Memory Monday: Another Generation Learns

my granddaughter and the nativity

ANOTHER GENERATION LEARNS

It started the day after Thanksgiving. We hauled in lots of boxes (actually they are plastic cat litter tubs with lids) and our artificial tree. We put up the tree and wrapped it in lots and lots of lights, then I put on tubs of ornaments. After that, I set out the rest of the decorations.

The one thing I don’t do is to set out the nativity. Years ago, when my children were young, I hosted some kind of home decorating party. One of the things I “won” was a nativity of cutesy people and animals. I don’t remember how it worked out this way, but the tradition started that my daughter would be the one that arranged all the items in the stable. For years, my daughter set it up the “normal” way, but then she started putting the wise men figures some distance away. She would say the wise men weren’t at the stable when the shepherds were. The wise men came later. Which is true—smart kid.

My daughter now has a three-year-old daughter. While I am not ready to pass the nativity set down to my daughter, I did want it set up (and she’s the only one that does it—tradition, you know). So, the Monday after Thanksgiving when my daughter came to pick up her little one from our house (we pick up our granddaughter after pre-school and keep her until her mommy gets off of work), I had her arrange the people and animals. She told her daughter who each person was and then set the wise men of a small table a foot or two away from the stable. When my granddaughter came to our house on Tuesday, and every day since then, she gathered up all the people and animals, then set them up again, always saying how the wise men were far away—quick learner, smart kid.

I love this time of the year. I love traditions. I love my family.

I thank God that He sent Jesus and that we can pass the story of His birth down to the next generation.

Thanksgiving and Popcorn

my sweet granddaughter

THANKSGIVING AND POPCORN

Thanksgiving is this week and I am so excited!!! I love this time of the year with all its get-togethers, food-eating, and food-preparing. It’s not just excitement about all the “busy things,” no, it’s just that each of those things makes me remember what I’m truly thankful for.

The get-together means that I have family to love and who love me, especially my sweet granddaughter. Last year, she was still getting used to being her with her new family. But this year, she “knows” us—she grins and runs to me when she sees me, she has started bringing books for me to read to her in my office/library, and she even had her pre-school teacher write my name (chest puffing out in pride) on a strip on her “Thankful pumpkin”—in all reality, I probably got a whole strip to myself because nothing else would fit after the teacher printed “Grandmommy.” The pumpkin wasn’t huge, after all. Also, this is the fifth anniversary of my husband’s liver transplant. He’s strong and hearty—well, he’s strong and hearty enough to keep house and do the laundry (seriously, a writer’s got to have time to write, and I am a writer).

The food-eating makes me thankful that God has generously poured out His blessings on us all year long—not only our food, but our home, our marriage, our family, our friends, and so many more blessings. And most especially Jesus and His sacrifice.

The food-preparing means that I’m healthy enough to do the things I love to do. Even though I have RA, diabetes, and a few other thing going on in my body, I can cook (which I love to do), I can write, and I can play with my granddaughter. Being able to do all of those things is due in large part because of the blessing of having wonderful doctors who take care of me.

One thing I’m going to TRY and do again this year is something we had done years ago when my children were younger—tell the story of the three grains of corn. I had read that the Pilgrims had a very hard time in the New World. At one point, their daily ration of food was three grains of corn (now, I don’t know if this is really true, but it led to a way of showing what we are thankful for today). I would put three grains of unpopped popcorn on everyone’s plate and before we ate, I would pass a small dish around and everyone would put their popcorn in, telling three things they were thankful for. I love hearing the things. The kids hated doing it. We finally stopped doing it when the kids BEGGED me to stop making them it. But we have added a new generation to our family, SO-O-O-O, I think it’s time to try it again. After all, our granddaughter needs to be reminded to be thankful and needs to hear what others are thankful for. Do you think it will go over any better this time than last? Who knows, but a mother/grandmommy has to try.

Memory Monday: Precious Memories

four generations of our family

PRECIOUS MEMORIES

I was traveling in the car the other day and the song “Precious Memories” came on. The lyrics nestled in my heart. I thought of all of who came before me—the examples they left, the words of wisdom they shared, the stories of perseverance they left behind.

My grandmother raised seven children as she cleaned other people’s houses and took in laundry, while her husband had a shoe repair shop. The thing I remember most about my grandmother was when she was about 95 or so, she needed paint for her house but she insisted that it come with a 25 year guarantee. Oh, and another thing, my mother said Grandma didn’t care what grades her children got in school, as long as they got an A in deportment. She knew how her children acted and treated others was so important. Growing up, the thing I remember most about my grandfather was that he hated to have his picture made, even snapshots—NO PICTURES. That is until their 50^th anniversary—which by the way was when my grandmother got a wedding ring. After that, he seemed to love having his picture taken. I just realized that I have something in common with my grandfather—I hate to have my picture taken, too. Maybe when I have my 50^th wedding anniversary, I won’t mind so much.

My daddy always dreamed of trying to do things to improve his life, from reading to trying to start some type of business, to changing types of jobs. For him, it never seemed to work—BUT HE TRIED. I guess that’s where I got the part of me, where at 60 years old, I published my first three novels. My mother always voiced her acknowledgement of God’s working in her everyday life. When it rained, she would always mention how God had washed her car or watered her flowers and vegetables. Her words still live on in my heart and make me recognize how God is in all the things we do—big things and little.

I hope that my children have precious memories of me that will live in their hearts and minds for years to come, and maybe even be passed down to future generations.

I wonder what memories of me my granddaughter will cherish in years to come. Will those memories help her in trying times? Will they nestle in her heart and help her to be a better woman? Will memories of a loving grandmommy help her when she feels lonely or troubled as she goes through life?

What precious memories do you have of your parents or grandparents that have helped you through life? 

Memory Monday: Happy Birthday, Mother

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHER

Me and My Mother

I came across this picture recently. I’m not sure exactly when it was taken, but by our hair color and the furniture, it was taken a good 30-35 years ago. I have no idea what we are laughing about, but it has become my favorite picture of my mother and me.

A few years after my father died, Mother moved to the town where my family and I lived. My son was about eighteen months old then and she passed away when he was in college. Mother and I went from through the stages of her helping me out (watching my kids, helping me with my household chores, etc.) to friends (running around shopping, going to garage sales, having lunches together, etc.) to me helping her out (making sure she took her medicine, taking her to the doctor and reminding her of what he or she said to do, driving her around because her eyesight wasn’t the best).

I never understood what people meant when they said they were “ready to go” but I think at the end my mother was to that point. She lived in her own home, kept house (sort of), and worked outside with her flowers. But the thing I remember most about her for the last couple of years she was here was the look in her eyes. They had an emptiness about them. She never talked about dying, but I believe she was ready. She had pre-paid her funeral and had a will prepared leaving all she had left on earth to her children. She loved God, knew that Jesus had died for her sins and that she would live with God for eternity. With that, she was at peace.

Today is Mother’s birthday. It gives me peace to know that she is with her husband and baby son who died without ever feeling his mother’s arms around him. It gives me peace to know that sometime in the future, I will see all of them again.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOTHER!!! You are still so loved.

Memory Monday: Missing My ParentsM

My parents in 1959

MISSING MY PARENTS

Early last month, I asked a friend what he and his wife planned for Christmas. Were they going to visit their kids and grandson? He said no. They were going to visit their parents. This stirred something in me that I haven’t felt in long, long time.

My father has been gone for more than 30 years, and my mother passed away over 12 years ago. Ever since that conversation with my friend, I have had an intense longing to talk to my parents—stronger than I have ever felt before. Now, often during the day, I catch myself thinking of something and wondering what one of my parents would have said about it. I miss my parents more now than at any time since they died.

For now (and for as long as God allows me to live here on Earth), I have a lot to look forward to with my family—more years with my husband, the shared love of our children, the wonder of our granddaughter and hopefully seeing her into adulthood, and maybe more books of mine published.

But something has shifted. I now look forward with a longing to that time when I will be with those who have gone before me. At that time, I won’t be concerned about how they survived in the Great Depression, the differences between the way I make ice cream and the way my mother did, or even “boasting” about how many books I published. No, at that time, it will be a time of reunion—marvelous reunion with those I love and haven’t seen in years.

Even though I’m in my mid-60s, I have a better understanding of “old” folks when they say they are ready to “pass over.” There is just something comforting in knowing that there are others “on the other side” just waiting for us.

Memory Monday: A New Year's Poem

My Grandmother

A NEW YEAR’S POEM

I have used the picture of my grandmother before. The more I think about her, the more I wish that I had known her. She married in 1910, but didn’t have her first child until 1917 (my father). How she loved her son. When my dad talked about her, you could hear the love in his voice for her, even though she died when he was only nine years old. From what I know about her, she had a strong faith (as did her parents).

Recently, I came across a poem that was written before she was born. The poem is from a book titled Verses for Christmas and the New Year. And it was written in 1885, and since she was born in the early 1890s, her mother might have even read it to her.

NEW YEAR'S WISHES FOR THE CHILDREN.

Give yourself to Jesus, darling,

   While the Year is new;

Place your hand in His, and let Him

   Lead you safely through.

Then how blest the Year will be,

   Spent in Jesu's company!

I send my love to Someone,

   With wishes kind and true;

I pray to God for Someone,

   I know He hears me, too.

Now don't you guess, my darling,

   That Someone must be you?

I can imagine my grandmother holding my daddy in her lap, snuggling close to her longed-for child and reciting this to him. And that warms my heart.

Memory Monday: What I Give Thanks For

My father, grandfather, and step-grandmother

WHAT I GIVE THANKS FOR

I love Thanksgiving and not just because of the turkey. Actually, we don’t have turkey. We have smoked meat. Last year, it was brisket and ribs. This year, it is pulled pork. See, we are equal opportunity meat-eaters—as long as we can smoke it on my son’s Traeger smoker. Now with that explained, let me share what I love about Thanksgiving. It is the THANKSGIVING. There is so much to be thankful for—the memories of those who have gone before me, leaving lessons lovingly taught about right and wrong, about helping, sharing, and giving, lessons lived out before me in the lives of my parents, grandparents, assorted aunts and uncles, as well as the stories passed down about those who lived before me. The lessons I value most  deal with faith. I have been blessed to have seen the faith of my parents. I loved to hear the way my father prayed, especially in his later years and the way my mother always spoke about how God had blessed her in simple little ways, like how He washed her car when He sent rain.

I am thankful that my father, as well as a large number of other men in my family, took up arms and fought for our country. My father is pictured above in his Army Air Corp uniform during WWII. I have family who also fought for America through the years, including a number who fought for our freedom from England in the American Revolution. There are also several of my generation who have served in our military, and for them, I am also thankful.

I am thankful for my wonderful husband of 44 years and the way he cherishes me, the way he takes care of the house so I can have time to write, and the way has been a wonderful father and example to our children through the years.

I am thankful for the generations that are coming after me—our son and our daughter, along with her husband and daughter. There is so much thankfulness in my heart for our granddaughter and the privilege and blessing of taking care of her while her parents work.

There are so many more blessings for which I’m thankful—things that God pours out on my family and me every day of my life. Thank you, God, for loving me, for blessing me, for Jesus. Thank You.

What fills your heart with thankfulness as Thanksgiving Day approaches (and every day)?

Memory Monday: Singing Hymns

My mother and one of her daughters (not sure which one)

SINGING HYMNS

I’ve always loved to sing hymns. My mother used to run her index finger under the words in the song book when I was little. I remember thinking as I bent my head over the songbook that I needed to learn to read so I could read the words for myself when I sang.

Funny how we grow up and do the same things we did as a child. For years, I kept my head bent over the song book and reading the words as I sang, even though I knew the words. I’d sing the wonderful familiar words and feel good inside, which in turn made me smile. Although I have to admit that all too often, the words to those songs were simply that—just words, because my mind and heart were on other things—what to fix for dinner, some irritation I hadn’t let go, what I needed to do tomorrow.

Then several years ago, I had a problem with my vision (OK, to be honest, I needed bi-focals and hadn’t gotten them). During this time, I couldn’t read the words in the song book. But you know, the funny thing about that was that I knew the words for all those songs anyway—I had sung them for years, so I didn’t keep by head bowed. Later, we got the big screens in the auditorium, so I didn’t have to look down to learn the new songs since they were in front of me.

Sometime after that, the thought of the Throne Room of God settled into my mind, and everything changed. As I was already looking upward (to see the screen in the front of the church auditorium) while we sang, I’d close my eyes and envision myself in the Throne Room of God, standing before the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, in all Their glory, all Their majesty, all Their power with Their love flowing down from Them to me. A love, living and active, long before I was born. A love that took the Son from all this glory and majesty and brought Him to a stable that led to the cross. Around Them were the Heavenly host, singing and praising.

And as the congregation around me sang, I sang to God.

The worship service changed for me then. How can it not, when you stand before God, the Creator of the universe, the lover of my soul, while singing words like these, “I stand amazed in the presence of Jesus the Nazarene, and wonder how He could love me, a sinner condemned unclean. How marvelous, how wonderful, and my song shall always be, how marvelous, how wonderful is my Savior’s love for me.” How can I even think about what I’m fixing for Sunday dinner when I’m in that throne room singing “I know not why God’s wondrous love He to me He has made know, nor why unworthy Christ in love redeemed me for His own. But I know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I committed unto Him against that day?”

One of the other things I learned through all this was the joy of not only singing to God, but to others. When your eyes are looking down at the words of a songbook or forward to the words on a giant screen, you miss looking at those around you when you sing songs of encouragement, like A Common Love, They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love and Blest Be the Tie.

Yes, I love to sing. I love the joy, the introspection, the humility and the fellowship it brings into my life.

Thank You, God, for the gift of song and allowing us to sing to You and to those around us.

Memory Monday: Prayer

Me and Daddy

MY PRAYERS

            I have struggled with prayer for years.  The words did not come easily—well they came, but often there did not seem to be much depth to them.  More and more, I would catch myself praying just for things I needed or wanted.  I would remember the verse about “prayer…with thanksgiving,” so I would thank God for what He had given me.  And it always seemed that I finished the prayer with “And thank You for Jesus,” followed by the closing, “InJesus’nameAmen.”  (Those words ALWAYS had to be at the end of a prayer or it didn’t seem like a proper prayer.)

            I grew up in a family where prayer was offered before every meal.   But when I think about those prayers, one thing stands out.  From my earliest memory to the day my daddy had a major heart attack, he always said the same prayer at mealtimes.  He never varied a word, and as a little child the prayer became a ritual—bow my head, fold my hands, wait for those exact words to be said, then I could eat.

            I think ritual pretty much sums up the way I learned to pray.  I even remember memorizing the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer as a child and using that at nighttime.

            Though the years, and even though I was a believer, I remained a child in my prayer life—bow my head at mealtime or at the assembly, and then, when the words were over, continue on.  At times when something horrible happened, I would pray for God’s help.  And sometimes when the beauty of the day or the wonder of my children filled my heart, I would offer a prayer of thanksgiving. 

            One day several years ago, something changed.  I can’t remember if the thought came from a song or something said in a sermon or lesson.  As I started to pray, I could see myself in the Throne Room of God.  I was before Him and at His right hand sat Jesus.  The glory and power that came from Him caused me to bow low. The words came, but they were different from any I had ever prayed before.  Words of honor and praise flowed out of me.  How could I not honor the God of all creation?  I had been invited into the presence of the One who had spoken the entire universe in to existence, yet knew the hairs on my head and the thoughts of my heart.  The prayer continued, not with my wants or needs, but with thanksgiving for Jesus, who stood with me as both redeemer and intercessor.  As the words of honor ended, I felt the love of my Heavenly Father surround me and the pain of my heart opened up.  I reached out to God with worries, hurts and needs—for others and, at last, for me.  As my prayer ended, I did not want to leave that place, but God has given me a life to live and I want to live it for Him.

            I often go back to the Throne Room.  I am always amazed and humbled, brought low but loved, emptied and filled there.  At last, I commune with my God and Father.

(By the way, the prayers my daddy offered after his heart attack were very different.  He was often asked to lead prayers during the assembly on Sunday.  His words and the emotion in his voice when he honored his Creator and petitioned his God would bring tears to my eyes and many others around me.  Daddy loved and trusted God, and he finally learned to voice that love and dependency in public prayer.)