means NEVER forget!Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Road Trip, The Conclusion
Our final destination: Louisiana. A state that has been in the news a lot lately, thanks to that oil spill. But we didn’t see oil. Or sugar cane. Or bayous. Or cotton. But we did eat meat pies, gumbo and hush puppies. After all, you have to eat something Cajun if you’re going to drive through Cajun Country.
We also stopped and smelled the roses. Several hundreds of them. At the Gardens of the American Rose Center, the home of the American Rose Association. They were truly beautiful. I took dozens of pictures.
But now we have returned. To Texas. Sigh. Just fifteen or so miles from home, I saw a billboard that stated my feelings very eloquently: Welcome back…to your life… Double sigh.
The Kronprincessin Viktoria Rose
We also stopped and smelled the roses. Several hundreds of them. At the Gardens of the American Rose Center, the home of the American Rose Association. They were truly beautiful. I took dozens of pictures.
But now we have returned. To Texas. Sigh. Just fifteen or so miles from home, I saw a billboard that stated my feelings very eloquently: Welcome back…to your life… Double sigh.
The Kronprincessin Viktoria Rose
The Neptune Rose
Friday, May 28, 2010
Road Trip, Part 5
This morning we awakened to the heat of Mississippi and dropped by one last plantation home before heading out from Natchez. This time we saw one of the oldest homes in the town – Ellicott on the Hill, circa 1790. Which is on a hill – but is not named for the man who lived there.
For this home comes with a history. Mr. Andrew Ellicott was sent by George Washington to Natchez to survey the 31st parallel – the line that was supposed to be our border with Spain. (It still is the line of the western Florida panhandle.) It was on this piece of property that the first American flag flew in the Lower Mississippi Valley. The flag contained fifteen starts and fifteen stripes. With the admission of Tennessee into the Union, the flag reverted back to the thirteen stripes we know today with only a star added for each new state.
Mr. Ellicott did not remain in Mississippi. And so the house was built by another. Since that time, it has passed through many hands, but it has not been changed since 1801 when some of the open rooms were enclosed in order to make room for a growing family. It remains a unique mix of Colonial times and the Southern culture. For while it has many of the qualities I know in my New England homes, it is not like anything you’ll see up there. It was built before cotton became king – tobacco and popcorn were the crops of choice. In fact, the children would eat popcorn for breakfast. They mixed it with honey and milk: 18th century cereal!
Ellicott on the Hill
For this home comes with a history. Mr. Andrew Ellicott was sent by George Washington to Natchez to survey the 31st parallel – the line that was supposed to be our border with Spain. (It still is the line of the western Florida panhandle.) It was on this piece of property that the first American flag flew in the Lower Mississippi Valley. The flag contained fifteen starts and fifteen stripes. With the admission of Tennessee into the Union, the flag reverted back to the thirteen stripes we know today with only a star added for each new state.
Mr. Ellicott did not remain in Mississippi. And so the house was built by another. Since that time, it has passed through many hands, but it has not been changed since 1801 when some of the open rooms were enclosed in order to make room for a growing family. It remains a unique mix of Colonial times and the Southern culture. For while it has many of the qualities I know in my New England homes, it is not like anything you’ll see up there. It was built before cotton became king – tobacco and popcorn were the crops of choice. In fact, the children would eat popcorn for breakfast. They mixed it with honey and milk: 18th century cereal!
Ellicott on the HillThursday, May 27, 2010
Road Trip, Part 4
Today Jenny and I put on our hoop skirts, petticoats, pantaloons and lacy dresses and had tea at Southern plantations.
Well, okay, it’s fun to imagine what that like would be like but it was too hot for hoops and all the sundry layers – not to mention sipping tea. I’m not sure how these cotton barons and their families did it here on the river in the deep South, but I suppose you can put up with just about anything to live in grand houses, attend amazing parties, and have every little thing your heart could possibly imagine. (Although I found their libraries terribly lacking…)
The first house we visited today was Magnolia Hall. The last grand house built in Natchez prior to the Civil War (1858), it is a stately home with a wide back porch, doorways ten feet in height, and beautiful furnishings. The two things I found most interesting about this home was 1) the dresses they had on display from their pilgrimage days and 2) the house was built to look like a New York brownstone. So although the house is actually covered with stucco, it has been placed on top of brick and then painted to look like brick and mortar. (Oh, the things that can be done with money!)
The second house we visited is called Stanton Hall. This cotton baron decided he needed a grand home in town, so he bought a city block and built an exquisite five-story house for roughly $83,000 (that doesn’t include furnishings or fine woodwork). It is a showcase of the antebellum South. I had to laugh at one thing, though. Today the Pilgrimage Garden Club has selected colors for the walls to compliment the original furnishings. Back in the 1840s, though, the lady of the house painted every wall completely white. The tour guide said it may have been to gather light in the house (for gaslights don’t shed much light) or because white paint was very expensive and she wanted to show off. I thought she might just be like my dad: all walls should be white.
Magnolia Hall
Well, okay, it’s fun to imagine what that like would be like but it was too hot for hoops and all the sundry layers – not to mention sipping tea. I’m not sure how these cotton barons and their families did it here on the river in the deep South, but I suppose you can put up with just about anything to live in grand houses, attend amazing parties, and have every little thing your heart could possibly imagine. (Although I found their libraries terribly lacking…)
The first house we visited today was Magnolia Hall. The last grand house built in Natchez prior to the Civil War (1858), it is a stately home with a wide back porch, doorways ten feet in height, and beautiful furnishings. The two things I found most interesting about this home was 1) the dresses they had on display from their pilgrimage days and 2) the house was built to look like a New York brownstone. So although the house is actually covered with stucco, it has been placed on top of brick and then painted to look like brick and mortar. (Oh, the things that can be done with money!)
The second house we visited is called Stanton Hall. This cotton baron decided he needed a grand home in town, so he bought a city block and built an exquisite five-story house for roughly $83,000 (that doesn’t include furnishings or fine woodwork). It is a showcase of the antebellum South. I had to laugh at one thing, though. Today the Pilgrimage Garden Club has selected colors for the walls to compliment the original furnishings. Back in the 1840s, though, the lady of the house painted every wall completely white. The tour guide said it may have been to gather light in the house (for gaslights don’t shed much light) or because white paint was very expensive and she wanted to show off. I thought she might just be like my dad: all walls should be white.
Magnolia Hall
Stanton Hall
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Road Trip, Part 3
Welcome to HOT Mississippi! (But at least it’s not humid…) Today we traveled through the battlefield/siege of Vicksburg. It has to be the largest battlefield I’ve ever seen, excepting Gettysburg. The road the circles by most of the important parts is sixteen miles in length. And it is beautiful.
So a little bit of history first. Vicksburg is on the Mississippi River. It was an extremely important piece of the Confederate nation. For months, Yankee armies and navies had tried to take it from one side or the other. Grant finally decided on a risky venture. He marched his army towards Jackson and then back to Vicksburg in order to take it from the rear. This brought him away from his supply base, but he encouraged Admiral Porter to try once again to get supply boats past the Vicksburg cannons. With Porter’s success, Grant marched his army in.
It’s hard to say Grant accomplished a victory in Vicksburg. For every time he sent his troops towards the well barricaded city, the Rebels repelled him. His troops tried everything from artillery, to running right at it, to digging trenches and blowing up holes behind the Rebel lines in order to rush troops in behind. Nothing worked. So, he set up for a siege.
Vicksburg was attacked/on siege from March 29, 1863 until July 4, 1863 when the Confederate General Pemberton raised the flag of surrender. His troops were sick, lacked supplies and could not longer last – he felt he had no choice. The Yankees claimed a grand victory – as if they won a great battle as their fellow troops did that same day in Gettysburg. But they didn’t fight. They sat. And won.
Vicksburg is one of the most amazing battlefields I have ever seen. For one, at the visitor’s center we learned that at the time of the battle, there were no trees to be found on the field. Between the Rebels fortifying their heights and camp fire needed, not a tree could be found. Now there are trees everywhere. Secondly, the landscape has been entirely changed on account of the six-foot trenches the Yankees built and the heights the Rebels fortified. Thirdly, the USS Cairo is something to see. A Northern ironclad, the Rebels sunk it in the Yazoo River. One hundred years later, it has been raised and placed at Vicksburg. It’s something to see. (Although was an ironclad during the time when “Ships were made of wood and men were made of iron”? For it’s mostly wood, but the outside is iron.)
And, lastly, well…we experienced something of what those troops had to endure – heat. Let’s just say I’m glad I wasn’t there in 1863!
The stately park entrance.
A part of the battlefield landscape forever changed by the armies.
So a little bit of history first. Vicksburg is on the Mississippi River. It was an extremely important piece of the Confederate nation. For months, Yankee armies and navies had tried to take it from one side or the other. Grant finally decided on a risky venture. He marched his army towards Jackson and then back to Vicksburg in order to take it from the rear. This brought him away from his supply base, but he encouraged Admiral Porter to try once again to get supply boats past the Vicksburg cannons. With Porter’s success, Grant marched his army in.
It’s hard to say Grant accomplished a victory in Vicksburg. For every time he sent his troops towards the well barricaded city, the Rebels repelled him. His troops tried everything from artillery, to running right at it, to digging trenches and blowing up holes behind the Rebel lines in order to rush troops in behind. Nothing worked. So, he set up for a siege.
Vicksburg was attacked/on siege from March 29, 1863 until July 4, 1863 when the Confederate General Pemberton raised the flag of surrender. His troops were sick, lacked supplies and could not longer last – he felt he had no choice. The Yankees claimed a grand victory – as if they won a great battle as their fellow troops did that same day in Gettysburg. But they didn’t fight. They sat. And won.
Vicksburg is one of the most amazing battlefields I have ever seen. For one, at the visitor’s center we learned that at the time of the battle, there were no trees to be found on the field. Between the Rebels fortifying their heights and camp fire needed, not a tree could be found. Now there are trees everywhere. Secondly, the landscape has been entirely changed on account of the six-foot trenches the Yankees built and the heights the Rebels fortified. Thirdly, the USS Cairo is something to see. A Northern ironclad, the Rebels sunk it in the Yazoo River. One hundred years later, it has been raised and placed at Vicksburg. It’s something to see. (Although was an ironclad during the time when “Ships were made of wood and men were made of iron”? For it’s mostly wood, but the outside is iron.)
And, lastly, well…we experienced something of what those troops had to endure – heat. Let’s just say I’m glad I wasn’t there in 1863!
The stately park entrance.
A part of the battlefield landscape forever changed by the armies.
The USS Cairo, a Yankee ironclad.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Road Trip, Part 2
Numbers and sheer determination wrought the Rebels the initial victory the first day of battle. But the day also brought the loss of General Johnston. As the Rebels went to bed that night, they had a great victory and determination on their side. However, Grant had reinforcements from Gen. Buell and Gen. Lew Wallace (who would later write Ben-Hur). The next day? The Rebels held as long as they could…then retreated into
Today,
The
The monument to the
A replica of the church for which the battlefield is named.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Road Trip, Part 1
Well, so much for posting every day. The last hotel didn’t have wi-fi. Missouri hasn’t entirely caught up with the 21st century…
So, update on my trip. The first day didn’t contain much. Six hours of driving from Texas into Arkansas. Nice weather for travel. Everything went fine. We were glad to crash for the night.
That was Friday. On Saturday, we slept in a bit. Then we hit our first battlefield. The Pea Ridge Battlefield in Rodgers, AR. For those of you who aren’t up on your Civil War history, Pea Ridge was fought in early March of 1862. The Yankees were running the Rebels out of Missouri in order to gain complete access of the Mississippi River and so cut the Confederacy in half. The fleeing Rebels stopped in a little place called Pea Ridge. The Yankees met them there and dug in. However, the Confederate general decided on a bold but stupid move. He marched his men all night behind the Yankee troops. Smart. He cut off his supply lines. Not smart. The following day gave the Rebels a great victory, but they lost two generals and half the army was left without a leader. The following day, the Yankees sent an artillery barrage into the Rebel camp. Without supplies, the Rebels could do nothing but turn and run. It was the last major stand they would take in the western part of the Confederacy.
The Pea Ridge Battlefield from the overlook.
Jenny and I standing by one of the many cannons.
Our next stop was the George Washington Carver National Memorial in little Diamond, MO. And like a diamond, it was a treasure well worth finding. For even though our nation seems like it is turning further and further from its Creator, nothing in that museum hid the fact that Mr. Carver gave all the glory of his knowledge and greatness to his Creator. Not only is that park beautiful, it a reminder of how great our God is and how humble we should be.
The Reflection Pond.
One of the many quotes by Mr. Carver throughout the park and museum.
That evening we crashed at a hotel in Mt. Vernon, MO. The next morning we visited a church in town and then returned to the hotel to nap and read. Truly a much needed day of rest. For the next day – today – it was on the road again.
Most people know something about Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House on the Prairie. Nestled on a ridge in the little town of Mansfield, MO is the house where Laura and her husband settled with their daughter Rose for the last seventy-or-so years of their lives. It is also the location where she wrote her famous Little House books that have entertained children for generations. It is a lovely little place to visit and remember all the joy you had reading about Laura, Mary, Carrie, Grace, Ma, Pa and Almanzo over, and over, and over again.
“Rocky Ridge”, as Laura called her house in Mansfield.
The Rock House, built by Rose for her parents on another part of their land. They lived there for eight years. Although they did not like it much, it gave Laura the time away from her usual busy life to sit down and write the Little House books.
And now we are in Savannah, TN. Brought here safely by our Creator who watched over us through bouts of wind, pouring rain, dark skies and lightning later today. Tennessee. Where kudzu covers everything. Where red brick houses and porches with swings can be seen. Where I remember my childhood. And tomorrow we set out to explore its most famous battlefield: Shiloh.
So, update on my trip. The first day didn’t contain much. Six hours of driving from Texas into Arkansas. Nice weather for travel. Everything went fine. We were glad to crash for the night.
That was Friday. On Saturday, we slept in a bit. Then we hit our first battlefield. The Pea Ridge Battlefield in Rodgers, AR. For those of you who aren’t up on your Civil War history, Pea Ridge was fought in early March of 1862. The Yankees were running the Rebels out of Missouri in order to gain complete access of the Mississippi River and so cut the Confederacy in half. The fleeing Rebels stopped in a little place called Pea Ridge. The Yankees met them there and dug in. However, the Confederate general decided on a bold but stupid move. He marched his men all night behind the Yankee troops. Smart. He cut off his supply lines. Not smart. The following day gave the Rebels a great victory, but they lost two generals and half the army was left without a leader. The following day, the Yankees sent an artillery barrage into the Rebel camp. Without supplies, the Rebels could do nothing but turn and run. It was the last major stand they would take in the western part of the Confederacy.
The Pea Ridge Battlefield from the overlook.
Jenny and I standing by one of the many cannons.Our next stop was the George Washington Carver National Memorial in little Diamond, MO. And like a diamond, it was a treasure well worth finding. For even though our nation seems like it is turning further and further from its Creator, nothing in that museum hid the fact that Mr. Carver gave all the glory of his knowledge and greatness to his Creator. Not only is that park beautiful, it a reminder of how great our God is and how humble we should be.
The Reflection Pond.
One of the many quotes by Mr. Carver throughout the park and museum.That evening we crashed at a hotel in Mt. Vernon, MO. The next morning we visited a church in town and then returned to the hotel to nap and read. Truly a much needed day of rest. For the next day – today – it was on the road again.
Most people know something about Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House on the Prairie. Nestled on a ridge in the little town of Mansfield, MO is the house where Laura and her husband settled with their daughter Rose for the last seventy-or-so years of their lives. It is also the location where she wrote her famous Little House books that have entertained children for generations. It is a lovely little place to visit and remember all the joy you had reading about Laura, Mary, Carrie, Grace, Ma, Pa and Almanzo over, and over, and over again.
“Rocky Ridge”, as Laura called her house in Mansfield.
The Rock House, built by Rose for her parents on another part of their land. They lived there for eight years. Although they did not like it much, it gave Laura the time away from her usual busy life to sit down and write the Little House books.And now we are in Savannah, TN. Brought here safely by our Creator who watched over us through bouts of wind, pouring rain, dark skies and lightning later today. Tennessee. Where kudzu covers everything. Where red brick houses and porches with swings can be seen. Where I remember my childhood. And tomorrow we set out to explore its most famous battlefield: Shiloh.
Monday, May 17, 2010
At church on Sundays, there is an older couple that sits behind me. And I don’t mean older as in most of the population is older than I am. The man told me on Sunday that he turns 91 tomorrow – Tuesday, May 18. His wife turned 90 in February.
I’ve spoken to this couple quite often. For one, I’ve sat in “their pew” a couple of times. They also say hello to me every time they walk in – even if it’s the middle of the service. Well, he says, “Hello, young lady.” She says, “You’re so beautiful.” For she has dementia…and probably needs a little help with her eyesight.
Over the past months, I’ve learned bits and pieces about this couple. He once told me what he made back in the 30s and 40s compared to what he makes today through wise investments. It’s quite a difference – and you can tell by the really nice truck he drives.
This week he informed me that all but two of his grandchildren had been in over the weekend to celebrate his birthday. I asked him how many grandchildren he has. He told me has two sons, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Some of the came from as far as California. Meanwhile, his wife held my hand, told me how lovely I am, asked if she could kiss me, told me I had beautiful hands, and then asked if I would give her a kiss.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he told me, “but she was once a quiet thing. She would just sit there and wouldn’t say a word. That was before her disease.”
I could believe it, although she does often speak all kinds of things during the service. Fortunately, she doesn’t have a very loud voice. I think he’s louder as he hisses for her to be quiet.
“We were late today,” he continued. “Sometimes it’s just hard to get her up in the mornings, and get her dressed and get her here to church. But we do it. And I take her out to dinner some Saturdays. She enjoys that.”
I hardly knew what to say. For what do you tell a 91-year-old man who struggles himself to walk (although he informed me he still drives tractors and large equipment – I guess on their land) how much you admire him? For here he is taking care of his wife of who knows how many years (70 or more?), gets her up, dresses her, takes her to church and dinner and puts up with who knows what as she forgets where she is, who she is or what her life contained. Or how do you put into words the integrity of a man whose generations rise up and come miles to celebrate his birthday? The English language falls short.
You know, the man isn’t much to look at. By the age of 91, no one is. Gray hair, stooped, a cane, shaky voice. But he is exactly the sort of man I want to marry. A man of integrity, faith and a love so great it lasts over 70 years “for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.”
I’ve spoken to this couple quite often. For one, I’ve sat in “their pew” a couple of times. They also say hello to me every time they walk in – even if it’s the middle of the service. Well, he says, “Hello, young lady.” She says, “You’re so beautiful.” For she has dementia…and probably needs a little help with her eyesight.
Over the past months, I’ve learned bits and pieces about this couple. He once told me what he made back in the 30s and 40s compared to what he makes today through wise investments. It’s quite a difference – and you can tell by the really nice truck he drives.
This week he informed me that all but two of his grandchildren had been in over the weekend to celebrate his birthday. I asked him how many grandchildren he has. He told me has two sons, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. Some of the came from as far as California. Meanwhile, his wife held my hand, told me how lovely I am, asked if she could kiss me, told me I had beautiful hands, and then asked if I would give her a kiss.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” he told me, “but she was once a quiet thing. She would just sit there and wouldn’t say a word. That was before her disease.”
I could believe it, although she does often speak all kinds of things during the service. Fortunately, she doesn’t have a very loud voice. I think he’s louder as he hisses for her to be quiet.
“We were late today,” he continued. “Sometimes it’s just hard to get her up in the mornings, and get her dressed and get her here to church. But we do it. And I take her out to dinner some Saturdays. She enjoys that.”
I hardly knew what to say. For what do you tell a 91-year-old man who struggles himself to walk (although he informed me he still drives tractors and large equipment – I guess on their land) how much you admire him? For here he is taking care of his wife of who knows how many years (70 or more?), gets her up, dresses her, takes her to church and dinner and puts up with who knows what as she forgets where she is, who she is or what her life contained. Or how do you put into words the integrity of a man whose generations rise up and come miles to celebrate his birthday? The English language falls short.
You know, the man isn’t much to look at. By the age of 91, no one is. Gray hair, stooped, a cane, shaky voice. But he is exactly the sort of man I want to marry. A man of integrity, faith and a love so great it lasts over 70 years “for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.”
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…
Lamps in the church tower, a dangerous rowboat ride across the river past British ships, a ride across the countryside awakening the people of the eminent danger of troops – the high water mark of the history of famed silversmith Paul Revere. But that wasn’t all he did for the independence of the United States of America…
Nor is it the only thing he did with his life. The father of sixteen children, a leader in Boston politics, a silversmith, engraver, bell maker, lieutenant colonel and friend of some of the most famed leaders of colonial times – Paul Revere filled his eighty-three years.
The Revolutionary Paul Revere by Joel J. Miller is an easy read biography, skimming through the life and events of a long life as fast as Paul Revere took his ride from Charlestown to Lexington. It isn’t greatly detailed or in-depth, but if you want a good review of his life this is the book for you.
Interested? Check it out: http://www.thomasnelson.com/consumer/product_detail.asp?sku=1595550747&title=The_Revolutionary_Paul_Revere
This book was provided for review by Thomas Nelson Publishers.
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…
Lamps in the church tower, a dangerous rowboat ride across the river past British ships, a ride across the countryside awakening the people of the eminent danger of troops – the high water mark of the history of famed silversmith Paul Revere. But that wasn’t all he did for the independence of the United States of America…
Nor is it the only thing he did with his life. The father of sixteen children, a leader in Boston politics, a silversmith, engraver, bell maker, lieutenant colonel and friend of some of the most famed leaders of colonial times – Paul Revere filled his eighty-three years.
The Revolutionary Paul Revere by Joel J. Miller is an easy read biography, skimming through the life and events of a long life as fast as Paul Revere took his ride from Charlestown to Lexington. It isn’t greatly detailed or in-depth, but if you want a good review of his life this is the book for you.
Interested? Check it out: http://www.thomasnelson.com/consumer/product_detail.asp?sku=1595550747&title=The_Revolutionary_Paul_Revere
This book was provided for review by Thomas Nelson Publishers.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
“What will you do for Mother’s Day?” Jill, a nurse, asked.
“Probably nothing,” Dinah, the DON, answered. “I used to have my son and daughter and their families over. I would cook and clean up. But I’m tired of that.”
“You would cook and clean?” Jill wondered.
“Well, my daughter would help clean up. But, yes.“
“Why don’t they take you out to dinner?”
“They don’t do that. I’ll probably just go to church, pick up my dad at the nursing home and take him and my mom out to lunch. What will you do?”
“Well, my kids don’t live nearby anymore.”
“What did you do in the past?” Dinah asked.
“Nothing, really,” Jill said. “Mother’s Day is another Hallmark holiday. It’s a shame they have to set aside one day to appreciate moms.”
I agreed with the last statement I overheard in Dinah’s office this week – for mothers should be appreciated every day of their lives – but I felt more ashamed that kids can treat their mothers like these kids do.
Mothers do everything for us, from the day we’re conceived until the day they die. For nine months, the carry us. Their own body nourishes us. Then they go through intense pain to bring us into the world. From that day forth they are cooking, cleaning, feeding, driving, listening, finding, cheering, disciplining, laughing, crying, sacrificing, enjoying, frustrating, teaching, nurturing and every other thing in the world for, through, with and to us. Yet most of the time we take them for granted.
This will be my mother’s 31st Mother’s Day, and a novel the size of War and Peace isn’t enough room to state everything she has ever done for me. Much of it I can’t remember. I don’t remember being fed, or changed, or bathed. Holidays were made special, even though I wouldn’t recall them. She brushed my hair, and made my clothes, and took me to the beach, and tried to make life less boring – both for herself and me. Even as sibling after sibling came along, she still moved heaven and earth to get me to school, the dentist, ballet, gymnastics, sleepovers, softball, soccer, basketball, birthday parties and church activities. Then she homeschooled me – yes, all the way through high school. My mom has moved all over the country, hardly ever living in a house that was her own. She’s had to learn to love writing, piano, zebras, computers, swimming, roses, Africa, history, maple syrup and every other passing fancy her eight kids have attempted in their lives. Above all, who else do you go to when you just can’t take life anymore?
I do not understand kids who don’t appreciate their mothers. Who don’t want to cook them a meal or take them out to dinner one day out of the year. Who don’t send her a card, don’t call her on the phone and plainly don’t care. Sit back for a moment and try to picture your life if your mother had just brushed you off like you brush her off. Where would you be today?
For the second year in a row, I won’t be home for Mother’s Day. The gift I’ve sent, the card – even the phone call – isn’t much for 31 years of investment in my life. A mere token. But may it be known that my mom is worth the token – and much, much, much, much more.
“Her children arise up, and call her blessed…” Proverbs 31: 28a
“Probably nothing,” Dinah, the DON, answered. “I used to have my son and daughter and their families over. I would cook and clean up. But I’m tired of that.”
“You would cook and clean?” Jill wondered.
“Well, my daughter would help clean up. But, yes.“
“Why don’t they take you out to dinner?”
“They don’t do that. I’ll probably just go to church, pick up my dad at the nursing home and take him and my mom out to lunch. What will you do?”
“Well, my kids don’t live nearby anymore.”
“What did you do in the past?” Dinah asked.
“Nothing, really,” Jill said. “Mother’s Day is another Hallmark holiday. It’s a shame they have to set aside one day to appreciate moms.”
I agreed with the last statement I overheard in Dinah’s office this week – for mothers should be appreciated every day of their lives – but I felt more ashamed that kids can treat their mothers like these kids do.
Mothers do everything for us, from the day we’re conceived until the day they die. For nine months, the carry us. Their own body nourishes us. Then they go through intense pain to bring us into the world. From that day forth they are cooking, cleaning, feeding, driving, listening, finding, cheering, disciplining, laughing, crying, sacrificing, enjoying, frustrating, teaching, nurturing and every other thing in the world for, through, with and to us. Yet most of the time we take them for granted.
This will be my mother’s 31st Mother’s Day, and a novel the size of War and Peace isn’t enough room to state everything she has ever done for me. Much of it I can’t remember. I don’t remember being fed, or changed, or bathed. Holidays were made special, even though I wouldn’t recall them. She brushed my hair, and made my clothes, and took me to the beach, and tried to make life less boring – both for herself and me. Even as sibling after sibling came along, she still moved heaven and earth to get me to school, the dentist, ballet, gymnastics, sleepovers, softball, soccer, basketball, birthday parties and church activities. Then she homeschooled me – yes, all the way through high school. My mom has moved all over the country, hardly ever living in a house that was her own. She’s had to learn to love writing, piano, zebras, computers, swimming, roses, Africa, history, maple syrup and every other passing fancy her eight kids have attempted in their lives. Above all, who else do you go to when you just can’t take life anymore?
I do not understand kids who don’t appreciate their mothers. Who don’t want to cook them a meal or take them out to dinner one day out of the year. Who don’t send her a card, don’t call her on the phone and plainly don’t care. Sit back for a moment and try to picture your life if your mother had just brushed you off like you brush her off. Where would you be today?
For the second year in a row, I won’t be home for Mother’s Day. The gift I’ve sent, the card – even the phone call – isn’t much for 31 years of investment in my life. A mere token. But may it be known that my mom is worth the token – and much, much, much, much more.
“Her children arise up, and call her blessed…” Proverbs 31: 28a
Friday, May 7, 2010
Of Mice and...well, Forget the Men
It’s been one of those weeks with men, making mice a preferable topic. I don’t mean men in relation to me personally. Not exactly, anyway. But it’s a little hard to swallow when one of your closest friends tells you there might, maybe be a man probably interested in her. Because for me who has an imagination “too fast, too furious”, the “might, maybe and probably” of the conversation is missed while I imagine standing up at her wedding. Didn’t get as far as what color my dress would be, but I definitely got as far as I’m still very single and now even more alone. But pushing past the tears, it all ends up being a hoax – probably. For apparently the guy is hedging his bets and pursuing more than one girl. Guess desperation sets in by the age of thirty-six. Jerk.
So on to the preferable topic of mice. Again, I’m not referring to me personally. But back on the plains of
So, Dad set a trap in the garage. And caught a mouse. Next day, though, Caleb opened the back of the Suburban , moved something, and out scampered a mouse. Dad set another trap in the car. Caught another mouse. However, they’re still about – both in the car and in the garage. They’ve been heard. Dad is setting more traps. I suggested the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Mom says they’ll sick Rosie on them. You see, our cats don’t really catch mice. One isn’t interested and the other has caught one, but she’d be too scared to go out in the garage. However, Caleb’s dog Rosie loves them. She hunts then in the yard, chasing them and catching them – alive. Once she trotted back into the house, walked over to Sally who sat on the couch watching a movie and dropped one in her lap. A live one. For she just catches them in her long snout and doesn’t seem to get the idea they are more than a toy.
But perhaps Rosie will learn to be a hunter – even though Collies aren’t hunters by nature. Or maybe our cats will find their hunting extinct. Until then, Dad’s traps better do the trick. Unless anyone knows the number of a good Piper…
Monday, May 3, 2010
Forgiveness is a difficult thing. Sin does not wire us to naturally put aside grievances and wrongs done against us or others. We take the opposite view: we cling to offenses as if they were floating boards of wood after our ships wreck. We think they’re the only things that can save us from drowning – while if we would only look up we would find a ship ready to take us aboard and save us.
It’s true there are people in our lives who have done things to us, purposefully or not, that hurt more than words can express. The wounds aren’t just deep – they’re gaping. And time doesn’t heal. Our minds play them over and over again until our hearts ache and tears roll down our cheeks. Most of us know this pain that is very real, very hard, and very personal.
Yet we also know our Savior’s words in Matthew 6: “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” As one theologian put it, “Lord, may You forgive my faults and failures towards You to the same extent as I have forgiven the faults and failures of others towards me.” Would you like the Lord do that to you?
The truth is God’s forgiveness towards us does not depend upon our actions. We don’t have to do anything to gain His forgiveness and salvation. As Paul said in Romans, “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” So thankfully our gracious heavenly Father does not forgive us as we forgive others. And yet He does want us to forgive as He forgives. And we surely fall short of that.
Usually a day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of the one person I believe has caused the greatest pain in my life. It’s a hurt that festered for years before bursting forth, and the wound remains as tender now as then. As my pastor spoke on forgiveness from Matthew 6 Sunday morning, I thought of something I had read in Acts during my devotions. On the day of Pentecost, Peter spoke the crowd and stated that Christ was delivered into the wicked hands that crucified Him by the “determinate counsel” of God. In other words, the “definite plan” of a sovereign, foreordaining God. I had been thinking that morning as I readied myself for church that God also has a “definite plan” for my life. I think of that often, stuck in the concrete desert of Texas with a sweltering summer upon me, and find comfort in my heavenly Father and His love. Even here, I am in the palm of His hand. Nothing will happen to me He has not already seen and knows. Nor has anything happened in the last thirty years of my life that He had not seen and knew would be. So, I wondered on the drive home from church, God knew this person would hurt me and it was in His definite plan for my life. If I keep dredging the pain up with only a miniscule amount of forgiveness, am I truly mad at this person or am I really mad at my sovereign Father for letting it happen?
I’ve never really thought myself as mad at God for what’s happened and the ache in my heart over it. I’ve always given a nod of acknowledgement to God’s loving sovereignty over it all and the continual consequences. And, yet, I think I have been mad at God – or, at the very least, I have not forgiven as He forgives me.
So does this revelation give me an overwhelming capability to forgive? To forget? To get rid of this pain? No. To forgive, yes. To ask for grace every day to give the thing a rest in my mind, yes. To forget, unfortunately, never. To quit the pain, no. But it is one small step on this narrow road I am taking Home. And yet another reason to praise my loving Father for His grace to continue on.
It’s true there are people in our lives who have done things to us, purposefully or not, that hurt more than words can express. The wounds aren’t just deep – they’re gaping. And time doesn’t heal. Our minds play them over and over again until our hearts ache and tears roll down our cheeks. Most of us know this pain that is very real, very hard, and very personal.
Yet we also know our Savior’s words in Matthew 6: “And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” As one theologian put it, “Lord, may You forgive my faults and failures towards You to the same extent as I have forgiven the faults and failures of others towards me.” Would you like the Lord do that to you?
The truth is God’s forgiveness towards us does not depend upon our actions. We don’t have to do anything to gain His forgiveness and salvation. As Paul said in Romans, “For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” So thankfully our gracious heavenly Father does not forgive us as we forgive others. And yet He does want us to forgive as He forgives. And we surely fall short of that.
Usually a day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of the one person I believe has caused the greatest pain in my life. It’s a hurt that festered for years before bursting forth, and the wound remains as tender now as then. As my pastor spoke on forgiveness from Matthew 6 Sunday morning, I thought of something I had read in Acts during my devotions. On the day of Pentecost, Peter spoke the crowd and stated that Christ was delivered into the wicked hands that crucified Him by the “determinate counsel” of God. In other words, the “definite plan” of a sovereign, foreordaining God. I had been thinking that morning as I readied myself for church that God also has a “definite plan” for my life. I think of that often, stuck in the concrete desert of Texas with a sweltering summer upon me, and find comfort in my heavenly Father and His love. Even here, I am in the palm of His hand. Nothing will happen to me He has not already seen and knows. Nor has anything happened in the last thirty years of my life that He had not seen and knew would be. So, I wondered on the drive home from church, God knew this person would hurt me and it was in His definite plan for my life. If I keep dredging the pain up with only a miniscule amount of forgiveness, am I truly mad at this person or am I really mad at my sovereign Father for letting it happen?
I’ve never really thought myself as mad at God for what’s happened and the ache in my heart over it. I’ve always given a nod of acknowledgement to God’s loving sovereignty over it all and the continual consequences. And, yet, I think I have been mad at God – or, at the very least, I have not forgiven as He forgives me.
So does this revelation give me an overwhelming capability to forgive? To forget? To get rid of this pain? No. To forgive, yes. To ask for grace every day to give the thing a rest in my mind, yes. To forget, unfortunately, never. To quit the pain, no. But it is one small step on this narrow road I am taking Home. And yet another reason to praise my loving Father for His grace to continue on.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
My Week
Seems like there's not much to write about this week. Things have been pretty normal. Work was incredibly slow. I'm not complaining. We needed a slow week. And it only means I'll soon be running circles again...
Played tennis, went to my writer's critique group, jumped rope, jogged, played on the wii, watched a movie, read and learned to play a card game called Pennies from Grandpa. It was fun...even though I didn't start out very well.
Went to a lady's luncheon at church today. It was very nice, although it's another one of those moments when I feel a bit lonely. Growing up surrounded by sisters, it's strange to go to something like that by yourself.
And I got a new experience today: I watched the Kentucky Derby. All two minutes of it. I don't think I'll ever get into that kind of sport but it's much more exciting that Nascar. The horses run around the course once and the race is over. Nascar? They drive around a course a gazillion times and you wait forever. How does anyone find that exciting?
Played tennis, went to my writer's critique group, jumped rope, jogged, played on the wii, watched a movie, read and learned to play a card game called Pennies from Grandpa. It was fun...even though I didn't start out very well.
Went to a lady's luncheon at church today. It was very nice, although it's another one of those moments when I feel a bit lonely. Growing up surrounded by sisters, it's strange to go to something like that by yourself.
And I got a new experience today: I watched the Kentucky Derby. All two minutes of it. I don't think I'll ever get into that kind of sport but it's much more exciting that Nascar. The horses run around the course once and the race is over. Nascar? They drive around a course a gazillion times and you wait forever. How does anyone find that exciting?
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