Come for Tea

A silly "thrill of a lifetime" for me was being served a true Dorset tea by an English woman in her 250 year old house in the little town of Wareham, surrounded by Saxon walls (though half the size of what they had originally been). This is living in real history. The old house is in incredible shape, with inside shutters and an amazing English garden in the back. This is one of those houses whose door opens right up on the winding village street, each house attached to the next.

We entered through the tiny car park at the back gate. The "coffee" table was laid with the tea things. Napkins, small sterling silver butter knives, small blue and white plates, cups and saucers, and the cream and sugar. After we had given our greetings, we sat down and out came the tea pot, a plate of buttered scones, a plate of buttered raisin toast and a Dorset apple loaf cake. And of course, raspberry jam and divine clotted cream that was the "cream of the crop." The very finest top of the cream. It looked like yellow butter. The proper way, though much debated, is to put the jam on first and then a touch of the cream. Milk in the teacup first of course. Mmmmmm. Around and around the lovely goodies were passed. "You must have some more." It seemed the thing to take more than one, and have seconds at that. (This type of nonsense must only be allowed because the Brits walk so much!) I was so touched. I just sat and thoroughly enjoyed the moment, taking it all in, not believing I was where I was.

Interesting conversation with the tea preceded a tour of the house. Then we walked down the road to the 11th century parish church...where there was a flower festival wrapping up. We saw a cast iron baptismal font that was carefully hidden when Lord Cromwell turned anything made of iron into canon balls. The church had been burned once, rebuilt, and at one time fell down. But the very front chapel in one corner is original. It is now a prayer room. As I stared at the small chairs gathered for their current mid week prayer service, I could not help but sense history in a tangible way. Here believers had gathered throughout history and prayed for things like the Black Plague, the French Revolution, the War of 1812--you get the picture. This is the site where Edward's, the brief King of England, body had initially laid (in the 900s) after being murdered by his stepmother's aide, in order that her younger son become king. Later his body was sent to Dorchester.

We also heard the story of a mother whose son had died in France in the war, his body never found. In despair the mother herself years later went to the battlefield where he had fallen. She ate some food while she sat remembering his life, later burying the rubbish in the ground. As she dug she struck something--and found it was something of her son's belongings. An excavation soon took place and in no time her son's body had been found and brought back to Wareham to be buried. True story! There was a flower memorial in the church to this young soldier.

OK, this is the final bit about our trip to England!

First Class Feet

There's a mesh curtain that flight attendants are very careful to keep closed during flights, even though it's a pain to unfasten it as they move about the plane. It separates the first or envoy class from the common folk. You can see through it, but I guess it's a barrier/reminder NOT to use the envoy bathrooms. That's against the rules. But, apparently, tourist feet by themselves are okay to go through the "great divide."

When we waited in the "preferred flyer" US Air lounge in Gatwick this week, the young woman behind the desk worked her craft to get us into Row 8, the "bulkhead"(with my very tall husband's medical history he has some "clot clout"). She claimed she got us the "very best seat." (Was God reserving it for us? Where were the babies that needed it for their cots?). The deal was, with four seats across, the row end seats in the bulkhead have nothing but space in front of them. Ah, stretching room! Right under the curtain and into first class went my tall husband's feet. No complaints from any sensitive envoy noses either. His feet rode first class the whole way across the Atlantic! Does God have a sense of humor or what?

Holey Clogs

Months ago when we booked our flight to the United Kingdom, only God knew that we would be flying on the day the London Heathrow terrorist plot broke loose, and therefore all airports and travel were a mass of confusion. Throughout our departure day we fielded calls and e-mails from concerned friends, family and neighbors. Would we still go?

We concluded this would actually be a very safe day to travel. And by the time we arrived at the airport later in the day, it was a pretty quiet place. Over half of those booked on our flight had canceled. Were we smart, or were they the smart ones?

The actual boarding process was what brought us back to the reality and gravity of the situation. We were ushered into a small, stifling room where 12 men (police, FBI and federal marshals) lined the entrance and stared at us as we moved slowly towards a table manned by about eight security people. They searched every part of our carry on luggage as if looking for a priceless treasure. No liquids allowed of course––not even chapstick!

It did make us feel rather safe and throughout the flight we made a sort of game of guessing who was our in-flight sky marshal. We were sure there was one.

Our first introduction to Lizzie and Oliver's mum was when we found her straddling a bank of seats, trying to squeeze two good-size booster seats and carry-ons into the overhead compartment. More of her strawberry-blonde, frizzy hair escaped than was held in by a big barrette as she flashed us a smile of thanks as we assisted her. She was obviously one of those persons who was very at home with herself, full of personality, and "didn't know a stranger." That personality spilled into her two tousled blonde-haired children––Lizzie, five, seated on her mum's far side, practicing her reading from an old Lady bird reader; and Oliver, seven, who sat across the aisle from us, intent on engaging us in conversation. All three were wearing those trendy plastic, bright colored clogs covered with holes. They were headed for a wedding. Dad, presumably American, was coming a week later.

Oliver was cunning, witty, and, with a twinkle in his eyes, made us laugh. While our big old airbus waited over an hour on the tarmac for a storm to pass, we discussed all kinds of things and told stories and jokes. While still a kid, Oliver was definitely at home with adults, and not shy at all. We won't soon forget him. "So, do you have another joke?" He kept plying for more, even though he didn't "get" all of them.

Once we got in the air, we flew right through the same storm we'd sat through on the ground. There was much banging, creaking and rattling in the cabin. Oliver's mum, a Brit, leaned over to us. "Have you flown US Air before?"

"Yes, many times."

"Do you generally get there in one piece?"

"Yes," came our reassurance, though at that moment we had some question. We did arrive safely. And thankfully. Now to face the return trip. This time we may only be allowed to carry on a clear zip lock bag. And no chapstick of course.

Letters from Cyberspace

I am thinking about this online journal stuff––blogs and all. It’s kind of nice to keep a record online that can be accessed any time one has internet hookup and time on their hands. There are creative uses for it. I know a lady who has cancer and writes every day. People can check in on her progress and what she’s learning about God and life whenever they want, but don’t have a daily e-mail update filling their in-box. Another young man with cancer posts updates on a friend’s website. And it’s always good to read what individuals are thinking and struggling with––particularly those who are vulnerably honest.

But will all this be still floating in cyberspace a hundred years from now? Members of our family are reading old letters between our grandparents and parents right now, written with penmanship that perhaps helps to express the personality of those writing. It’s something very special, like reaching out and touching their lives. Stepping inside the door of their souls. In a very real way the letters are an emblem of who we are as children and grandchildren––a window into our heritage.

What will future generations have left of their history? Will e-mail letters be around? They won’t show a tear smudge or words crossed out for better ones. It’s something to think about. I suppose I won’t be around 100 years from now, so why fret? Will the blogs or e-mails be shifted to heaven? Will we even care about the past then? Somehow I think history will always be around. And very much something to remember, celebrate, and, of course, learn lessons from. I guess I better get my pen out and start a letter.

Rocking Chair Grace

We roll down the windows and let a fresh breeze spill in as our car chugs up the winding roads into the mountains. The crisp clear air begs for us to breathe deeply as if to cleanse away the city pollution from our lungs. It’s time for lunch but we have yet to find a nook alongside the road to eat our sandwiches. I breathe a prayer, “Lord, help us to find a really special spot for our lunch.” After all, we had opted to go the cheap route, and not look for a cute little teashop along the road. Don’t we deserve a picnic to remember?

In less than a minute a road sign announces a rest/visitor center just up ahead. Wow, a quick answer. As we drive into a pristine park-like setting, we notice that all the shady picnic tables are of course occupied. We ride around the mountain-style building, boasting a porch on all sides. There on the back porch are two rocking chairs, quietly waiting for us, as if we’d booked ahead with reservations! We park nearby and sit down to rock our way through a simple lunch. Much too simple for the beauty we look out on. We are completely alone with a sea of day lilies, backed by a lawn as green as grass can be. One majestic mountain after another rises in the distance like waves billowing on the sea. A soft breeze blows as we rock and munch sandwiches and carrot sticks. And I ponder the quick answer to my silent prayer. Several people interrupt the quiet as they come out of a nearby door and with an “I-wish-I-had-thought-to-eat-lunch-here” inflection to their voices, congratulate us on our creative use of the rockers.

I wonder about this dining spot prepared for us. If I hadn’t prayed, would we still have seen the road sign and found the rockers? Was it a “God-thing” or just a coincidence? As I thank Him profusely from my heart, I assume it is of God, but why?

The answer comes from history. From experience I know God ordains my days, and has as long as I’ve known Him. Recorded history tells the rest of the story. Everything in life––even “coincidences”––works because of Him. And if that wasn’t true, and there was such a thing as “just happened,” I would still delight to give Him the glory for it. For us this day––amazing rocking chair grace!


"Seek to cultivate a buoyant, joyous sense of the crowded kindness of God in your daily life." A. Maclaren

Roomies

Two friends get together for lunch today. College roommates 64 years ago. They both seem "young for their age," are recent widows, and have kept in touch through the years. A good project––keeping a friendship going so many years. Something of great value. What a fun visit they will have today!

To Grandmother’s House We Go

Forty-five years is a long time not to know each other. But there we were, strangely familiar to each other, connected by strong genes and a family history, once again in our grandparents' house. It seemed much the same, now 38 years since our grandmother's death and 38 years since another family began calling the house "home." Their family had grown up here, new children called it "grandmother's house," yet with much unchanged we were able to slip back in time. Our aunt once again filled the house with beautiful sounds of her piano playing. We sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness"––indeed a theme of our family.

A new generation of children tumbled outside on the lawn, teenagers talked on the porch, my twin cousins stood in the paneled library where for hours we had read our grandmother's books. Down in the basement we remembered ping-pong games and a special birthday party.

We took turns taking our pictures at the kitchen sink where we remembered our grandmother best. Large ferns graced the dining room windows where Grandmother's ferns had also flourished. I looked at my mother standing in a dining room virtually unchanged by the years. I knew she was back at family dinners––Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays––strongly missing many at the table whose places would now be empty.

For a brief 90 minutes the house had become ours again, graciously enabled by the second and current owners of the home our grandfather so beautifully built. We were given the gift of going back in time and reliving childhood memories because they too understood family and the importance of a home filled with memories. All around were cousins, aunts and an uncle---just as it had been so many years ago. What an amazing experience. We told secrets, explored our favorite hiding places, shared stories, and loved on each other, spurred on by memories tucked in every nook and cranny.

But then it was time to go. The grand piano was really a spinet, the library cuckoo clock was silent and no chimes sounded from a grandfather clock in the front hall. Slowly we came back to the present, wiped back tears, and said good-bye, ending a two-day cousin family reunion, each of us profoundly affected. It is time to get back to the present, but we will not forget the gift we had been given that hot June day.

The Incredible Human Body

The human body is amazing in the way it heals, rebuilds, and rejuvenates, among other things. Re. last spokes post: no more knee pain, no more walking needed, and no more napping!

Spokes

I distinctly remember my last bike ride in 1978. We loved to ride our bikes in those years when we thought we'd be young forever. Long trips--even overnight--and short rides. I frequently rose at 5 am and biked the short distance to Lake Michigan. The birds singing interrupted quiet stillness as I watched the sun slip above the horizon. The morning before our first son came into our lives I knew it would be the last ride for a while. As I savored the solitude one last time, I pondered that life would never be quite the same again.(Indeed, but far richer!) My next bike ride was with a baby on the back of the bike.(And how we enjoyed those rides!)

I've continued irregularly to do short bike rides up and down the highs and lows of our deceptively hilly neighborhood. But in recent days we've enjoyed rides again in earnest. It's much the same as years ago except for a few differences. The left knee aches as the peddles rotate around. I no longer ride a racing bike with low handlebars and I'm not as agile as I use to be. But the REP will never change! We enjoy a little break on a park bench, as I find I don't push myself to the degree I used to. When my legs feel like rubber, I'm not ashamed to walk part of the very significant hill we meet on the home stretch. And I fight off the desire for a big nap when it's over. But otherwise the thrill is just the same, and I think I'm 25 again.

Did I Get it Right?

My mother is visiting my sister for a few days. I find myself calling each day to check on things. It's hard to let go when you are used to watching out for someone, and thinking about their well being all the time. Mom used to live where my sister lives, and this is her first time back without Daddy, and seeing old friends she hasn't seen in a good while. A couple of them met for lunch. My sister said, "If you had been with us you would have blogged about this." There they were--three old friends--two with walkers and one with a cane, missing a lot of important people in their lives, but still sharing friendship and remembering old times together. A mixed bag for sure, but in the great scheme of life, a big blessing. I decided to blog it anyway. Did I get it right?

A Bouquet of Providence

Sometimes, in the life of faith in the unknown and unseen, we are allowed a good picture of why something happened as it did.

This Mother's Day I had to work. I tried to focus on the joy of caring for new mothers and their babies, on a day that celebrated motherhood. But in the back of my mind was my own dear 80-something mother at her retirement community, eating Sunday dinner alone in a room filled with mothers and children celebrating together. Later in the day Mom called me at work to tell me that my brother had taken the all night train in order to surprise her Mother's Day morning! She had a wonderful day with her son. And Tom had no idea when he made his plan that Mom would be alone that day. But God knew and choreographed the whole thing.

I discovered a "divinely-allowed" nail in my tire just in time to drive my brother to catch his train home in the wee hours long before dawn--and not to the safest part of town. I embraced my faith and thanked God for this opportunity to trust Him as I drove through a darkened city. By the time Tom called to make sure I had made it home, I was snuggled back in bed. Meanwhile he sat on a "train station pew bench" with other dozing riders, awaiting an increasingly delayed Amtrak. But he did good to come, a thoughtful son leaving a generous, caring wife and daughters to spend Mother's Day on their own.

God graced us with a celebration of His providence.

Blue Sole Shoes

The blueberry farm was a bevy of activity when we visited last week. Both men and women worked the fields, covered from head to toe to protect them from the Florida sun as they rapidly picked the lush berries off the bushes. One bucket on their belts, and three waiting on the ground. When all four were filled, they marched up to their foreman who scanned their cards and credited them their four buckets. Inside the packing house blueberries were everywhere. A small group of men hovered over the belt, picking out bad berries and making sure they fell properly into little plastic containers. These were put into boxes and the boxes were stacked and placed in a huge refrigerator the size of a small warehouse. Before this harvest scene came months of careful growing, including fending off swarms of hungry birds, and staying up all night to protect the fruit from heavy freezes. We're just beginning to learn what all there is to farming as we visit our farmer nephew. When we left, savoring the sweetness of our blueberry dessert, we checked the bottom of our shoes as we got in the car. Blue soles!

relative strangers

In two months 15 "relative strangers" with shared memories will gather in a hotel outside Philadelphia. An enigma? The key is the word "relative." It's actually a double entendre, or sort of pun. For, as a matter of fact, we 15 strangers are relatives. We're cousins, and all have the same grandparents. Our dads were brothers, growing up in a lively family in the 20s and 30s. All but one have left this earth, leaving us a wonderful heritage, and we will celebrate that heritage when we gather.

We knew each other as cousins do as children--the occasional family summer visit (we lived in various parts of the country) or Christmas gatherings around our Grandmother's table. A few of us have gotten re-acquainted through e-mail and sharing in the declining health of our parents and funerals. But for some of us it's been 40 years since we've met.

As we make plans--gathering photos, digging into family history, arranging tours, and updating the family tree, we wish our dads were here to enjoy this time. How they would! We guess they know what we are up to. We hope we get the story right. I'm sure they will share a few smiles as they watch us try!

Yawns and Bursts of Laughter

"Which one did my wife make?" I read this today. It was a caption to a photo of Dad in a church supper line. He always wanted to find what his wife brought--he knew that would be good, safe food.

I am missing Dad a lot this Spring, and as Easter approaches...his first resurrection Sunday in Glory. Hubert van Zetter in Moments of Light, wrote this about missing someone. It is quoted in Jan Karon's A Continual Feast:

"It is not that we feel cut off from the bigger spiritual relationship which survives death, but from the hundred and one lesser links which bind people together, incidental things which when looked back on seem of enduring significance, but which were taken so much for granted at the time. The other person's sense of humor, prejudices, moods, all that has gone. For the rest of our lives we will have to do without his mannerisms, his shyness, his ways of pronouncing things. The voice is silent--we had expected it would be--but that the yawns and bursts of laughter will never be repeated is almost more than we can bear...Those moments were not passing moments at all. They had something in them of eternity...."

A Spring Mow

I love cutting the grass this time of year. Its lush green color and rich scent spill into my psyche. The tidy definitive rows do something for my love of orderliness and sense of accomplishment. And when I mow I wish I could be a child in our yard. My mower turns a corner under trees that would make wonderful tea party places or passes over expanses of lawn begging for blankets spread out for doll playing. There's a few potential climbing trees and tall bushes for hide and seek. Mowing affords time for my mind to deliciously wander back to childhood and visions of delight in simple things. An hour later muscles may ache, but my mind is refreshed like I've been on a short holiday.

The Great Rebellion

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, maybe not stormy, but a blustery wind had kicked up. The air was crisp and cold as we crept through the brush. Ahead of us loomed our destination. Tall and gleaming in moonlight filtering through clouds--the water tower! The first step was not easily accessible; it was our shoulder height. We struggled as the more agile assisted the clumsier to swing up to the ladder. My hands clung to the cold metal as I secured my footing and began to climb.

We giggled, chortled, whispered commentaries--a group of young men and women during Freshman Week. We were experiencing the thrill of new independence that early college life brings. The Water Tower was strictly off limits.

We embraced the event and talked about it for days after, glad to have made a memory. It was my first (well, sort of) big rebellion.

Tulips on the Garden Path

As the daffodils fade and azaleas bloom overnight, I frequently remember how much my father and I enjoyed spring a year ago. I'd push Daddy in his wheelchair around garden paths, from tulips to flowering shrubs, until I wearied and we'd settle on the rocking chair porch for a view of the lake. Again and again (at least once a minute) he would point with joy in his eyes and exclaim over flowers, swimming swans, or anything else of beauty around him. What pleasure he experienced each and every time!

Midst a life stage where Dad maybe felt disappointment at how little he could do for himself (but how do we know for sure what he felt?) he experienced a richness of pleasure with his intact senses. And with that he enabled us to experience joy again each time with him, as we would look and exclaim again and again! A gift of grace--so much pleasure at such a difficult time of life! Blessings come wrapped in unusual packages!

Around and around and around

It is a bright and sunny Sunday. Spring is popping out everywhere you look with the accompanying allergies. I left the house earlier than my husband this morning to go and bring my newly widowed mother to church. Usually that is followed by a leisurely meal together. But as I drive off every Sunday towards her house, I see a spinning wheel. Life comes at you fast, and in circles, around and around and around. For it seems like just yesterday that my mother was leaving the house early on a Sunday to pick up her mother, newly widowed, to bring to our church and home for dinner. Blink and 30 years have flown by. Everything is cyclical, isn't it--bills, seasons, growling stomachs, final exams....it all comes again and again, as do generational patterns! I guess we are old enough to take all that in now, as we see our parents' generation gracefully slipping into old age and death. Our kids are now the ones exploring and enjoying independence as young adults that it seems we were doing just a short while ago. What will it be like 30 years forward from now?

Unanswered Questions

My father called me Podso. I never knew why. When I was a child I had this idea it was an Indian (aka Native American) name. I don't remember ever wondering enough to ask him where the name came from, but I remember rather liking the idea that Podso was his special name just for me. He rarely called me that as an adult, and now the "why Podso" is included in a growing list of "I wish I had asked Daddy that...."

I guess as children we don't wonder about those kind of things like we do when we become older adults. The excitement of growing up, buying a home, having a career, raising kids suddenly slows down as you settle in life. Then time to think arrives and you wonder.....

My father very gradually lost his short term memory. His long term memory stayed pretty sharp, but his ability to speak full sentences gradually diminished, so that eventually we had guessing games when we asked him questions. His main reply towards the end of his life was a gaze intently into our eyes, telling us he had the answer, and most likely wishing so much he could share it. "Search deeply in my eyes and you'll get the answer."

The questions we ask unlock more about who we are. Or the why of who we are. As we grow older, albeit content to be who we've turned out to be, we still like to put puzzle pieces together.