According to Webster’s, a tradition is a belief or custom handed down from one generation to another.  We all have traditions within our families and communities.   Those special, sometimes even peculiar, ways that we celebrate life together and mark the time that has passed.  For most of us, we celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations.  We also share holidays together like Easter, Fourth of July, and Halloween.  But it is at this time of year – November and December – that we seem to more intensely cling to the traditions we have established to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Whether it’s the chill in the air that makes us want to huddle together, the smells that remind us of the changing seasons, or nostalgic memories that cause us to try to recreate years passed — all these things add to the joy and the struggle of keeping our holiday traditions.

As a child, this time of year usually meant at least one trip back to Laurel, Mississippi, the town where both of my parents grew up and where most of our extended family lived.  For a city girl, Laurel was a sweet small town, and the outskirts held dairy and chicken farms to visit.  There were grandparents to see, lots of aunts and uncles, and country cousins to play with.  And there was FOOD, lots and lots of food; but it wasn’t the usual dishes that mom served at home.  There were things like chicken and dumplings, fresh squirrel stew (shot by my dad and his brothers), peas and butter beans, and turnips and other greens.  Back in the New Orleans suburbs, this time of year meant spending time with neighborhood friends, keeping the air-conditioner from blowing the tinsel off the Christmas tree, and, of course, anticipating what we would get for Christmas.

I know men and women who have served or are serving in our country’s military branches — family members and friends.  I remember when, as a teenager, I had cousins and friends close to my age who were being called off to serve in the Vietnam war.

I’ve visited the Pearl Harbor Memorial, where my dad served, and war memorials in Washington DC, Gettysburg and other cities.  They are all quite sobering.  

Last week I had the privilege to visit a little known Air Force museum in Fort Walton Beach Florida that is a part of the Eglin Air Force Base there.  I’m not sure what I expected.  But something about actually standing next to the airplanes that were flown by Air Force pilots moved me.  

As I stood there peeking through the cockpit windows I was moved by what it must be like for our military men and women to be serving – often in danger, covert missions, far away from their homes and families.  The years of training they invested.  The hours of study and practice to perfect their skills.  The accidents, near accidents and outright tragedies that they often experienced.  I was struck by how young many of them were; by the names painted beneath the cockpit windows and the mascots painted on the noses of the planes.  

I imagined what it was like to be the wife or mother of a pilot flying in so many dangerous conditions.  What it must be like to be waiting at home day after day, trying to balance the demands of everyday ordinary routines while holding your breath hoping that your loved one is safe in some far away place.  I cannot imagine the wealth of emotions family members feel — worrying over their safety, grieving over their loss, swelling with pride in their courage and commitment.  

As we walked through the exhibits, we could see the progression of aircraft, guns and other weaponry over the last century.  Planes have become both larger and more streamlined allowing them to be more versatile in their uses.  Cockpit instrument panels have become smaller in size yet more complex in their controls.  And with these changes, personnel are required to endure more extensive training as they complete ever more complicated assignments.

Though I’ve been to other battlefields and museums, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so personally affected or connected to those who have served protecting our country.  And while I try to be quick to tell all those who have served “thank you for your service”, “thank you” is too small to express the gratitude for all that’s been sacrificed.  Sacrifices that allow me to speak and move about freely; sacrifices that ensure that I have choices and opportunities to determine for myself what my life will look like.  Sacrifices that have been made on my behalf by others, most of whom I’ll never know their names.  

So, to all those who have served, whether full or part-time, close to home or around the world – “THANK YOU!”  It’s just two small words, but the sentiment and appreciation are the greatest.  

Last year, 2017, I felt like God impressed me with a particular verse from Psalm 51 — “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew your steadfast Spirit within me.”  Over and over, daily and sometimes many times on a given day, I would find myself reciting this verse and praying it back to God.  As the time went by, I began to appreciate the words in a deeper way; and I called on God to change my heart in so many areas.  In some of my previous posts I talk about the struggles I’ve had with obsessive thoughts and the influence of allowing outside media a prominent place in my time and habits.

When 2018 began, I prayed and asked God if He would have a different verse for me to focus on.  The verse I believe He directed me to is from Ecclesiastes 3:4 – A time to weep and a time to laugh; A time to mourn and a time to dance.  Anyone who knows me or has followed these writings knows exactly the source of my weeping and mourning in recent years.  And while I don’t think  that I will ever stop missing Michael and thinking of him, I have turned my focus to laughing and dancing, both figuratively and literally.

In the last six months I have had the privilege and adventure to meet a number of new friends – friends who have expressed an interest in a dating relationship.  And yes, you may have guessed, I met them through online dating sites.  I know, I’ve even surprised myself.  I will reassure you that I have been cautious and discerning.  I have taken much time to try to get to know them before allowing them to contact me personally.  I have surprised, even shocked, my children and my friends.  And while their initial reactions were not always what I would have liked, more and more they are beginning to understand that this is a new season of life for me, filled with new experiences and possibilities.  And the beginning of a new season in no way erases the seasons that have gone by.

These new friends come from a wide variety of backgrounds and vocations, and my experiences with each have been just as varied.  There’s the insurance agent who lives down on the bayou, who loved to text me for an extended period of time but was never ready to meet in person.  The writer who was ready for a third date when I wasn’t, and then wasn’t interested when I was.  The policeman who was fascinating and told me how beautiful he thought I was, but had a filthy mouth and no desire to change his vocabulary.  The inventor and custom car builder who was just too wild for this old fashioned girl.  And the residential contractor who was raising a 10 year old foster son while juggling a relationship with the boy’s drug addicted mother.  And while none of these new relationships will take a romantic direction, I can honestly say that any one of them could walk in the room and we would each call the other friend.

Oh, and there’s one more . . .

Yes, this is a new season in my life.  I never thought I’d be in this place, considering the last time I went on a first date was 1975.  Life looks very different at sixty than it did at twenty, and that includes dating and dating relationships.  Sometimes it takes you on an emotional roller-coaster.  Sometimes it occupies too much of your time and energy.  For many, the rules and expectations are much different than they were forty years ago.  And it calls you to make a decision – do you change with the times and ideas of twenty-first century dating relationships, or do you stick with the boundaries you set for yourself and preached to your children?

So I guess I’m just publicly acknowledging what’s been going on privately for a number of months.  I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this post, or I should say, where I’m not going.  Because you see, my current adventure is not over.  In fact, it may be just beginning.

Some time back I wrote a piece on trying to become more fun and more adventurous.  Since then I have made a concerted effort to do new things that push me out of my comfort zone.  I think it’s good to challenge myself and I’m learning that there are new things and experiences that I enjoy and new people that I have met.  This doesn’t come naturally to me.  While I’m friendly and often outgoing, it’s easy for me to retreat into an introverted version of myself.  So I press on.

In that same piece and another, I have also written of my goal to be more “present”.  For me that means feeling more and expressing those feelings more.  At times it has meant being willing to let myself cry when for years I would not.  It has also meant being willing to express myself in various forums, including this blog, and risk being vulnerable to others’ opinions.  And family, friends and strangers have been encouraging as I took the chance.

[Side note:  Most of the time once I post on the blog, I find myself “hiding out” for a while – my way of finding a safe place when I’m feeling vulnerable to others’ criticisms.]

But there’s something else I’ve learned as well.   With the openness and public revealing of yourself, sometimes you humiliate yourself.  Sometimes you can say things in the moment that look very different the next day.  Sometimes taking the chance to express your emotions can lead to making a fool of yourself.  Sometimes you look back and cringe with embarrassment at something you’ve said or done.  And you can’t take it back.  At best you can try to hold your head up, hold the tears in, and walk on.

But where’s the lesson?  When you risk it and fall, do you dare risk it again?  Do you dare put your heart on display for the world knowing that you may be embarrassed/ mortified/ red-faced/ humiliated (I’ve run out of descriptive words) again?    Why not just retreat back to the same safe place you’ve been for so long?  It might not be as exciting, but it also doesn’t hurt as much.  Or do you dare to keep going, to keep trying, to keep putting your heart on display knowing full well that the world may trample upon it again?  Or is taking that chance even more foolish than the fact that you’ve already been made a fool once?

Is it worth the risk to be made a fool a second or third time?

And where do you go for first aid for your heart?  Do you stay in bed and refuse to go outside?  Do you binge on ice cream and chocolate for dinner?   Do you watch that Hallmark movie and then scream at the TV?   Nope.  You dust yourself off, put one foot in front of the other and go out to live life again.  Maybe followed by some retail therapy.

At this point some might quote the immortal words of Lord Alfred Tennyson:  “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

However, I think I’ll quote a different philosopher:                                    “I’d rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.”                                                                                                                                                             Shelby from Steel Magnolias

A few days ago I got a call from a friend asking me to join her for a few hours one day as a volunteer in a local school for developmentally disabled children and adults.  The plan was to provide a spa day for the girls and young women there.  There would be multiple stations where the girls could move from one to the other for manicures, hand and foot massages, etc.  While we worked with each of the girls it would be a great opportunity to chat with each one, get to know them, and to just generally love on them and make them feel special.

As it happened I was available on the day in question and was happy to participate.  I looked forward to the experience of going to a school that I had never visited before, though I had heard of the work there many times.  I will confess that sometimes, as I anticipate volunteering, my mind will begin to convince me of what a noble work it is that I am doing.  And before long, rather than seeking to serve and bless others, my mindset becomes one of piously helping those who are less fortunate than me.

During my time there at the school, I had a few minutes to chat with one of the young ladies.  I believe she told me her name was Carol.  She was quick to tell me that she would have a birthday next month, and when I asked she told me she would be thirty-three.  She then went on to explain to me that she had been born three months early and that she was so small that she was able to fit in the palm of a person’s hand.  I couldn’t resist asking her which hospital she was born in and she told me Ochsner.

Now these details may not seem important to you, but my oldest daughter will also be having a birthday, at the end of this month, and she will also be thirty-three years old.  And, like Carol, my oldest daughter was born at Ochsner, more than three months premature, and fit in the palm of her father’s hand.  In fact, Carol and Christy were born just eleven days apart and would have both been in the neonatal intensive care unit together.

Can you just imagine how God put this meeting together?  In the middle of my sanctimonious piety about volunteering, God allowed me the sweetest of blessings – meeting Carol.  He reminded me of His goodness and of how great my Christy’s journey has been.  He reminded me that the night before Christy was born the doctors gave her just a 20% chance of survival.  They then told us that if she did survive she would live her life in an institution, deaf and blind, never able to communicate with us or do the things that other children did.  As I met and talked to Carol I couldn’t help but note that amidst her sweet disposition and friendly manner, she lived with great physical and developmental challenges every day of her life; while my daughter defied the odds to earn multiple college degrees, pursue her profession and live independently as a wife and mother.

My first inward response was, of course, one of thankfulness and amazement that I had the opportunity to meet this remarkable young woman.  But as I drove home later in the day, there was another realization that hit me.  If you know me or have followed this blog, you know that over the last four years I have wondered why we did not have a different outcome during Michael’s illness.  Why could he not recover and thrive after his transplant like so many others?  Why did he even receive a transplant if his life would only be lengthened by a few weeks?

Today, I began to remember that I have been on the other side of that coin.  I have been the one who received the most positive outcome from a difficult situation, while others did not.  I have been the one to walk out and leave the hard days behind me, while others dealt with difficult challenges day after day, year after year.  And in that situation, never once did I ask God, “Why?”  Never once did I think about all the others who dealt with the disappointment of broken dreams and the heartache of “if only”.   And here God led me to another layer of gratitude – the gratitude that no matter where I am, and no matter what the outer circumstances look like in my life, my God is always there with me, growing me into His likeness.  I may not see His hand at the time and I don’t expect to ever understand His ways, but I know that, whether I get the result I seek or not, my God will cause all things to work together for my good so that I may become conformed to the image of His Son.

God, may I not look to the visible and temporal results on this earth, but may I trust You to use whatever means necessary to make me more like Christlike.

For momentary, light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory far beyond all comparison, while we look not at the things which are seen but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal.                              2 Corinthians 4:17-18

I have seen the television news reports of the Israel/Arab conflicts for as long as I can remember – bombs and terrorists, screams and crying mothers.

I have been driven through a Palestinian refugee camp where whole generations know only this way of living.

I have seen the walls and the barbed wire that separate two groups of people.

I have watched the soldiers pace at the border and carefully check the papers of each one who crosses.

I have read the names of those who have been killed by each side.

I have stared at the graffiti on the wall that shows my country’s flag on the planes that drop the bombs.

I have been looked at scornfully by men as I walked through the streets because I was a woman in the company of men.

I have been avoided by women because I was a woman without her head covered in public.

I have been told that each side is wrong, that each side is the aggressor, that each side should leave the land.

I have heard parents tell the story of their grief because their child has been killed by someone from the other side.

I have been chastised in languages I don’t understand because I am obviously American.

I have been viewed in a certain light because of the way I dress / speak / look.

I have had women who did not speak my language and did not dress like me, smile at me and offer to share their picnic lunch with me, making sure that I was told by the interpreter that it was homemade, not store bought.

I’ve had these same women pose with me for a picture with my camera, and then ask for a picture with me using their camera.

I have begun to question the simple answers that I always assumed were correct since I have been confronted with individuals rather than just ideologies.

I have seen so many examples and consequences of the conflict in this land.  And yet I think the biggest conflict in Israel right now is the conflict within my own heart.  The struggle to see beyond the foreign clothing and to hear beyond the foreign languages.  The struggle to not immediately judge those around me because they are different from me.  The struggle to hold back tears when I think of how easily my mind and heart revert to assumptions and stereotypes.  The struggle to love others who are different.  The struggle to understand why I struggle, since God has not only loved me unconditionally but has put His power within me to do the same to all those around me.

I think the greatest conflict in Israel today may be the conflict within my own heart – a conflict that only the love and grace of God can resolve.  If it’s this way in my heart, could it be this way in the hearts of others?  And if God can solve the conflict within me, perhaps that is the conflict that will end all the other conflicts I have seen.

I have probably only had dreams of Michael two or three times in the last 3 1/2 years.  But I’ve had dreams for the last two nights with him.  Monday night it was just me and him together.  Last night it was just his voice on the phone – like I was at the office and he was telling me where to find something for him.

Oh how I miss him. I am so lonely so much of the time.  I don’t want to be crying so much lately.

My God gives comfort to the sorrowful.  I want to look to Him and Him only for my comfort.  (Not food or laziness or relationships or shopping or money or tv.)

This is the day that the Lord has made.  I will rejoice and be glad in it.  Today is worth rejoicing simply because God has given me this day.  It is a gift from Him to me, so I will rejoice, be grateful and appreciative, and I will not let it be wasted in sorrow or tears or pity.

There will never be another February 28, 2018.  God, do not let me waste it or take it for granted.  Do not let me squander it by living in the past or worrying about the future.  Help me to learn to live in the present.  It is not something that I know naturally how to do.  But I know that You can show me how.  Guide me.  Help me to hear Your voice.  Strengthen me to follow Your prompting and to do Your will.  Give me the desire and the strength to put aside the things that are not Your plan for me, even though a part of me still wants to hang on to them.

Show me how to divide my day between quite times of reflection where I encounter You, and times of productive busy-ness that will keep me doing Your will and not allowing the devil to have any foothold or influence in my life.

I love You God.  And I submit my life and particularly this day to You, to have Your way.  While I still struggle with my own desires and silly daydreams, I know that You alone love me with a love that seeks the very best for me.  Thank you for loving me this way.  Help me to trust you more with each hour today.

This time of the year I always enjoy those television shows where we watch the year in review, recapping all the news and celebrity happenings from the last twelve months.  Even as a kid I remember watching them.  So often as I watch I think, “Did that just happen this year?”  It’s amazing how much we can cram into 365 days.  Looking back 2017 seems to have flown by.  And yet, looking forward, 2018 seems to stretch out vastly ahead of me.

This is also the time that many of us take a minute to reflect on our lives, the blessings and the challenges.  Hopefully we can find it easy to be grateful and appreciate all the good things in our lives.  But we also spend some time looking at places for improvement and progress toward personal goals.

I am no different in this regard, although over the years my New Year resolutions have evolved.  Most often they are no longer tied to quantifiable measurements like pounds or dollars, but include more abstract objectives.  So, with that in mind, tomorrow at midnight I hope to say goodbye to some of the less desirable parts of 2017 and hello to a new improved version of me and the world around me.   Below are a few of the things on my list.  Feel free to add your own in the comments.

• Goodbye to an obsession with the number on the scale every morning.  Hello to a lifestyle of staying healthy and active.
• Goodbye to judging others.  Hello to loving better.
• Goodbye to treating others as less than.  Hello to respectfully reaching down and over and out to help others.
• Goodbye to wasting time that can never be recovered.  Hello to appreciating the 1,440 minutes of each day, knowing that they are a gift from God.
• Goodbye to daydreams that never develop beyond fantasy.  Hello to action.
• Goodbye to tears of regret and sadness.  Hello to tears of enormous joy and overwhelming laughter.
• Goodbye to petty jealousies and insecurities that weigh me down.  Hello to cheering for those around me knowing that their successes do not create my failures.
• Goodbye to hanging on to the past when it’s not healthy.  Hello to shedding the weight of guilt and shame.
• Goodbye to loneliness and boredom.  Hello to moving beyond my comfort zone.
• Goodbye to the prison of perfectionism.  Hello to the freedom of being who God allows me to be.
• Goodbye to being shy about celebrating life.  Hello to embracing emotions and taking chances.
• Goodbye to allowing this world to define who I am or how I should spend my time and energy.  Hello to taking my direction from God.
• Goodbye to pity parties for one.  Hello to banquets of gratitude.
• Goodbye to laziness.  Hello to resting in the spirit of God.
• Goodbye to comparisons.  Hello to individuality.
• Goodbye to fear of the known and the unknown, the future and uncertainty.  Hello to trusting God more.

Goodbye to 2017.  Hello to 2018.

When I was 19 I began teaching two-year olds in Sunday school.  A few years later I taught older children.  In the years that would pass I taught ladies, young married couples, teenagers and seniors. Each year we would inevitably celebrate Christmas and Easter, generally reading the same passages of scripture each time.  It would be very easy to become complacent in studying, so years ago I determined that each year I would search out one new thing to learn about these Christian milestones.  This year is no different.

Last week a dear friend gave me a copy of his latest book – a look at the birth of Christ.  As I read his writings, I came across a part of the story that has always baffled me — when the angel announced the birth of Christ to the shepherds in the fields that night.  Then a multitude of heavenly hosts praise God saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

Peace on earth.  Or maybe I should say “peace on earth?”  I just don’t see it and I’ve never understood it.  When the angels proclaimed the message, there wasn’t peace on earth.  Historically there have been very few times when there wasn’t at least one war being fought somewhere on the earth.  The message came about 2,000 years ago, but the prophecy doesn’t seem to be coming true.  Any television news broadcast will tell you about the latest fighting between groups or countries.  Greed, hatred and even religion seem to constantly divide us from those around us.  If you look closer to home, we see daily conflict and senseless violence in our own city.  Are we ever going to see the peace on earth that the angels sang of?

In Matthew, Jesus Himself even tells us we will have tribulation in this world.  Yet He goes on to say that He has overcome the world and that in Him we might have peace.  The peace He refers to is an inner peace that comes from a right relationship with God through faith in Jesus Christ.  It is a peace that He gives to those who believe in Him; a peace that happens within individuals, not necessarily between countries or people groups or even family members.  So how does my inner peace relate to peace on earth?

My “aha moment” this year came as I realized that the peace on earth is my inner peace while on the earth.  Though I have tribulations.  Though the violence and hatred scream from every headline.  Though man seems to continue to destroy those around him in his never ending self-promotion.  I don’t have to wait for peace on some future day when I spend eternity in heaven.  I have peace now.  I have peace here – on earth.  No wonder the heavenly host sang out!  Finally, we can experience peace while still on this earth.

Glory to God in the highest.  Peace (within me, while I’m) on Earth. Good will toward men.

May you, this Christmas like never before, experience your own peace on earth.

Merry Christmas!

If you would like to read more: Backstage at the Manger by Dr. Nelson Price

Years ago, when my children were young, “having the talk” usually referred to a conversation about the birds and the bees or the facts of life.  When they were in college, “having the talk” usually referred to a conversation with a boyfriend/girlfriend to define where their relationship was going.  But at this stage of life “having the talk” has a different meaning.

In the last few years I’ve talked to so many couples where one or both are going through a health crisis.  Everybody reacts differently —  some cry, some go silent, some get angry.  But I’ve learned, through my own experience and that of others, that there are certain things we can do that will ultimately make things easier.  One of these things is to have the talk.

“Having the talk” means sitting down together to discuss all those things you don’t want to discuss.  This is the hard part of the talk —

— What if someone dies or is incapacitated?  Does the other one know what to do?

— Have you executed a power of attorney and a living will for while you are alive?  Do you have a will for after you’ve died?  (By the way, if it’s been several years since you’ve done this, revisit it.  Time changes people and circumstances, so make sure it still says what you want it to say.)

— Where are all the important papers — wills, deeds, bank accounts, etc.?

— Do you know how to pay the bills?  Most often one of the partners has been responsible for managing the finances, but the other partner also needs to know how to do it.

— Is there a business involved?  If so, what’s the plan if a key person can’t continue to work?

— Are there children, especially young children still at home?

— What about burial arrangements and plans?

“Having the talk” means sitting down together to say all the things you’ve been meaning to say, but haven’t found the time.  This is the tender part of the talk —

— Tell them how much you love them.

— Tell them how much they mean to you and how much they’ve added to your life.

— Forgive for all those petty shortcomings that we let slip into our daily routines.

— Tell them about your faith in God.  It will be a comfort and will bind you together.

— Pray together.

— Tell them it’s ok for them to go on living if you should be the first to go.

It’s so important to have this conversation with your spouse.  If there’s no spouse, then you probably need to have it with your adult children.  And if you absolutely can’t bring yourself to say the words, then sit down and write it out.  Because if the worst happens, the hard part of the talk will get you through all the technical things you’ll be faced with.  And the tender part of the talk will get you through all the long quiet times you will experience.

You would think that the hard part of the talk would be the hardest to do.  But for some of us, to be completely open, vulnerable and emotional is very difficult.  Do it anyway.  You won’t regret it.

I can remember that I always enjoyed singing as I grew up.  It was back in the days that we had a time set aside for music during the school day, where we mostly learned patriotic and folk songs.  As a teenager, I spent hours singing along with the record player or radio, using a hairbrush as a microphone (pre-Karaoke days).  I sang for a while in the church youth choir, and I had the opportunity to sing with a group from NORD for some political and holiday events.

As an adult, I sang in the church choir for about 15 years, and was privileged to sing with a ladies ensemble.  There was a great sense of community that formed with the others in these groups.  Now, I don’t kid myself – my voice is average on a good day.  But I can generally match a pitch and sometimes find the harmony.  Thankfully, scripture doesn’t say anything about being on key, just that we should make a joyful noise.  That, I can do.

Recently, as we sang a particular song in church, I was struck by the lyrics – that my soul was to sing.  Now, I think soul singing is a little different from regular vocal singing.  Both should be directed to God in worship, praise and thanksgiving.  But, unlike vocal signing, soul singing has nothing to do with my physical ability to match a pitch or harmonize.  Soul singing goes beyond my physical ability.  It’s something everyone is capable of.  Soul singing is a matter of me submitting myself to God and being able to rejoice, regardless of the circumstances or what He has decreed for my life.  It’s not a matter of physical ability; it’s a matter of surrender and trust when you can’t see what lies ahead.  And it’s a matter of being at peace with the not knowing, even to the point that you can sing in the midst of an uncertain future.

Not only is my soul capable of singing, the lyrics of the song said that my soul would sing like never before.  This is what struck me.  I want my soul to sing like it has never sung before!  I’ve felt my soul sing when I’ve had spiritual highs and victories.  I’ve felt my soul mourn when I’ve been in the valley and felt defeated.  But now I want my soul to sing like never before!  No matter what trouble I’ve seen yesterday or today.  No matter what monsters haunt my thoughts for the future.  My soul can still sing!  And I want my soul to sing like never before to the glory of the one and only true God because He has created me and redeemed me and sustains me.  And most of all simply because He is deserving of all praise.

Bless the Lord, O my soul.

O my soul, worship His holy name.

Sing like never before, O my soul.

I’ll worship Your holy name.

Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.  Ps. 103:1

Written on 7/18/17:

I don’t know what it’s like in a home with a single child.  All my experience has been with multiple children, both in my upbringing and in my own parenting.  I can remember, as a child, times that I played well with my brother and sisters, and times they got on my nerves.  Years passed and we each grew, started our own families, and made our own careers. You just seem to get busy managing your own life, but squeeze out the obligatory holiday gatherings to catch up with one another (even though you live in the same town).  And then as you grow older, your parents pass away and you realize that your siblings are all that’s left of your original family. That awareness tends to make you draw back together, to appreciate the time together and recognize that you won’t have very many more years like this.

This awareness also makes me look at my own children.  I can remember bringing each of them home and the older ones being excited for that new baby in the house.  Infants and immobile babies are pretty easy to get along with.  As they grew older there were the usual skirmishes over toys and territory — the things parents get to referee on a daily basis.

Because of the age differences in my children, our household was a combination of teens with children, and then college students with teens.  Most of these years seemed to be a combination of barely tolerating each other and being embarrassed by each other.  The boundaries often were blurred by who got what privileges and who wasn’t being treated fairly.  And sometimes it seemed the only times they were cordially existing in the same room was when Michael or I declared an immediate peace treaty for family dinners or vacations.

Before you know it they are grown individuals, making their own decisions on when to come and go, and who they will spend their time with.  They choose to look elsewhere for those close relationships.  Oh, they come home when they’re summoned.  But gatherings can be marked by hurt feelings.  Maybe somebody’s too sensitive.  Maybe somebody else isn’t sensitive enough.  Words are said.  Jabs are taken.  And you wonder if they’ll ever really like each other again.

And then something happens as time passes.  Maybe they, too, realize that one day they will only have each other from their original family.  Maybe they begin to appreciate how quickly the years will pass.  And you learn that they are texting each other, even though mom didn’t start the group text conversation.  You find out that they FaceTime each other and laugh and have meaningful conversations without being prompted.  You see them change their plans and drive hours just to spend time with each other.  You see them cancel other activities so they can be together to eat and laugh and play cards and silly games.  You see them help each other and encourage each other.  You see them pray for one another.

And then you think … maybe they really do like each other after all.

I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.

                      3 John 1:4

And because we often find ourselves all in the same place only about once a year…

This old house began as a dream two “kids” had about building a place of their own.  Built on land bought from his family, they sunk every dime they had saved into it and their future.

This old house saw a groom carry his bride over the threshold when they’d been married only two short months.  They didn’t have enough money for furniture or curtains, but didn’t know enough to miss them.

This old house bloomed with the pitter patter of children’s feet as the years passed.  Children who ran and played and sang and danced their way through life.  Children who brought friends home for swimming and slumber parties, for prom dinners and Bible studies.  Children who never let life get dull or boring because there were too many dance lessons, cheer practices, sports events, school projects and church activities to count.

This old house laughed with friends and family on holidays and birthdays and plain old “no special reason” days when it was filled with the smell of wonderful food and the sounds of chatter everywhere.

This old house cried when knees were scraped and bones were broken, when teenage hearts were shattered and plans didn’t go as hoped, and when a baby was lost before it could be held.

This old house celebrated milestones for its occupants and so many others — babies, weddings, birthdays and anniversaries, graduations, going-aways and homecomings.

This old house winced when voices were raised and unkind things were said, when patience was lost and bad decisions were made, when anger showed up and disrupted things.

This old house rejoiced when apologies were made and forgiveness ruled the day, when peace returned and there was acceptance that we don’t all do things the same way – and that’s a good thing.

This old house swelled as friends and family came to stay – some for a night, some for a year; some we first met when they walked in the door, but all left precious memories here.

This old house quieted as children grew older and made new lives on their own, leaving the groom and his bride time to savor the wonderful lives they had lived there and the enduring love they shared for each other.

This old house mourned when the couple was no longer a couple, when their life together was cut short by disease and all that was left was the memory of their time together.

This old house is empty now. The emptiness of the rooms makes an echo of the quiet sobs that say yet another good-bye. I know that I will never again sit here in these rooms that contained my entire married life. I know that today ends the chance I have to make memories in this old house.

But tomorrow . . . . . . . a new family will begin their time in

This Old House.

It’s been several months since I last posted on the blog.  But it’s certainly not because I’ve been lazy.  On the second anniversary of Michael’s death I asked God to show me what I should do with myself and I distinctly heard Him say “Live”.  And so that’s what I’ve been doing – going on with life.

In the months before Michael passed away, both my parents also passed away.  As my siblings and I settled their estates I acquired their house — a 3 bedroom, 1 bath ranch style house so typical of all the houses built in their 1957 neighborhood.  Michael and I had discussed on several occasions that, if the property were ever to become available, we would pursue building a new house to accommodate the final empty-nesting years of our lives.  And so this is what I’ve done.

Late last summer I proceeded to tear down the old home, the one that my mom brought me home to from the hospital, the one I spent the first twenty years of my life in.  The idea of tearing it down was one I had come to accept through the previous months as I worked with an architect to develop my ideas for a new home.  I will never forget watching with my brother as the heavy equipment was breaking down the walls.  “Is it kind of sad to you?” I asked.  “It wasn’t until you asked me!” he replied.

Through the last eight months the new house has gone from an idea in my head to a sketch on paper and now finally to a real place to live.  I think I’ve come to appreciate more than ever the work that Michael did as a contractor throughout his life.  The hours of planning, thousands of decisions and frustration of delays and unforeseen problems are only eclipsed by the excitement and satisfaction of living in the finished product.  And it couldn’t have happened without the encouragement and assistance from so many friends.  Friends who tirelessly sit with you through meetings to help navigate red tape.  Painter friends.  Electrician friends.  Decorator friends.  And friends who will drop everything to run over and turn off a blaring alarm system so you don’t have to race across town in the middle of the night.

So now begins a new chapter.  The same address that I was born at becomes my address once again.  The neighborhood I grew up in is my neighborhood once more.  There are neighbors here that still remember me as a child and a teenager.  The neighborhood children I once babysat have long moved away and are now parents themselves.  In fact the house on my left side is one of the original 1957 ranch houses, still occupied by the sweet family that watched me grow up.  While on the other side the lot is empty, the 1957 ranch house demolished in anticipation of a new one being built.

The past on one side, the future on the other.

   And here I am, a part of both.

1957

 2017