the man.  The proximity to the most famous of monuments was not lost on me.  Imagine that.  Practically neighbors with the Clemens clan.     

Cecil's graveside service

Cecil still has no stone on his grave.  It's been a hard winter, but spring is approaching and the church will take care of ordering one and having it placed there. We've done this before.  Christopher Jensen, also without family, had suddenly passed away and the church took up an offering to ensure that he would not be forgotten either. He lies in Woodlawn as well, not too far from the famous Mr. Roach. 

Neither of these men will have signs pointing to where they now lay, nor will they have monuments that speak of earthly fame or fortune.  But in the end, it doesn't really matter whether it's a simple granite stone or monument or mausoleum that holds the name.  They all attest to the same thing. Mark Twain and Cecil Bullock and Christopher Jensen all lived for a time.  And then they died.  And that is worth remembering.          

The sign pointing the way  

It Happened at Legion Field

Zac warming up the Packers before a game

It was a year ago in January that Zac resigned from his position as Assistant Strength Coach with the Packers. He had been offered the opportunity to work with his former coach, a close friend and mentor, and to become Head Strength Coach at his Alma mater back in Alabama.  The Blazer football program had not done well over the past several years, and the school was ready to make some changes.  He was up for the challenge.

And there was something else.  He had seen and understood the pressures put on professional athletes unprepared for the accolades, the money, the fame.  Even prior to his time in Green Bay, while working with athletes at a sports' complex in California, he had approached the owners on more than one occasion about including a program that addressed these very concerns.  They expressed some interest, but in spite his efforts, it didn't happen.

Zac's job as a strength and conditioning coach is to get the players physically prepared for the football field. But the desire to mold lives, not just bodies, never went away.  So when the opportunity came to do both at the university level, it didn't take long to make up his mind. He met with the Packers' head coach Mike McCarthy and asked to be released from his contract.

Zac back at UAB

On Valentine's Day the newly assembled members of the  UAB football team gathered on Legion Field in Birmingham and began running up and down the bleachers of the stadium as part of a conditioning drill. Except for one, Tim Alexander, who sits in a wheelchair. An auto accident while he was still in high school cut short his aspirations to play college ball.  But he had approached the previous coach, Garrick McGee, asking if he could work out with the team. His infectious, positive spirit convinced the coach and he was welcomed, even getting his own locker and number.    

Zac looked down at Tim, now alone on the field. Upper-body workouts were one thing.  He did push-ups and leg lifts everyday and could bench press right along with the rest of them. The guy was strong. But he'd never have the chance to run those steps with his teammates. Something stirred inside of Zac.  "Do you want to go up to the top?" he hollered down.  Tim didn't hesitate.  "Yes sir!" At that, Zac lifted him onto his back and began the long climb up the steps of the stadium.

This was no small feat.  Tim is well over six feet tall and weighs no less than 250 pounds.   Legion Field is a large stadium that holds more than 70,000 spectators.  The stands rise high. After a few minutes Zac began to feel his legs shake. But he continued on, hoping and praying he could finish what he had started.  And then it happened. Tim's teammates began to converge on them, surrounding them, doing what they could to lighten the load as together they continued to move forward.  Upward. To the top.

Zac carrying Tim on his back up the steps of Legion Field

The team knew that something extraordinary had taken place that day in Legion Field.  Their new strength coach had unintentionally demonstrated through this one selfless act what they as a team could accomplish as they endeavored together, unified.  There, gathered with those who had carried him, Tim movingly spoke the mantra,  "One team-one goal."  The process of molding had begun.

Life has a way of throwing things at us when we are least expecting them.  The UAB team had made tremendous progress.  Physically, the team was bigger, stronger.  The Blazers had become competitive, playing their best football in a decade, and were in contention for a bowl game.  To realize that this had been accomplished in less than a year makes it all the more amazing.   But then the unsettling rumors began. There was talk of shutting down the program.  Permanently.

Consoling Tim

Eventually that would be the outcome. Some said it was the money.  Others said it was politics.   But Zac would stand with his boys, march with them, even go before the Birmingham city council, fighting for them to the end.   And then when it was inevitably over, he would grieve with them.

This past weekend Zac received word that he has been recognized as the top Strength and Conditioning coach of any university in the country. The press release calls him the heart and soul of the program and goes on to say that Zac physically transformed his guys, making them bigger, stronger, more competitive.  He also inspired them to believe that they could win, that they were made to be champions.  But most importantly, he showed them what it is to come together and help carry a brother.  It happened that day in Legion Field.

Finding Christmas at the Dollar Store

She was sitting on the floor, her head resting on her knees, her face hidden.  I had just entered the store but not before noticing the small bus with a specific logo parked out front.  There are several agencies  in our area that work with adults with special needs and one of them was obviously on an outing to our local Dollar Tree.  It didn't take much to figure that this young woman hunched down within a foot of the checkout had to be from this same group.   Sitting quietly beside her was another woman.  I assumed she was her attendant.     

For the next few minutes I gathered up my items and then hurried back to the front of the store and the checkout line.  I was feeling a bit frazzled with so much to do.  The women's group from our church would be at my house for dinner the next night and I wasn't near ready. I had also promised to do the devotional and hadn't had an extra moment to think about what I was going to say.  

The girl hadn't budged.  There she continued to sit, her posture unchanged with her face still hidden. And beside her, unmoved, sat the other woman.  Quietly.  Patiently.  Even with customers coming and going, milling around and forming a line within inches of them both, she appeared unperturbed at the behavior of her charge.  She showed no frustration or anger. She simply sat there, close by. Just waiting.

The next afternoon as I finished up with the preparations for dinner that night, I thought of the devotional that I had yet to get ready.  I grabbed a treasury of Christmas stories off the book shelf and scanned the table of contents and then randomly opened to one of them.  Written in the 1940s,  it was the true account of a pastor who was feverishly finishing up his Christmas sermon when he had an interruption, one of many.  The church had a home for emotionally disturbed children, and one of the young boys had crawled under his bed, refusing to come out.   Frustrated and at his wit's end,  the minister did everything he possibly could to try to convince the child to come out from under the bed. There was no response.  Finally, he got down on his stomach and slid under the bed and with his face to the floor simply waited.  A few minutes later he felt a hand slide into his.  

The writer ended his story by saying that the pressure he had felt was no longer there.  He had his Christmas sermon. Though God had revealed Himself first through His creation and later through the prophets and the Law, it wasn't until He actually came to live with us that we were willing to reach out and take hold of His hand.

I thought of that broken woman at the dollar store and the person who sat patiently waiting beside her on that dirty floor.  As the pastor had his sermon, I had my devotional.  It was lived out for me in the dollar store that day, a reminder that Jesus came for each of us, as broken as we are. And He waits. Close by.   Ready to take our hand.  

Angel With A Pickup

The noise started about 10 or 15 minutes into my trip.  I was traveling a back road heading home after a day-long meeting when I heard it.  Something wasn't right.  I pulled off to the side and groped for my cell phone.  Larry answered on the second or third ring.  "Something's not right with the van. It's shaking and making a horrible racket and I think the engine might be overheated."  I was pretty sure that was steam rising from the hood.   He had tried to get me to take our new car for the day, but I'd insisted on driving the vehicle that was pushing two-hundred-thousand miles and becoming more and more temperamental.  "I'll be fine," I'd told him that morning as I'd headed out.   "Where are you?" he asked.  I knew there was a church just a mile or so further down the road.  "See if you can get that far," he encouraged me.

I sat there for a minute or so longer.  Then breathing a prayer, I turned the key.  I knew as soon as I hit the pavement things were worse.  The van was shaking almost uncontrollably, but I pressed on a bit further until I saw a couple of houses to my right.  I stopped and pulled over as far as I could onto the grass, climbed out and walked around the perimeter of the car.  The front tire on the passenger side was flat, the rim completely exposed. Three kids were playing in the front yard and stopped to watch as a young man came flying across the yard from the next place over.  He took a good look at the damage.  "Looks like you could use some help.  I'll be right back."

I called Larry again.  This time he answered on the first ring.  "I've got a flat and I don't even know where the tire or the jack are in this thing!" But I needn't have worried, for at that very moment my rescuer was back,  driving a small tractor with the largest jack I'd ever seen sitting in its dump bucket. In a matter of just a few minutes, he had the car up, the culprit off and the donut on. "Just don't go over fifty going home," he said, "and you'll be fine."  

Turns out his name is Cory.  He lives with his dogs and races demolition derby.  He'd hit a deer a couple days earlier in his pickup and was out in his front yard working on it when I just happened to pull over in front of his place.  "I could hear you coming, " he told me.  "I knew you had a flat." He was a lot smarter than me.  If I'd known I'd had a flat, I wouldn't have budged from where I'd pulled over the first time.  But the One who watches over me had it all worked out ahead of time.  He had someone in place who is really into cars,  ready to help and to send me on my way.  He was my angel that day and I told him so.  He just shrugged as if it was no big deal.  But it was.  It truly was.

The Safe Place

It was a Sunday evening and the last person had just pulled out of the parking lot of the church.  There was a viewing at Ridout's Funeral Home that several were attending, including Larry.  I said I'd join him there shortly, I just had a few things I needed to take care of first. 

I saw the vehicle as I was about to lock up the front doors, a late model SUV.  A young woman, I'd say in her late twenties, climbed out of the driver's seat as soon as she saw me.  I wondered if she was lost, maybe needing directions.  It was already dusk, it would be dark soon.  "Can I help you?"  I asked.  I don't remember her exact words, but in broken English she told me she had seen the church and that there were lights. She proceeded to open the back door exposing a car seat with a little boy of preschool age safely secured in place.  She released the buckle and grabbed the child up her arms.  She turned back to me.  "Please.  I need help!"

For the next couple of hours I sat with her in the church nursery while her little boy played.  Hispanic, she was married and living in another Alabama town an hour or more from where we sat.  Her husband, an American, had become increasingly abusive, to the point where she was afraid for her life.  She spoke of the drinking and the guns with which he threatened her. She asked if I knew of a place where she would be safe until she could return to her family in Mexico.

Of all the churches in our city, and there are many, she just happened to pick ours.   My choosing to linger a bit longer, some might label that a mere coincidence I suppose.  But that I was also able to listen and speak peace and assurance in her own language, I've no doubt that was orchestrated by the Someone who led her there in the first place.  And that a couple of our members had just recently become involved in the ministry of a safe house in our county, a place of protection  for abused women and their children, that was not mere chance. She was placed there that very night. 

I never saw her again.  I don't know where she is or what might have happened to her.  I only hope and pray that she recognized whose hand it was that led her to our doors on that Sunday evening.  I hope she knows the One who led her to safety.     

Rockwell Hands

I was visiting a friend in the dining area of a local nursing home when I turned to the elderly woman sitting quietly to my left and commented on her lovely hands.  She was sporting a fresh manicure that had immediately drawn my attention to her long, elegant fingers. She smiled, obviously pleased.  My friend introduced me and then continued,  "She's related to Norman Rockwell."   I looked at my table companion.  "You're related to the Norman Rockwell?"  She nodded.  "He and my father were first cousins, their fathers were brothers.  They were very close, so he spent a lot of time at our home." I could hear the pride in her voice as she continued on and spoke of the cousin whose artwork had graced the covers of The Saturday Evening Post for four decades, the magazine that sat on my parents' coffee table when I was growing up.  We chatted for a few more minutes and then as I stood to leave she leaned forward, her eyes twinkling, eager to add one more thing.  "My only regret in getting married was that I had to change my name.  I liked being a Rockwell."

I

I could relate.  Though my name didn't carry near the recognition that hers did,  I liked it.  My father might not have been a world-renowned painter, but as a first-class meat cutter, he could wield a butcher knife with finesse and precision.  That was his craft and he practiced it well.  My mother was never able to attend college, but she exuded intelligence.  She was naturally curious so she was well-read and stayed informed about many things, most things.   Add to that her ability to articulate and it is no wonder that people knew who she was.  Yes,  I was proud of where I'd come from and the name I carried.  The day came, however, when I changed it.  I had fallen in love with a tall, dark-haired preacher boy who asked me if I'd like to change mine to his and I accepted the offer.  But even now, even though I've become quite accustomed to it, I never completely feel that it's my own.   

Before I left the nursing home that day, my friend Marianne told me that the woman I had met that afternoon  was also an artist.  I don't suppose I should have been surprised.  It was her exquisite hands that had prompted me to strike up a conversation with her in the first place.  It didn't matter what name she might go by.  Her hands said it all.  She would always be a Rockwell. 

Singing Harmony

It's been awhile since I last flew to New York to see my doctor, one of the best throat specialists in the world.  Several years ago he got the idea that by injecting Botox into the muscles controlling the vocal cords,  it might give some relief from the spasms that come with Spasmodic Dysphonia, a condition that robs a person of their ability to speak without great effort.  It worked, and many of us who struggle with this condition have benefited greatly from the procedure, administered in my case by the pioneer doctor himself.  

But it's only a temporary fix of course.  Botox loses its potency generally between three and four months.  That's why I'm a bit boggled.  I haven't been to Manhattan for over a year, actually fifteen months and  twelve days.  But who's counting?  I keep thinking I might wake up some morning and find a word or two stuck in the back of my throat that just won't break loose.  But that hasn't happened.  Not yet.  I'm not quite to the point where I'm completely confident that the spasms won't return.  I've been there before, hoping that my voice was no longer broken, and then have had to deal with the disappointment.  But I am becoming more confident in the hope.           

This whole voice thing has been quite a journey for me.  The inability to speak was frustrating and embarrassing, but singing was what I had loved most of all.  So many of the happy, fulfilling moments of my life have been spent singing at the piano, often by myself, sometimes with others.  And suddenly it was gone.  For four years I could hardly sing a note.

Time helped as it often does.  I had came to terms with the loss which early on had been so devastating and  felt I was moving on.  Fawn had pushed me to do more writing as a way to express what I had done through music before.  And I was.  This blog came out of that time of searching in fact.  And then suddenly without warning it was back!  I opened my mouth one day and actual notes came pouring out.  It was as if a friend I'd not seen in a long time had peeked out from behind a door and hollered, "Surprise!" No anticipation on my part, totally unexpected.  At first I was not quite believing, stunned at how easily it came.  And then I simply sang.  For hours. 

The gift, however, wasn't exactly what I had before.  The Giver made it pretty clear from the start that I wouldn't be singing lead.  In my prior life I had done a lot of that.  Leading.  Performing.   But I could no longer get into the upper range, only the lower notes came easily.  It was as if He was saying, "Here you are.  Sing to your heart's content.  But someone else can have the lead while you do the harmony."   And so that's what I've been doing ever since.  Singing harmony.

Something hit my throat  a week and a half ago, just a few days before the weekend.  By Saturday I had a  touch of laryngitis, the first in a very long time.  I was pretty sure there'd be nothing coming out of my microphone the next day.  Sunday morning as I warmed up the worship team, I took a stab at the first hymn.  There it was, deep and amazingly strong.  The harmony. 

Four Days In November--The Assassination of JFK

Today I watched the clip of Walter Cronkite announcing to America that President Kennedy had died.  He is visibly shaken.  The consummate professional, he removes his glasses, gives himself a moment to compose himself, puts his glasses back on and continues.  But his voice breaks.  Shock.  Disbelief.  And I feel the lump rise in my own throat.  Again.  These fifty years to the day later.

That was when I understood grief for the first time.  A couple years earlier when a neighbor kid drowned in a local lake, everybody felt really bad.  My mom took us to the funeral home, and I saw people cry.  But nothing had prepared me for this.  

I was twelve, a seventh grader sitting in Mr. Deland's Science class when the announcement came over the intercom that the President had been shot.  I was in Study Hall when the speaker crackled once again and the Principal uttered those horrible words,  "I'm sorry to have to report that the President is dead."  There was stunned silence and then I heard someone sniffing.  Behind me, a couple of older girls snickered, obviously uncomfortable and not knowing how else to respond to the terrible news.     

For the next four days I,  along with the rest of America,  sat riveted to our black and white television sets.    There were only three networks at the time, and up until now there had been no such thing as twenty-four hour news coverage.  That changed.  I could hardly tear myself away, horrified by the events but feeling the need to be connected is this way.  We as a nation were reeling with grief, and even as young as I was,  I knew we were in this together. So I missed nothing, including the horrific moment when Jack Ruby shot Lee  Harvey Oswald as he came through that hallway.

I had never felt such sadness.  I remember the intense longing for the pain to go away, not quite believing it to be real,  hoping that this was just a horrible dream from which I would soon awaken.   But I never did, I only woke up to the reality that life is harder than I could have ever imagined.   And it changed me.

Following the funeral, a spirited black horse was led behind the caisson through the streets of Washington to Arlington Cemetery.  The symbolism wasn't lost on me, and if there had been any part of my heart that was still intact, the vision of that horse finished it off.  My heart was completely broken,  grieving for that little boy and for his sister and his mother.  And I grieved for me, for what I had lost.  And for us.  All of us.    

  

  

The Awful, Terrible, Very Bad Day

October 23, 1976

 

Larry and I are celebrating another anniversary today, number thirty-seven to be exact.  We picked October for our wedding, my favorite month of the year, and the 23rd because he was on break from seminary.  The day was perfect, everything went off without a hitch.  I've heard it said that a wedding isn't all that great unless something goes wrong.  Well, best I can remember, nothing did.  No, most everything that could have gone wrong actually happened before the wedding. 

Two days earlier we had made arrangements to meet someone at a warehouse in Buffalo to purchase the food needed for the reception.  A close friend of the Burkes,  Lorraine had offered to prepare the wedding meal.  It was going to be a big job, we were expecting about two-hundred people. But she was up to it.  She was the head cook at Circle C Ranch,  the Christian camp where I worked and where Larry and I had met. 

Lorraine had come with a list and the three of us immediately began to fill our carts.  She didn't look well,  but I knew she had chronic health issues, so I pushed my concern aside.   Until she suddenly collapsed on the floor of the warehouse.   As she was being lifted onto a stretcher she continued giving Larry last minute instructions as to what still needed to be purchased.  

"You'll need to drive my car," Larry said as we loaded the stuff into his vehicle. Lorraine had given him her keys on the way out to the ambulance.  "We have to take her car to the hospital. You just follow me."  I was nervous.  I had been hit by a drunk a few weeks earlier on the way to my wedding shower.  He had totaled the car and put my mother and sister in the emergency room.  I was still nervous about driving, and the thought of doing it in heavy city traffic made it all the worse.  "How far is it?" I wanted to know.  "Not too far," he insisted.  We were barely out of the parking lot when it began to sleet.  I tried turning on the wipers, but they refused to move.  Oh great.  I remembered that Larry had driven up from Kentucky a few days earlier without the wipers working.  He'd picked my sister Dawn up at college in Ohio and she had spent a good part of the trip with her hand out the window working those stupid wipers! 

To this day, I still don't like following Larry in another vehicle.  He hates red lights and will do everything he can to beat them, gunning through the yellow ones.  With no visibility and no wipers, I was expecting to get clobbered from the side every time I went through an intersection.  When he finally pulled into the entrance of a hospital after what seemed an eternity, I was totally engulfed in sobs.  He hopped out of Lorraine's car and ran back to check on me.  And I let him have it.  He wilted and then humbly apologized before telling me that he'd come to the wrong hospital.  I looked at him in disbelief.  "This is the mental hospital," he told me.  "But we're close.  Honest."

A few minutes later we were standing by Lorraine's bed.  She'd had a gall bladder attack and assured us that we need not worry, she'd be out by the next day and would have everything ready in time.  "You'll need to go to the grocery store tonight and pick up twenty chickens for the chicken salad," she instructed and mentioned a few other items as well. "And then go to the ranch and get the big pots and pans I need." 

A couple of hours later we were standing in the checkout line with our chickens when suddenly the lights flickered and went out.  The cashier looked up apologetically as she proceeded to add up our items by hand.  I looked at Larry and wondered if this day could possibly get any weirder.

It did.  It was snowing hard as we climbed the road that leads to the Ranch entrance.  Our tires were spinning as we pulled up to the dining hall.  I was anxious to get into the kitchen, gather up whatever Lorraine needed and get out of there before the roads got any worse.  But it was too late.  The backseat and trunk now full and heavy with supplies did nothing to prevent the car from sliding into a deep snowbank two or three miles back down that treacherously slippery road.  

It was late.  And dark.  I was tired.  And cold.  There was a farmhouse not too far from where we'd ended up, and in our shoes and thin jackets we walked down the road, climbed the steps and knocked at the front door.  A few minutes later a man answered, obviously aroused out of his sleep.  Larry explained our dilemma and asked if there was anyway he could pull us out.  "We'll pay you," he assured him.  Then my future husband looked at me to see if I had any money.  I pulled my last ten-dollar bill out of my pocket and offered it to the farmer.  He took it without saying a word and went for his tractor.  I don't know how late it was when we pulled into my parents' driveway that night, but I know that we sat in front of the furnace for a long, long time before we stopped shivering.

Two days later the snow was gone and the roads were clear.  Lorraine had been released from the hospital and prepared a sumptuous meal for us and our wedding guests just like she promised.  The day  really was  perfect.   Well, almost.   Come to think of it, there was the groomsman who showed up wearing white tube socks with his tuxedo.  That was rather tacky. And I can't say that I was overly pleased to find out that the photographer had put a roll of film in backwards losing several of our wedding shots.  Okay, so maybe not quite perfect.   

It's funny how time changes our perspective.  When I think back on that October, I go to that day in Buffalo and I realize something.  That awful, terrible, very bad day has become one of my favorites in this thing called life.  I don't remember if we laughed that night as we sat in front of that furnace with chattering teeth, feet outstretched trying to get the numbness out of our toes.  Maybe not, we were simply too exhausted.   But if not then, we are laughing now.

Lost and Found

Larry is notorious for losing things.  I can't begin to tell you how many times we've had to search for his checkbook.  But the thing he seems to lose the most are his keys. Last winter he had an entire new set made because he couldn't for the life of him figure out where the old set had disappeared to.   Spring arrived and with the last of the snows melted away, the glint of metal caught the attention of someone mowing the lawn.  Actually, for us, it's not such a bad idea to have two sets of keys.  We both know that eventually he'll  most likely misplace or lose one of them anyways, which,  by the way,  he did a couple of weeks ago.  "I don't know what I did with that extra set of keys," I'd hear him muttering under his breath as he'd walk through the house peering into random drawers and containers.  

So yesterday he returned from his pastors' meeting in Corning with that same furtive look in his eyes, the one I've learned to recognize quite well, glancing about and into those those places where he stows his stuff.  "So what did you lose?"  This time it was his wallet.  After coming back downstairs after checking his yesterday's pants' pockets, I began to walk him through the events of his past twenty-four hours.  He was obviously concerned, it was his wallet after all.  He was also a bit testy.  "I've already done that," he responded.  "Did you check both offices at the church?"  He answered in the affirmative.  "How about the car?"  Again, in the affirmative.  "Did you look under the seat of the car?"  He left the house and I walked upstairs to check yesterday's pants one more time. 

An exercise bicycle takes up some considerable space in our bedroom.  I used it for a time, but because I find turning wheels and going nowhere considerably boring, I've not used it in over a year.  Okay, maybe two.  But that's besides the point.  It sits on Larry's side of the bed and I haven't the heart to get rid of it because he'd have nowhere to hang his pants and shirt from that day.  His rationale is that if there's a fire or other emergency in the night, he'd like to run out of the premises looking somewhat respectable.  But I digress.  There, lying beneath the bike was the wallet. Obviously it had fallen out of his pants' pocket while hanging from the handlebar or more likely, being draped over the seat.   

I found him getting out of the van as I came around the corner.  Victoriously I held the wallet up for him to see.  He had a look of triumph on his face as well as he raised his hand revealing a full set of keys.  "I found them in one of the pockets in the car.  I remember putting them there now."   And we celebrated by having lunch. 

I'm probably being a bit hard on my husband who would have been diagnosed with ADD if there had been such a thing fifty or sixty years ago.  I can't lay claim to that same condition, but I confess, I have lost a few things myself over the years including the diamond out of my engagement ring. The first time Larry found it in a vacuum cleaner bag.  The second time, nope.  Going back a few more years, after a hurricane flooded our home, I discovered that my class ring had disappeared, most likely thrown out to the curb in a water-logged container of some kind.  I always hoped that whoever found it would track me down through my initials inscribed inside the band, but it never happened.  It was probably pawned off or melted down.  

I don't know what it is with rings, but most recently it was one that Fawn had sent me for Christmas a few years ago.  I had taken it with me to Green Bay when she gave birth to her little boy last fall, but after returning home to New York, I couldn't find it anywhere.  I searched for weeks. I also didn't have the heart to tell my daughter that I had lost it.

One day this past summer we decided to take our grandkids to Letchworth State Park, one of my favorite spots, and not quite two hours to the west of us.  I grabbed my sneakers out of the closet and a pair of socks from the drawer before I left,  figuring I might be doing some serious hiking that day.  A few minutes after arriving, I slipped off my sandals and changed into the more sturdy footwear.  As soon as I stepped out of the car I felt something small and hard at the toe of my shoe. It took but a moment to discover that it wasn't in the shoe at all but in my sock.  Yep, now I remembered.  In a hurry, I had stowed that ring in the toe of that very sock before leaving Wisconsin.  I was convinced that I had lost it for good, but suddenly when I had finally given up looking for it, there it was!   

One of my favorite chapters in the Bible deals with lost things.  There's a story about this woman that searched everywhere for a lost coin, and when she found it, she invited all her neighbors in to celebrate.  Man, could I identify.  I gave a whoop and a holler, "I found it!  I found the ring Fawn gave me!"  And I felt as if Someone was laughing and rejoicing with me in the find.  I could almost hear Him cry out, "Surprise!"  I basked in that for the rest of the day.  Still am.

The Last Letter

My mom would have been ninety-one today.  I composed a letter to her last year for her ninetieth,  one I wished I'd written while she was still living.  That's because my mom was a letter person.  One of my most vivid memories is of her sitting on the living room couch in the evening after supper with her writing pad.  I would be the recipient of many of those hand-written epistles over the years.  I have hundreds of them, most of which are stored in my attic.  

When my mother knew that she could no longer fight the cancer,  she very practically set about the task of getting things in order before she died.  She met with her pastor, planned the funeral, and did what was so characteristic of her.  She wrote a letter to be read at the service. But she wasn't done yet. There were things yet to be said, and naturally some of those things could be spoken verbally.  But she was a letter writer,  and so not long before she was too weak to do anything else, she wrote letters to those of us who were closest to her.  

Her letter to me was hand-written on an ordinary piece of paper.  It was short, more like a post script than anything, as if to say that she didn't have a lot of time but wanted to tell me just one more thing.   She was proud of me, she wrote, I had pleased her.  And then she ended with this.  "You are pretty."  I was both surprised and pleased.  She'd never said that to me before, I don't even remember her saying those words to me on my wedding day.  So why in her last letter to me?  I'm not sure.  But I know it made me feel really good.  My mother thought I was pretty!  

It's been more than seventeen years since she wrote that last letter.  This morning as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, applying a bit of concealer, trying as best I could to cover the age spots that have taken up residence there, I remembered that it was her birthday.  And my thoughts went to that last letter and what she had written.  "Oh mom," I was talking to her in my head.  "I'm fighting a losing battle here!  It's getting harder and harder to stay pretty."  

I could almost hear her say as if she were peering into that mirror, looking beyond the imperfections.  "Oh Marcy, that was just for a moment.  Why is that important to you now when there's so much more?"

A few months before my mother left for good, I flew out of Montgomery, Alabama to spend a couple weeks with her in New York.  My Aunt Ann had arrived from North Carolina a few days earlier.   Those would become wonderful days for all three of us.  Of course we cried.  Some. We knew why we had come.  But we also laughed.  A lot.  The best memories I have of my mother and her siblings together are of incessant talking and wonderful laughter.  So even on this occasion, with the shadow of death hovering nearby, the humor and joy found in our storytelling couldn't be stifled.

My mother felt well during those two weeks, as if the cancer had decided to go on sabbatical.  So while she had the strength, there were things she wanted to say.  Her faith was paramount, so naturally she talked about what she was most looking forward to, especially seeing those of her family and friends who had gone on ahead. But she also wanted to continue living.  She had loved her life, seeing each day as a gift and rejoiced in the years that God had given her.  But more than anything, she loved the people that God had placed in her world.  Was it so wrong that she struggled with leaving them, that she didn't want to say goodbye? 

Cancer ravages.  I would see her one last time, just a few weeks before she would quietly enter that place she had wisely prepared for during her 73 years. She asked me if I would help her get into the shower.  I think it was intentional, perhaps to remind me that these bodies are simply on loan, that eventually they will succumb to that which awaits all of us, and we're not to get too attached to them.

So once again as I peer into the mirror,  I am reminded of what is so aptly written in Proverbs, "Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting."  Even if I could prolong the process, the inevitable would still happen.   "Marcy, don't strive for pretty.  Go for beautiful."  Today, on her birthday, her life still speaks to me, a reminder of  that which remains permanent, set in eternity.  For the proverb concludes, "but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."  That was my mother.  Truly beautiful.