When I travel from Kansas City to my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, my heart starts beating faster about 20 miles west of Nashville. There's a feeling that washes over me as my car follows its course over the rolling hills and brings me closer and closer to home.
Last weekend, I made that trip for a very special event. My great niece, Rachel, married Kevin, her boyfriend of four years. Brad, his girlfriend Missy, Meghann and I drove 1,400 miles in two and a half days to attend the wedding. Almost a year ago, my niece made that same drive to come to my son Matt's wedding. It was a long trip in a short amount of time, but I wouldn't have missed Rachel and Kevin's wedding for anything. Rachel and my son Matt are only a couple of months apart in age, and before I moved from Chattanooga, they were good buddies, along with Jeremy, Rachel's brother.
The wedding was beautiful, and the reception was so much fun. We danced like fools, ate the best prime rib ever, cried, laughed and enjoyed every moment together. There's nothing like spending time with family, especially when that time is spent in celebration of the marriage of two wonderful young people.
As we ate breakfast together the next morning before we had to leave town, I sat at the table and looked at my sister and her husband, my nieces and their husbands, and my three-year-old great niece and 11-month-old great nephew, my son and his girlfriend, and my daughter. My eyes brimmed with tears as the love I feel for these wonderful people washed over my heart.
The gift of family is one of God's greatest, I believe. And one that many of us often take for granted in the hustle and bustle of life. My prayer is that I will always appreciate my family, both near and far, and that I will truly treasure those ties that bind us all together. We may not physically be together, but in our hearts, the ties are strong and the ties are deep. And that, is indeed, a blessing.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Yummmm
A friend mentioned to me yesterday how much she enjoyed dining with me because, in her words, “You truly enjoy eating and savor every bite.” Yes, I do enjoy eating, as is obvious by my need to shed several pounds. But what I truly enjoy about eating is sharing meals with my family and friends.
There is something special about gathering around a table and breaking bread with people I love and care about. There are so many wonderful memories from meals throughout the years that are stored deep in my heart. Meals when my children talked about their days at school or their girlfriends or boyfriends. Lunches with my siblings when Dad was dying from Alzheimer’s disease. Friday-evening dinners with Mom during the last six weeks of her life. Breakfasts on Saturday mornings with friends so near and dear to me.
Last night, I had dinner at an Italian restaurant with my daughter and our good friend Ruth. To describe Ruth would take a book … she’s one of the most remarkable ladies I’ve ever known … strong, determined, powerful, and at the same time, loving, gracious, and generous. I’ve known Ruth for over 10 years, and she is a precious part of my life and the lives of my children.
As Meghann, Ruth and I chatted last night at dinner, several times I had to fight back the tears as we talked about Ruth’s husband, Virgil, who passed away last summer. Everyone who knew Virgil loved him, and he is deeply missed by many whose lives he touched. But the one who misses him the most, who loved him the most, who shared over 50 years of marriage with him, is Ruth. Gazing across the table at Ruth as she spoke of him, I was amazed once again at her strength and determination to go on, to now live her life with her lifelong companion no longer by her side.
Tucking the memory of last night’s dinner into the folder in my heart labeled, “Meals to Remember,” I ponder the bonds formed, memories made and blessings shared when loved ones gather to share a meal. I am reminded that the last meal Jesus shared with His closest friends carried with it instructions for remembering, for blessings and for establishing bonds, with Him and with our friends and family as we share in communion.
“While they were eating, He took some bread, and after a blessing He broke it, and gave it to them, and said, ‘Take it, this is My body.’ And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, and they all drank from it. And He said to them, ‘This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.’”
Mark 14: 22-24
Monday, April 7, 2008
Basketball Madness
My oldest son and his wife attend Kansas State University. My son Brad attends The University of Kansas. For those of you who don’t know, these schools are rivals – big, huge rivals down through their years of existence. For me as a mom, it’s a challenge to know which team to cheer for or which college “Mom” shirt to wear. Unless, of course, one those respective teams makes it into the Final Four of college basketball.
Tonight is the game that has the state of Kansas, and perhaps even the entire nation, talking. KU will play in the NCAA championship game, and at least one of my sons is beyond excited about it. This is Brad’s first year in college, and he is soaking up the entire experience of campus life during such a momentous occasion.
I must confess that I didn’t watch any of the games leading up to KU being in the Final Four of the NCAA tournament. I must confess that I rarely watch sports of any kind, save an occasional Kansas City Chiefs game. Granted, I was at every single sporting event that any of my three children participated in (along with countless concerts, plays and musicals), but that is altogether different than watching a group of people I don’t know play a sport I don’t really care about.
To prove how deep doth run a mother’s love, however, I watched the Final Four game last Saturday evening so that when my son called with his excited, out-of-breath question of, “Did you watch, Mom, did you watch?,” my reply could be, “Yes, yes, Brad, I did! And it was a great game!” And I fully intend to be on my couch at 8:00 tonight, remote in hand, popcorn on lap, watching a basketball game that, truthfully, means very little to me.
What means so very much to me is the excitement in my son’s voice as he experiences “school spirit” for the first time on a college level. My son matters to me, and what he loves and what is important to him matters to me. It’s quite simple really … I love Brad, therefore tonight, I love college basketball.
Rock Chalk, Jayhawk!
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Bravery Defined
Dictionaries define bravery as a quality of spirit that enables you to face danger or pain without showing fear. I define bravery on a more personal level. My dad was one of the bravest men I have known. No, he never fought in a war because he had poor eyesight. No, he never jumped into a freezing lake to save someone from drowning. No, he never stood before a criminal who held a gun to his head threatening to shoot. But my father had that quality of spirit that made him the truest embodiment of the word bravery.
He worked tirelessly to provide for his family, rising before dawn every day for 50 years to go to his job at the railroad. He came home every night and still found the energy to toss a ball with me. He donated his barbering skills to cut the hair of boys who lived in an orphanage. He dug ditches, painted walls, installed light fixtures and hammered nails. He sang in the church choir, tithed faithfully and taught Sunday School for over 40 years. You see, Daddy was there, day in and day out, doing whatever he needed to do to get the job done. He was never afraid of any task; he never gave up; he was always there.
Daddy died over a decade ago after a long battle with Alzheimer's disease, and I still think of him almost every day. I often wonder what he would think of our family now, my brother and sister, their children and their children's children, me and my own children. I know that he would enjoy being with us and that he would cherish every moment as he always did.
Though Daddy loved us all, one young man in our family held a special place in Daddy's heart, my sister's only son, Charlie. No grandfather ever loved a grandson more than Daddy loved Charlie. Daddy was more like a father to Charlie than a grandfather, and the love they shared was deep and strong.
Charlie is in Baghdad as I type this, serving the country he loves with all his heart. Charlie, this one's for you, and I know that if Daddy were here, he would join me in saying, "I'm proud of you, young man, so very proud of you. You have that 'quality of spirit' that defines bravery, integrity and strength of character."
So, stay safe while serving your country and protecting my freedom, Charlie. Know that you're loved and thought of and prayed for every day. You are your Granddad's grandson; you are the embodiment of bravery.
He worked tirelessly to provide for his family, rising before dawn every day for 50 years to go to his job at the railroad. He came home every night and still found the energy to toss a ball with me. He donated his barbering skills to cut the hair of boys who lived in an orphanage. He dug ditches, painted walls, installed light fixtures and hammered nails. He sang in the church choir, tithed faithfully and taught Sunday School for over 40 years. You see, Daddy was there, day in and day out, doing whatever he needed to do to get the job done. He was never afraid of any task; he never gave up; he was always there.
Daddy died over a decade ago after a long battle with Alzheimer's disease, and I still think of him almost every day. I often wonder what he would think of our family now, my brother and sister, their children and their children's children, me and my own children. I know that he would enjoy being with us and that he would cherish every moment as he always did.
Though Daddy loved us all, one young man in our family held a special place in Daddy's heart, my sister's only son, Charlie. No grandfather ever loved a grandson more than Daddy loved Charlie. Daddy was more like a father to Charlie than a grandfather, and the love they shared was deep and strong.
Charlie is in Baghdad as I type this, serving the country he loves with all his heart. Charlie, this one's for you, and I know that if Daddy were here, he would join me in saying, "I'm proud of you, young man, so very proud of you. You have that 'quality of spirit' that defines bravery, integrity and strength of character."
So, stay safe while serving your country and protecting my freedom, Charlie. Know that you're loved and thought of and prayed for every day. You are your Granddad's grandson; you are the embodiment of bravery.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Midlife Spring
Some experts say that experiencing a midlife crisis comes without rhyme or reason to all of us at some point during our 40s or 50s. You simply awake one morning and decide that you need a new convertible or a new career, or in more drastic cases, a new spouse or a new family. Other experts will argue that a midlife crisis occurs because of external circumstances or pressures in your life that cause you to reevaluate what is most important to you.
I'm not sure which of these is true, but perhaps they both are to a certain degree. I do know that for me personally, I began to feel a definite restlessness in my soul as my children began to leave home to go to college, which, coincidentally perhaps, coincided with my entrance into my 40s. I dreamed of selling everything I owned and moving to a small village in Alaska (my Northern Exposure, Men in Trees phase) or starting my own publishing company (without any cash to do so) or writing the next great American novel. I changed jobs (from one advertising company to another) during this time in my life, and I thought my midlife crisis was over.
Then, a little over two years ago, my 85-year-old mother died unexpectedly while sleeping in her favorite chair. For six months, I felt as if I were moving and working and speaking and operating in a fog. I couldn't seem to get a handle on my grief, and I found myself thrown headlong into a major midlife crisis. I was uneasy, unsettled and unhappy.
It took almost two years for me to come out on the other side of the fog, and I'm still not sure of who or what I want to be when I grow up, but I am happy again. Or perhaps I should say that I am content now. Content to be the woman God wants me to be and to go where He wants me to go. Maybe someday that will be as a full-time speaker and writer, an English teacher on a distant mission field or continue in my current job and minister to those I work with each day. Wherever, whenever or whatever, I simply desire to follow Jesus Christ with all of my heart, soul and mind.
I bought a Jeep Wrangler shortly after Mom died, dealing with the whole midlife convertible issue. Definitely, I might add, one of the best decisions I've ever made. There's nothing like a ride in my Jeep with the top down on a warm spring night. The stars above me, the wind in my gray hair ... peaceful, playful and perfect.
You see, I learned something after losing Mom and going through my midlife crisis. Life is short, even if God graces you with 85 years of life as He did Mom. It's the little things that truly count, the little things that, at the end of the day when you close your eyes in sleep, make you know that it was a good day. Like driving your Jeep on a warm night, waving to a little girl in the car next to you at the traffic light, taking an extra moment to talk to the gray-haired greeter at Wal-Mart, telling your boss you appreciate him or her, walking your dog at dusk, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie, or a million other little things.
Midlife? It's not bad. Not bad at all.
I'm not sure which of these is true, but perhaps they both are to a certain degree. I do know that for me personally, I began to feel a definite restlessness in my soul as my children began to leave home to go to college, which, coincidentally perhaps, coincided with my entrance into my 40s. I dreamed of selling everything I owned and moving to a small village in Alaska (my Northern Exposure, Men in Trees phase) or starting my own publishing company (without any cash to do so) or writing the next great American novel. I changed jobs (from one advertising company to another) during this time in my life, and I thought my midlife crisis was over.
Then, a little over two years ago, my 85-year-old mother died unexpectedly while sleeping in her favorite chair. For six months, I felt as if I were moving and working and speaking and operating in a fog. I couldn't seem to get a handle on my grief, and I found myself thrown headlong into a major midlife crisis. I was uneasy, unsettled and unhappy.
It took almost two years for me to come out on the other side of the fog, and I'm still not sure of who or what I want to be when I grow up, but I am happy again. Or perhaps I should say that I am content now. Content to be the woman God wants me to be and to go where He wants me to go. Maybe someday that will be as a full-time speaker and writer, an English teacher on a distant mission field or continue in my current job and minister to those I work with each day. Wherever, whenever or whatever, I simply desire to follow Jesus Christ with all of my heart, soul and mind.
I bought a Jeep Wrangler shortly after Mom died, dealing with the whole midlife convertible issue. Definitely, I might add, one of the best decisions I've ever made. There's nothing like a ride in my Jeep with the top down on a warm spring night. The stars above me, the wind in my gray hair ... peaceful, playful and perfect.
You see, I learned something after losing Mom and going through my midlife crisis. Life is short, even if God graces you with 85 years of life as He did Mom. It's the little things that truly count, the little things that, at the end of the day when you close your eyes in sleep, make you know that it was a good day. Like driving your Jeep on a warm night, waving to a little girl in the car next to you at the traffic light, taking an extra moment to talk to the gray-haired greeter at Wal-Mart, telling your boss you appreciate him or her, walking your dog at dusk, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie, or a million other little things.
Midlife? It's not bad. Not bad at all.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Hallelujah!
"After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightening, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men. The angel said to the women, 'Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; He has risen, just as He said. Come and see the place where He lay. Then go quickly and tell His disciples; 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see Him.' Now I have told you.'" Matthew 28: 1-7
Those verses were nothing more to me than words on paper until a little over eight years ago when I met Jesus Christ in a small prayer room at my church. I had grown up in the church, but it wasn't until a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in late September 1999, that my head knowledge concerning Jesus became heart knowledge. On that day, my life was changed in a dramatic moment when I gave my life, my heart and my soul over to the saving grace of Jesus. I was, quite literally, at the end of my rope ... a single mother raising three children, working full-time, living 700 miles away from my family, depressed, financially strapped, living a double life, ready to throw in the towel. And then, I met Jesus in a real and life-changing way. He met me where I was, in the midst of my sin and my despair, and He loved me, rescued me and saved me.
Easter has a whole new meaning to me now than it did before that Monday afternoon. The celebration of Jesus conquering the bonds of death now means hope to me, life to me, joy to me. The words of the angel at the tomb mean the promise of heaven and eternal life with my Savior after my life on this earth is complete. Life still gets hard at times, and the older I get, the more I realize that my only hope, my only help, my only salvation is in Jesus and His abundant love, mercy and grace.
So, with the angel at the tomb, I loudly proclaim, "He is not here; He has risen, just as He said."
Hallelujah! He is risen indeed!
Those verses were nothing more to me than words on paper until a little over eight years ago when I met Jesus Christ in a small prayer room at my church. I had grown up in the church, but it wasn't until a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in late September 1999, that my head knowledge concerning Jesus became heart knowledge. On that day, my life was changed in a dramatic moment when I gave my life, my heart and my soul over to the saving grace of Jesus. I was, quite literally, at the end of my rope ... a single mother raising three children, working full-time, living 700 miles away from my family, depressed, financially strapped, living a double life, ready to throw in the towel. And then, I met Jesus in a real and life-changing way. He met me where I was, in the midst of my sin and my despair, and He loved me, rescued me and saved me.
Easter has a whole new meaning to me now than it did before that Monday afternoon. The celebration of Jesus conquering the bonds of death now means hope to me, life to me, joy to me. The words of the angel at the tomb mean the promise of heaven and eternal life with my Savior after my life on this earth is complete. Life still gets hard at times, and the older I get, the more I realize that my only hope, my only help, my only salvation is in Jesus and His abundant love, mercy and grace.
So, with the angel at the tomb, I loudly proclaim, "He is not here; He has risen, just as He said."
Hallelujah! He is risen indeed!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Coming Home
A couple of weekends ago, my little house became a flurry of activity. My son Matt, his wife Becca, her brother and his wife, my son Brad and his girlfriend arrived to join my daughter Meghann and I for some long overdue family time. It was the first chance for us to all be together since Christmas, when we spent five days together in Colorado. Also present that day were my three granddogs, Julie, Peanut and Andy, chasing each other and playing like the wild animals they truly are.
As I sat on the couch and listened to the conversations among these young adults, my mind couldn't help but race back to the days when they were young. Listening to Matt's wife tease him about resuming his role of "king" the minute he walked through my kitchen door caused me to recall times when he would take charge and direct his brother and sister to do their chores and help around the house. Brad's constant chattering sent my mind racing back to him sitting in the back seat of the car talking nonstop about fire engines, spotted dogs and trains. Hearing Meghann stand her ground and state her opinions with her brothers made me remember years of spirited discussions among my three children, often ending with the lament of, "The boys never agree with me, Mom."
The time together always passes too quickly, and after a few hours, the house returned to the quietness that is the life that Meghann and I now share. I've never told my sons, but I often fight back the tears as hugs and kisses accompany saying goodbye to them once again. It is part of the circle of life, watching your children grow up and move on to start their own lives. And it is good and right, and I'm very proud of the adults my children are becoming. The tears are tears of gratitude and thankfulness for our time together, for sons and a daughter-in-law and daughter who want to spend time with me, who love me, and who are beginning to take care of me as I took care of them for so many years.
And so I look forward to the next time we are together, laughing and sharing and playing. My heart is beating a little faster just thinking about the next time they all come home again.
As I sat on the couch and listened to the conversations among these young adults, my mind couldn't help but race back to the days when they were young. Listening to Matt's wife tease him about resuming his role of "king" the minute he walked through my kitchen door caused me to recall times when he would take charge and direct his brother and sister to do their chores and help around the house. Brad's constant chattering sent my mind racing back to him sitting in the back seat of the car talking nonstop about fire engines, spotted dogs and trains. Hearing Meghann stand her ground and state her opinions with her brothers made me remember years of spirited discussions among my three children, often ending with the lament of, "The boys never agree with me, Mom."
The time together always passes too quickly, and after a few hours, the house returned to the quietness that is the life that Meghann and I now share. I've never told my sons, but I often fight back the tears as hugs and kisses accompany saying goodbye to them once again. It is part of the circle of life, watching your children grow up and move on to start their own lives. And it is good and right, and I'm very proud of the adults my children are becoming. The tears are tears of gratitude and thankfulness for our time together, for sons and a daughter-in-law and daughter who want to spend time with me, who love me, and who are beginning to take care of me as I took care of them for so many years.
And so I look forward to the next time we are together, laughing and sharing and playing. My heart is beating a little faster just thinking about the next time they all come home again.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Chasing the Dream
When I was a little girl, my oldest brother Jerry would make cheese sandwiches and take me and his two young sons for a picnic in the tree house he built in the large oak tree in his front yard. We would climb the ladder up the tree, spread a blanket and eat and talk about everything under the sun. I remember that Jerry would ask me at some point during each of those conversations what I wanted to do when I grew up. And my answer was always the same, "I want to write books about fish."
Looking back now, I have no idea why I was so fascinated with fish when I was young. Perhaps it was because my dad took me fishing a lot. Perhaps it was because we had a huge aquarium filled with several varieties of goldfish in our house. Perhaps it was because Jerry was a biology teacher. All I know is that even at a young age, I wanted to be a writer. And I wanted to write books about fish.
It seems fitting somehow that my first post on my brand new blog should cause me to remember that childhood writing dream and to reflect on those special times with my brother Jerry. It also causes me to again, as I have so many times over the last 30-something years, wonder how my life would have been different had Jerry not lost his life in a car accident when I was 10 years old.
So, Jerry, if you can look down from heaven and see me now in the middle of my life, I'm sure you are smiling. I'm writing, Jerry, and I'm speaking for women's groups. I've even written my first book. I'm chasing the dream, and I'm trying my best to make you proud.
Oh, and one more thing ... it's not a book about fish.
Looking back now, I have no idea why I was so fascinated with fish when I was young. Perhaps it was because my dad took me fishing a lot. Perhaps it was because we had a huge aquarium filled with several varieties of goldfish in our house. Perhaps it was because Jerry was a biology teacher. All I know is that even at a young age, I wanted to be a writer. And I wanted to write books about fish.
It seems fitting somehow that my first post on my brand new blog should cause me to remember that childhood writing dream and to reflect on those special times with my brother Jerry. It also causes me to again, as I have so many times over the last 30-something years, wonder how my life would have been different had Jerry not lost his life in a car accident when I was 10 years old.
So, Jerry, if you can look down from heaven and see me now in the middle of my life, I'm sure you are smiling. I'm writing, Jerry, and I'm speaking for women's groups. I've even written my first book. I'm chasing the dream, and I'm trying my best to make you proud.
Oh, and one more thing ... it's not a book about fish.
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