The strongest memory is weaker than the palest ink. I write to remember.
The other Wednesday evening, following Bible study, we lingered.
There was conversation buzzing in one corner of the sanctuary, a cluster praying in another; two with Bibles open in deep discussion while others tipped their heads back in contagious laughter.
This scene unfolded, unscripted, for nearly an hour.
My heart sang.
For this we prayed.
Continue reading “Any Given Sunday”I have shared stories about my grandfather, and the words come, soft and easy.
This New England grandfather of mine loved well, through clear, deliberate action. He understood that grandchildren were gifts from God, and it was his chief aim, duty, and delight to make certain my brother and I knew it.
In a dimly lit, passive world that flips and flops, flagrantly averse toward relational commitment, my grandfather burned brightly. He noted our preferences, listened to our thoughts, and treated us to Italian fare–bubbly lasagna, bright Romaine sprinkled with fresh Parmesan, and a napkin-laced basket of crusty garlic bread. Other evenings it was magnificent Maine lobster and hot clam chowder dotted with oyster crackers, served alongside soft yeast rolls. For dessert we skipped inside Brigham’s for a cone, and as the tiny bell jingled overhead, Grandpa invited us to choose three whole scoops of ice cream.
He paid for cottages along the shores of Cape Cod, gifting us sunny weeks of beach vacations—salty hair and sandy toes, suntans and shenanigans—with plenty of family stories and drama. In fact, when the women began to bicker, Grandpa sent us off to the candy store down the lane, with a crisp dollar bill in hand.
I can still taste those magnificent meals and feel the ocean breeze from the cottage’s steep back porch overlooking the ocean marshes. Only now do I imagine what such love must have cost him: time, money, longer hours at the office, and personal comfort in his ageing years. Did he pummel us with reminders of the expense? Did he needle his family about the restaurant bill, or sigh at the rising cost of beach rentals?
Never. It was his deepest pleasure to express his love.
On ordinary days he cruised around town in his Volvo; my brother and I in tow, taking us to the dump, the dry cleaner, the pharmacy, and the hardware store. What I remember most of all is his happy heart, as he crooned along with old cassette tapes: Andraé Crouch’s To God Be the Glory, and Bill Gaither’s Because He Lives which elicited tears that trickled down his face. He was never embarrassed by such emotion.
God is wonderful and he rescued me, he said.
Grandchildren notice everything, and to have a grandparent who demonstrates their heart’s affections?
Pure gold.
To grandparent with eternity in mind is to forget all about yourself and go serve your darlings, choosing to spend the rest of your life showing them just how much you care. This is a love that cuts no corners, but lives to serve with outstretched arms.
Grandparenting well is both a light and weighty endeavor, a call to die, and an invitation to live with purpose.
But what about all those hard stories that are painful to tell? When grandparents do not rise to embrace their biblical role?
Pain, as I have discovered, has the potential to be a powerful tutor. The wise will heed the poor decisions of others and choose the better way.
I am now a grandmother, a fifty-four-year-old who remembers the ache.
***
My earliest memories of my father’s mother are swept up in mystery and longing.
Flo, as she was called, even by her sons, was German, stoic, and stubborn.
She and Grandpa lived 1000 miles away and visited our family once and only once.
Out East, she called it, in her heavy Chicago accent.
I was small when she and Grandpa visited and felt a shiver of excitement as I waited for them to arrive, my nose pressed against the windowpane.
They looked uncomfortable that first night, seated on our striped sofa that doubled as a hide-a-bed. Smoking was prohibited in our apartment, and I could feel the discomfort as Grandpa smiled and absentmindedly patted his shirt pocket. As night encroached and the tree frogs sang, my father cleared his throat and stood, tugged the triad of cushions from the sofa, and heaved the heavy bed frame across our olive shag carpet.
While my mother tucked soft sheets around the thin mattress, I wandered over to our fish tank, which glowed and bubbled. A school of neon tetras and zebra fish darted as I pointed and introduced my grandparents to Chubby, my favorite fish of all, a stout zebra fish twice the size of the others.
Grandpa nodded, soft eyes distant.
Well, he said, more than once, while Flo toyed with her purse handles and asked where she should ready herself for bed.
***
In lieu of their future refusal to travel Out East, my parents packed up our family many a summer, stuffed our suitcases into our small vehicle, and drove from New England to the Midwest and back again. Our car lacked air conditioning, and this, paired with my unrelenting carsickness, made for one long journey, windows down, wind whipping.
After two days, we arrived, and I felt a thrill zip down my spine as I studied their Sears & Roebuck house. Just imagine…my tall father had once been my age right here on this street–riding bikes, playing tag, and romping with cousins during steamy summer cookouts.
My brother and I unbuckled our seat belts, peeled our sweaty legs from the vinyl seats, and pranced behind our parents through the squeaky back screen door, which banged. I counted the steps up, up, up into my grandparents’ kitchen.
Grandpa pushed his cigarette stub into the yellow ashtray and smiled as he stood, gentle and slow.
Oh golly! he said pleasantly as he stretched his legs, patted our shoulders, and shook my father’s hand.
Hello, Tommy and Kristin, said Flo, with a fluttery wave.
She did not scoot down to hug us, or offer a drink of lemonade, or tug open a cookie jar. I stared longingly at the refrigerator, hoping she might offer something now that my carsickness had abated, but she did not.
The fridge, in fact, was speckled with photos of my uncle’s cats. I wondered where our school pictures were.
With hellos swept out of the way, my brother and I were shooed outdoors to play with our cousins.
During our week-long visits so many summers ago, I cannot recollect one personal conversation with Flo, no questions about school or hobbies or friends, nor any delicious snacks. We ate German sausage, hamburgers, coleslaw, and potato salad, and the adults downed endless pots of coffee. I watched Flo’s face, her smile lovely and guarded as she spoke to the adults, and I longed to know this grandmother of mine who felt unreachable.
***
Flo tended her flower gardens with precision, kneeling, patting, weeding, watering, forever hovering over Day Lilies and Hostas. The garden might have been small, but it was a beauty, and one she nurtured. I noticed her admiring her labor one summer evening, her back to the house, as the sun began to dip. She seemed lost in the beauty, with knuckles rested on her hips, the same mannerism my father displayed after an afternoon of gardening, dirt-laced garden gloves dangling between thumb and index finger.
Flo’s garden skirted their garage, the garage that held not only Grandpa’s woodworking table, but Grandma’s prized possession: her 1972 Oldsmobile Delta 88, Matador Red.
Heaven help anyone who touched it.
***
Grandma’s nurturing of plants and automobiles did not extend to people.
One of the repeated stories of my childhood was her response to my black eye. At the age of two, I tumbled down the wooden staircase of our apartment, which left me with a shiner. My father relayed this story to his folks during a long-distance phone call.
Flo’s response?
Get used to it. It is one of the first of many falls she will take.
Everyone chuckled.
Vintage Flo.
***
She birthed four sons who grew up in the house where she was born, the house in which she died. The same square footage for 82 years- can you imagine? She and my grandfather never wrangled a mortgage and given my grandfather’s steady income as a house painter, there was no need for her to work outside of her home.
But work she did, leaving her boys with her live-in mother as she accepted a factory job that lasted for decades, a job she spoke fondly of. Interestingly enough, her obituary said nothing of this long-standing employment but did mention her love of knitting and crocheting.
What about the hooked rugs?
This grandmother of mine hooked endless rugs, and one holiday she gifted us a hooked Christmas tree skirt, a rug that brightened the base of our Fraser Fir and served as an annual reminder that she was alive and well, crafting 1000 miles away.
I asked for my own rug kit one year, and through trial and error, mastered the stitch required to loop and twist the thread.
I worked feverishly, even though the yarn made a tight squeaking sound as I yanked it through the mesh square, a horrid noise that gave me the chills.
When I finally completed the project, my parents handed me the phone and mouthed: Thank your grandmother for the kit.
Thank you, Grandma, I said, and then tried to describe the puppy now decorating my bedroom wall.
Oh? she said.
Twisting the phone cord around my hand, cheeks burning, I raced to quell the silence.
How’s the weather at your house? I said, like a grown-up.
I was nine.
***
She had a gentle side with animals.
One summer, our family joined everyone at my grandparents’ cottage on the lake.
My brother and I, children of the sea, frolicked in the lake with our cousins, a body of water dark, strangely murky and still, save for the occasional lapping from the wake of ski boats. I was horrified to discover that the lake bottom was covered in slimy muck.
Which is why the next day, I skipped swimming and meandered to the front of the cottage, surprised to find Flo alone, perched on the front stoop in slippers, her pale arm outstretched, a hill of peanuts on her flattened palm. She sat motionless, her snow-white bouffant teased high; eyebrows arched, thinly penciled.
I held my breath and watched.
After a minute, a timid chipmunk darted from beneath the stoop. Wide-eyed, it inched toward Flo. After a minute, he cocked his head, gathered courage, scuttled up the steps, and nibbled peanuts directly from her palm.
I had never seen my grandmother look so happy.
Serene and almost pretty while smiling at the little fellow.
***
When my father and his brothers were young and fell ill with a stomach virus or fever, Flo shooed them upstairs to their bedroom to wait it out.
What do you mean? I remember asking my father incredulously when he told me this disturbing news. Did she bring you ginger ale? Medicine?
No, he said. We stayed upstairs by ourselves until we were better.
This was unfathomable until the summer visit I came down with strep.
I awakened from a fitful sleep, queasy, fever high, my throat speckled and hot.
As it happened, I was down for the week. My mother came and went with medicine and soup; my aunt tiptoed upstairs with gum and magazines to pass the time. Even Grandpa climbed the stairs to say hello.
But not Flo.
***
We were not supposed to ask our grandmother anything about God. Even though she and Grandpa frequented the same church throughout their marriage, all thoughts about God were considered private, off table.
The only time I heard her mention God was when she took his name in vain.
I worried about this.
***
Frugal to a fault and highly mistrustful of banks, she concealed great sums of cash inside coffee cans, hidden throughout her home. My uncles discovered mountains of money when she died.
All of those presents we gifted her and Grandpa over the years?–birthdays, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas–were found untouched, neatly stacked in closets.
***
I have a striking photo of Grandma and Grandpa–young, freshly married, smooth-skinned, handsome–clasping hands outdoors, their gaze set toward the future. This was before they had children, before he was drafted for war, before they were oceans apart for seven entire years, and before he was awarded the Purple Heart.
Those seven years became a locked vault, never opened.
Heaps of stories, gone.
All that remained was silence.
Silence and a scar.
A wartime bullet had grazed Grandpa’s cheek.
***
I told you Flo gave birth to four sons, but that is not quite true.
Days before her first baby was due, he stopped kicking.
Yes, their first son had died in her womb, a devastating fact my grandparents concealed from their four living sons for decades.
Mounds of pain, pushed down, down, down, in an unmarked grave.
A chamber of secrets.
***
Over time, I grew up and grew accustomed to not knowing my grandparents, a former longing that eventually waned with acceptance of what was. I graduated from college and got married. Grandma Flo and Grandpa did not attend our wedding, given it was Out East.
My father was irked, but by then, I understood how little there was to salvage.
The hard truth remained: I did not know my grandparents any better than I knew the older couple who lived three houses up the street.
My husband and I were gifted one son, two sons, and by the time I gave birth to our third little boy, life was rolling along, busy and beautiful and challenging. After our third son’s birth, I descended into the baby blues, inexplicable to my mind while rocking a handsome bundle of pure sweetness.
One afternoon during this fraught time–I will never forget it, so unusual–the mailman delivered a letter from Flo, now seven years a widow. This was the first and only letter (other than generic Christmas cards) I had received from this grandmother of mine.
I was thirty years old.
The card was kindly congratulatory, with a sketch of three little mice each holding a bright balloon. Inside each balloon, Flo had penned my three little boys’ names. And beneath, in wobbly penmanship: Congratulations, Kristin! You are just like me, having all boys. Love, Grandma.
I was surprised to feel a flicker of happiness, a recognition that despite her decades of cool distance, perhaps she did care.
A few weeks later, Flo died suddenly, in the only home she had ever known, never having met my husband, our sons, or our daughter, born a year and a half later.
***
Here are the gems I now cradle, jewels kept from many sad stories I rarely tell:
It does not matter what I think about my grandchildren or what I feel for them quietly on the inside.
My grandchildren cannot read my mind, but they will forever read me.
The baton has been passed, and it is now my chief aim, duty, and unending delight to make certain each one of my grandchildren knows, beyond any shadow of doubt, that they are invaluable gifts from God, always loved and forever cherished.
Come along and listen to our recent conversation as Jacob and I consider how to leverage every season of life for the glory of God.
I include Jacob’s monthly prayer requests in my free monthly newsletter.
I passed our front door on the way to my office and glanced out the tall window, hoping to glimpse a ruby-throated hummingbird at our feeder.
No hummingbirds this morning, only our potted petunia, wilting on the front stoop. My husband surprised me with several potted plants this past spring. A sweet balm, given that deer have happily nibbled our garden hydrangeas to shreds, munching in the pitch of night, I presume.
The wilting petunia startled me, given that I had watered it just yesterday.
Filling the watering can up to the brim, I soaked the droopy plant. We survived a heat wave this week, and I should have considered that skyrocketing temperatures would exhaust our plants.
Within the hour, the petunia revived and stood tall, vibrant, and pretty.
***
Recently, I have felt as dry as our potted plant. Thin soup, as my grandmother once called it.
That is, until a dose of unexpected encouragement fluttered into the mailbox.
A letter! My favorite kind of all — handwritten on pretty cardstock.
A long-time blog reader (whom I do not know) put pen to paper and shared God’s goodness in leading her to repentance, detailing the specific ways The Palest Ink strengthened her soul. Her words were generous and sincere.
As a writer, I never know where my words will land or how my efforts will play out. But this dear reader had taken a moment to pull back the curtain and share from the deep places, inviting me in, while gently extending a gift of hope in this exhausting season. Her thoughtfulness, wrapped up in tender, care-filled words, was a balm.
Within minutes, I was a watered petunia, refreshed and invigorated.
Encouragement does that.
***
On the heels of such kindness came something quite different.
A blog reader, named Anonymous, typed words that cut. I blinked hard, my heart racing. What was this?
Criticism is inevitable, dare I say especially in the writing life, and while my heart’s desire is to remain humble and teachable, these accusations were cruel and assumptive.
Her words stung.
And then I remembered an article I read long ago of a pastor who, upon receiving anonymous hate mail, pushed back his chair, walked to the paper shredder, disposed of the words, and returned to his desk where he cheerfully began to work on the next sermon.
If disgruntled Anonymous did not have the courage to sign their name, so be it; he would not waste a speck of his time fretting.
Sounds exactly right to me.
Whom will you and I water today?
There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts,
but the tongue of the wise brings healing.
(Proverbs 12:18)
Throngs of teenagers are floundering, feeling anxious, disengaged, and lonely, while spending swaths of time on phones and social media. Many wander aimlessly, without understanding their life’s true purpose.
Parents, does this ache sound familiar?
If so, I encourage you to reflect upon question number one of the Westminster Shorter Catechism. The answer is beautifully biblical and succinct.
Question: What is man’s primary purpose?
Answer: Man’s primary purpose is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.
Although it may be tempting to offer your teen more of what the world promises with its bright slogans—“fun,” “exciting,” and “new”—God’s ancient paths are timeless and true, leading to everlasting life (Jer. 6:16). While I am not proposing that your teen become a Luddite, I am saying that the only way for anyone to live a purposeful, soul-satisfying life is to adore God above all. God does not desire our worship to be a drudgery, but a revelry, steeped in enjoyment. We were made for this: to glorify and enjoy God forever.
God said through the prophet Isaiah, “For I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me” (Is. 46:9). When we, as mothers and fathers, grasp the power of this truth and bow before it wholeheartedly, a holy reverence will descend, quieting our own hearts—an exquisite billboard for our teens to witness. In order to embrace our highest purpose of glorifying and enjoying God, we must turn from worldliness and heed the Spirit’s call. This frees us to model truth for our children as we cherish the Bible, walk in joyful obedience to God, live a life of ongoing repentance, and practice the lifelong habit of self-denial.
The Bible is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path, breathed out by God to correct, teach, rebuke, and equip us for every good work (Ps. 119:105; 2 Tim. 3:16-17).
To love God and give him the highest glory, we must first know and delight in Scripture. Are you modeling a love of God’s Word to your teenagers? Not only as a duty, but as a delight? It is good and wise to create a home atmosphere of joy around the reading and discussion of God’s Word. As few as ten minutes of Bible reading and discussion as a family in the morning, and likewise at the dinner table, will prove profitable, spurring conversation, while bookending each busy day with a strong dose of truth. Remember this: God’s Word will never return empty (Is. 55:11).
Jesus said, “By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples” (John 15:8). Knowing the Bible does not in and of itself bring glory to God. Even Satan knows some Scripture (Luke 4:9-11). To glorify and enjoy God, we must take hold of God’s written Word and walk in obedience to his precepts. A life aimed at the pursuit of holiness is a happy life bent on pleasing our Creator rather than succumbing to the world or gratifying ourselves. God is the Potter, and we are the clay, designed to honor him in every situation, for a lifetime (Is. 64:8).
Teenagers who grasp this will shed the aimless life and strive to run life’s race with purpose and conviction. Pursuing joyful obedience has a stunning ripple effect, as Jesus says, “In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Part of walking in obedience is refusing to forsake the gathering—prioritizing church attendance each and every week as a family, unified under solid Bible teaching (Heb. 10:25).
How wise it is, as parents, to not only teach but model repentance before your children, bearing in mind that any person who lives in a state of unrepentant sin will remain unable to glorify and enjoy God (Acts 17:30). Have you modeled an open acknowledgment of your own indwelling sin, confessing wrongdoing to your children and verbally apologizing to God? How good to swing open the door of vulnerable conversation by speaking of your own temptations to sin. In doing so, we lead our children to biblical examples of God’s gracious pardon of repentant sinners, such as King David, the Apostle Paul, Peter, the adulterous woman, and the thief on the cross.
While we cannot repent on behalf of our teens, we can model humility in confession, turning away from wrongdoing, and running to God’s Word for help in temptation. If I had known as a young mother what I know now, I would have practiced daily repentance aloud with my young children during our bedtime prayers. This is an opportunity to teach them the goodness of humility and tenderheartedness before the face of God, who is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us fully.
“And [Jesus] said to all, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me’” (Luke 9:23). I am not sure anything flies more in the face of modern culture than self-denial. Jesus’ words, recorded by Luke, serve as a winnowing fork, do they not? Our teenagers today are perpetually told: “You are enough. Follow your heart. Chase your goals. Live the American dream.”
But Jesus’ voice, a clarion call, turns such phrases upside down: “If you want to be my disciple, deny yourself. If you want to be my disciple, take up your cross. If you want to be my disciple, follow me.” God’s ways seem topsy-turvy and have absolutely nothing to do with self-gratification, ascending the top rung of the popularity ladder, living to achieve personal bucket lists, or planning one’s entire life with the end game of retirement, waltzing into old age stuffed with wealth and selfishness.
Parents, do not follow the lusts of this world, but give your teens the gift of abandoning the selfish life in order to pick up your cross and follow Jesus. Your children are watching and learning the beauty and cost of discipleship. What might happen at dinner tonight if you led your family in a happy discussion about life’s primary purpose? The Westminster Shorter Catechism is an excellent way to begin a discussion that will prayerfully open your children’s eyes and set their feet on the narrow path heavenward.
God is with you in this magnificent and overwhelming task called parenting. How comforting to know that although we often feel like a bruised reed, God will not break us (Matt. 12:20). His mercies are new every morning. Through Christ, we have an unfading inheritance waiting for us in heaven, and when we fix our gaze on eternity, the Lord gives us the grace to glorify and enjoy him each day, alongside our children.
This article was recently published at Rooted.
My Grandpa lit up a room with his warm smile. I was delighted to observe how people naturally swarmed to him. Everyone knew Bob. He was the quintessential gentleman in a suit and tie and camel trench coat, smelling faintly of aftershave and peppermints. His facial features were large, even though he was not.
His heart was magnificent.
No wonder Grandpa was a successful salesman. He was deeply good with people, and that was his golden charm. He could not cook, (Bob cannot even boil water, moaned my grandmother, phone cord stretched to a fare-thee-well as she gossiped to her friends while stirring dinner) nor was he handy with household repairs, relying heavily on duct tape to patch things up.
He puttered at the local hardware store many Saturday mornings, looking dapper in his weekend jeans and Ivy hat. Grandpa was there for conversation, purchasing tools he would never use, in order to Give the fellows some friendly business, Kristin.
He served by way of conversation. Direct and graciously honest, he dismantled all smoke and mirrors with plain speech, seeking others out, inquiring about their interests, meeting them right where they were, always abounding in friendly care. (Once, while he and Grandma were visiting our church, he noted our pastor’s threadbare sports coat, his keen eyes traveling the row of endless children in this minister’s family. Grandpa spent the next day hatching a plan to quietly assimilate the necessary measurements in order to purchase two brand new suites. Which he did, delivered anonymously, so as not to embarrass. I was sworn to secrecy, and kept my promise, beaming at the magnanimity of my grandfather.)
Grandpa was winsome: his inherent ability to connect with others was magical. He was popular with others mainly because he never tried to be.
There you are, his eyes spoke kindly, offering me, his shy granddaughter, an arm, treating me like royalty as we entered church, or a store, or a restaurant.
If Grandpa had one besetting sin it was his quick temper, which was utterly forgivable, seeing that it soared only to defend his loved ones. He seemed incapable of nursing a grudge and was quick to forgive.
Once, when I was an infant, visiting Grandpa’s and Grandma’s church, my mother dropped me off in the large nursery prior to the service. The sermon was scarcely over when Grandpa hot-footed it to retrieve me, eager to show off his only granddaughter.
The nursery attendant, who knew my grandparents quite well, refused to hand me over the half-door.
Rules are rules, Bob. We may only return her to the person who dropped her off.
He was livid.
But I am her grandfather!
The woman raised an eyebrow but would not budge.
Grandpa’s eyes widened, as they always did when he meant business. He swirled through the crowd in a huff, tracking down my mother. After a few minutes, his temper melted to reason, and he circled back to the nursery attendant to thank her and to apologize for his ire.
You were only doing your job, and I see now that Kristin is quite safe in our nursery.
It was endearing how quickly he recognized his wrongs.
Safety through protection remained his native tongue, love in the highest form. He shielded me from things like a creepy cousin, an unusual great-grandfather, and even from my own despair.
***
One year, when I was at the tender age of eleven, that uncomfortable time in a child’s life where everything feels in between and awkward, my aunt announced that she was going to forge her way into the hair cutting industry.
She was flush with ideas that typically fizzled, given time. She was going to become a concert pianist, an accomplished cook, an artist who painted and stenciled cloth bags, and then a professional Christmas crafter. But nothing stuck. I felt her pulsing unsteadiness. She was the mother of two sons and zero daughters, which remained a cosmic sticking point in our family tree. Desperately pining for a daughter, I felt her tracing my movements, eyes narrowed. I was that sore, perpetual reminder of what she lacked. It felt oppressive, as though I had done something dreadful.
To this day, I do not understand why I was allowed to be her hair-cutting victim. I have a few theories, but whatever the actual reasons, I knew I did not want her touching my hair, which in my opinion was far too short already. In fact, I was desperately trying to grow my hair longer before middle school. No matter. I was instructed to ascend the chair, and allow my aunt to practice her newly-discovered passion.
I was her first and last client.
I remember looking down, past the black cape draped over my shoulders, beyond my flip-flops, at the impossible inches of straight blonde clippings scattered upon the kitchen floor. I felt tears welling, seeing the clear evidence that it was now too late.
It will be a cold day in July before she cuts Kristin’s hair again, my father muttered to my mother on our way home, which was no consolation whatsoever. It was done, and I walked into my bedroom and stared in the mirror, gasping. My hair was jagged and gone.
***
Things worsened.
The next week, I followed my mother into a local market, and the woman behind the counter smiled at me as she totaled our produce, before asking my mother if her son wanted to carry the grocery bags.
I sat in the car, numb, the entire ride home. This isn’t happening, This isn’t happening, This isn’t happening.
Once home, I slipped off to the bathroom and hovered over the edge of the tub, sobbing while covering my mouth to keep quiet, feeling ugly and hopeless and quite helpless.
When Grandpa found out what had happened at the market, he hit the roof, eyes bugging out.
She said what to my beautiful granddaughter? Is she blind? You are the prettiest girl in town. I am going there tomorrow to set her straight.
Once he settled down, he found me. Just wait until you are sixteen. I will be fighting the boys off with a crowbar.
He smiled. And your hair will grow back soon.
What he meant was: There you are, no matter what.
I felt a spark of hope. Grandpa never lied, and he still cared, regardless of my outward appearance. His belief, measured futuristically, illuminated a path out of my current state. It was a promise to cling to, a promise which carried me through.
***
The next weekend, he and Grandma whisked me off to the mall. Grandpa steered me through Jordan Marsh, plunking clothes on the sales counter as he opened his wallet and expanded my wardrobe with purple and pink.
Of course he did. I see now that it was the only thing that could be done to restore my femininity until my hair had time to grow.
There you are.
The future felt lighter, brighter as we returned to their home on Washington Street, and I unpacked my bags, swirling in front of the mirror like a ballerina. Grandpa made everything sparkle.
***
My hair eventually grew back, and I made it to sixteen. The boys came calling, just as Grandpa had promised, and he met each date, except the one whose last name I stole.
***
One frigid January evening, my sophomore year in college, a mere seven months before I met my future husband, our dorm room phone rang ominously. Grandpa’s painful battle with cancer was over. I only remember crying, the phone cord pulled into my dorm hallway as I doubled over on the shiny floor. I have no memory of flying home for the service, nor do I recall the funeral itself. It is the internment I remember, the silent cry that rose in my throat as I dropped to my knees on the frost-covered ground, weeping as they sprinkled his casket with dirt.
He is with God now, everyone said, meaning to comfort. But at age nineteen, all I longed for was one more afternoon to spend with Grandpa.
As it goes, memories of him, seasoned with time, are sweet, thirty years later. I am surprised to remember so much happiness; the measure of his kindnesses, his selflessness, his love. His grandfatherly instincts were unique, stemming from his strong faith in God.
Not everyone has parents or grandparents who model the heart of God the Father. But rest assured, if you are in Christ, then God has chosen you, regardless of appearance, or intelligence, or social status.
God has called you by name, and you are his.
You are his beloved.
Have you signed up for my monthly newsletter? The place I share my favorite things?
Many months ago, I received an email from a dear, faithful reader, asking for help. Her life was quickly unraveling, and in the midst of persistent heartache, she had fallen headlong into envy. Jealousy towards a woman in her church, whose life seemed quite perfect.
This jealousy was destroying her, from the inside out.
Envy is the thief of contentment, isn’t it?
It reveals an idol tucked in the heart.
***
John Calvin wrote: The human heart is a factory of idols. Every one of us is, from his mother’s womb, an expert in inventing idols.
I invite you to consider this as perfect proof that we are made to worship. In the depths of our hearts, we recognize that there is something greater than ourselves. We are created to adore God. Sin is adoring something other than our Maker.
And isn’t the true meaning of life a magnificent reconciling of the fact that God is God, and we are not? True worship is to revere God alone. To adore him. To make much of him, as we decrease.
I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides me there is no God… (Isaiah 45:5)
Envy is a heart disruptor, an idol, revealing our lack of love for God’s plans and purposes.
It poisons as it rages.
***
Years ago I knew a woman who was a kind friend to me for a long time. This was during a season in which our family did not own a home, but lived in an old, narrow parsonage behind our city church. She attended a different church, and her family dwelt in the countryside. I greatly enjoyed visiting her each month, a gentle reprieve from our city existence. She prepared lunch, and we would catch up all afternoon.
Years passed, with greater seasons of hardship. She encouraged me well along the way, with Scripture and prayer and many kindnesses.
And then two things happened, quite unexpectedly: her family downsized to a smaller home in the suburbs, and a few months later, God provided a new home for our family in a pretty, tree-lined neighborhood. No more city living.
As I excitedly unpacked a gazillion boxes, my friend graciously arrived with a dinner for our family. As I welcomed her through our new front door, her lips seemed to tighten. The tension was palpable.
I showed her through our home, but she excused herself abruptly, saying that she had places to be.
The air felt notably different the next week when she returned for our customary visit.
Are you okay? I finally asked.
You should know that I have house envy, was her sullen response.
I did not even know what to say. It was not a contrite confession on her part, but an indignant sense of entitlement that she clung to, tightly. It was her perceived right to be jealous.
Things slowly deteriorated after that. Our get-togethers grew further apart and remained cordial, rather than warm and friendly.
I was her friend only when I did not have the something that she wanted.
***
A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot. (Proverbs 14:30)
Perhaps the quickest way to discern envy within is to pay careful attention to our own heart posture when we do not receive those things that we desperately crave or believe we deserve. Something that someone else possesses. Pay attention as you are told no, or as you are overlooked, or when your heart sings a mournful, moody song as someone else receives praise, admiration, attention, or a material good.
If God is truly King of my soul, my response will be a swift and generous, Yes, Lord. I am happy for them and at peace in my soul. Your will is always for my good. You know best.
This is the heartbeat of true and vibrant faith.
The opposite of Yes, Lord results in James 3:16:
For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there will be disorder and every vile practice.
Remember this: Satan comes to kill, steal, and destroy. He thrives and hovers greedily over envy, jealousy, and selfishness, licking his greedy chops at such discord.
Envy grabs a chokehold around our throat, killing a serene heart, instead creating fathomless depths of angry discontent.
Spear envy, the moment it rises up. Kill it quickly, with Yes, Lord. I love and trust you. I will consider others more important than myself.
The reward for returning our gaze and affections to God?
You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. (Isaiah 26:3)
And isn’t peace and contentment through God the healing medicine for our soul?
***
When Jon and I were young and as poor as church mice, I accepted a job as a nanny to a four-year-old little girl and her twin sisters, who were nine months old. When I accepted the position, I had only been married for one year and had just discovered that I was expecting our first baby.
The family I worked for was kind and financially comfortable. They informed me early on that once my baby was born, I could bring our little one to work with me. It seemed Providential.
Over the course of the next many months, I spent long weekday hours at their home, arriving at 7:30am and leaving no earlier than 5:00. I was exhausted by day’s end, but the paycheck was helpful and I loved those little girls. I changed diapers and played Candy Land and Old Maid, prepared their lunches, and tucked them into bed for their naps. We read books and colored, went for walks and swam in their pool, played in the yard and baked cookies. The entire time I was being trained and prepared for motherhood.
After months of employment, the mother pulled me aside one sunny day and told me that she was thrilled to be expecting baby number four. I congratulated her, wondering how on earth I would be able to manage her four plus my baby soon to be born? Time would tell.
I know that this one is a boy, she said, patting her belly, eyes bright.
Jon and I had decided not to find out the gender of our baby, wanting to be surprised.
So time breezed by, and the days were busy and good.
That April I delivered our beautiful baby boy. During that same week my employer had a sonogram indicating that they would be welcoming another daughter.
I remained at home for a month, growing accustomed to life with our newborn, and trying to figure out how I would handle returning to work.
When our little Caleb was one month old, I did return to nannying, carrying my most precious bundle.
The girls’ father made a huge fuss, grinning at Caleb and holding his tiny hand, remarking time and again how beautiful he was with such enormous blue eyes.
But the girls’ mother? She would not so much as look at Caleb.
I am late for work, she said on my first day back, pecking her husband on the cheek, smile fake as she breezed out the door, which abruptly reopened, with: Kristin, heat chicken tenders and soup for the girls’ lunch, and be sure to clean up.
Of course I would clean up. I always did. Her tone was cold and my heart sank. Soon her husband left for work, and then Caleb began to cry.
It was a difficult time. The twins were into mischief, the four-year-old wanted my undivided attention, and I had a fussy newborn. At the end of two weeks, the girls’ mother approached me. She had still not looked directly at my baby.
We are prepared to give you a raise, she said, eyes narrowed. But I will need you to start deep cleaning, preparing dinners for us, and taking care of our laundry.
I was twenty-four-years old, terribly naive, and beyond overwhelmed by my current responsibilities. Never mind her soon-to-be-born baby, plus laundry, deep cleaning, and dinner preparations.
I looked at her, perfectly stunned.
We will increase your pay by twenty-five cents per hour.
I had no words.
Her husband, shuffling through the day’s mail, looked deeply embarrassed as I gathered my things and told her I would need to talk it over with my husband.
It’s hard for her, he offered in low tones, waving a hand towards Caleb who was sound asleep in his car seat. She really wanted a son.
I am certain he knew that her pathetic offer would be impossible for me to achieve, and would ultimately lead to my resignation, which it did.
My last day at work was terribly sad, as three sweet little girls clung to my legs as I hugged them goodbye.
***
Envy.
The rotter of the bones.
It casts a long, dark shadow.
Nobody wins.
***
I had seen the ugliness of envy.
I had essentially lost my job because my employer wanted the son that I had.
Given these facts, you might guess that I would certainly not fall prey to such jealousy.
Wrong.
Nine months later, we were scraping by, without my paycheck. I was now a stay-at-home mom, my dream come true. Even though money was beyond tight, I loved taking care of my husband, baby, and our tiny apartment.
In time, I made a couple of friends who were six or seven years older, with babies the same age as Caleb. They lived in houses, (not apartments), and had plenty of extra cash. They picked Caleb and me up weekly (we had only one car then) and we would visit at their homes, allowing our babies to play as we traded stories and sipped iced tea.
All was well in my heart until the day they decided to plan and create the perfect nurseries for their babies. They poured over magazines, discussing wallpaper, paint, curtains, and crib designs. One of those catalogs was my absolute dream, similar to Pottery Barn.
And that is when it happened.
Envy crept over my heart and began to rot my bones.
I grew grumpy and short with my husband. I went home and studied Caleb’s inexpensive white crib situated at the end of our bed. I felt sulky and disappointed that Jon was using our second bedroom for his work office. (What was I even thinking? Where else was he supposed to work? This good man was slaving away, determined to keep me home with our baby. How selfish of me!)
In short, I became self-absorbed. Envy is not the child of logic or of grace, it is a sin of passion. I want what YOU have. It is ugly and hungry and is never satisfied.
This lasted for a few days, until one night, after dinner.
I was washing dishes at our tiny sink when I heard Caleb giggle.
I peeked into our living room, and there was Jon, sprawled upon the carpet, giving Caleb an airplane ride. Caleb’s chunky legs kicked, and his blond hair was still damp from his bath. They both looked so happy. It was so simple, so lovely. Lovely enough, in fact, to snap me out of my stupor.
My eyes filled at my utter wretchedness, and I told God I was so sorry. Caleb did not need a Pottery Barn nursery, or expensive toys, or wallpaper. He also did not need a mother full of envy, but a mother surrendered and joyful in the Lord.
We had everything single thing that we needed, and God was kind to give me two friends who were just that: friends. The problem was me and my state of envy.
What a relief to see it, and to kill it.
The peace of Christ returned.
***
Eve wanted to be like God. She envied his power and knowledge.
This woman had everything good and true and beautiful. She and Adam walked with God himself in the garden, in the cool of the day. She had a husband, magnificent scenery, and luscious fruit to enjoy.
But she hungered for the only fruit that was prohibited by God. The fruit that she believed would elevate her to be like him.
Envy rotted her, from the inside out. She listened to the wrong voice, the luring whispers of Satan.
Every bit of griping, whining, and enviously longing for the very things someone else has is anger toward God.
Not fair! Not fair! our toddler hearts rage.
Imagine if we were to cease such brazen posture, turning to God and thanking him for his perfect goodness and kindness.
Ed Welch said it well: Whatever wins our affections will control our lives.
May Christ win.
I was recently in line at the grocery store, and two older women were chatting in front of me, bemoaning the fact that their children and grandchildren never call.
I wait and wait, but the phone never rings, harped one.
I know. And after all we’ve done for them…
I looked away, thinking of Grandpa, and knew precisely what he would have said: The phone works two ways, ladies. Pick it up and call them.
I smiled, thinking of his voice.
And quite suddenly, I recalled a specific day…
But before I tell you the story, I first must paint the backdrop.
***
My father’s German parents dwelt in a pretty, tree-lined suburb of Chicago. My Grandma Flo both entered and departed this life within the same four walls, and never lived a moment elsewhere. She and my grandfather married, and raised their four sons in that very house. The yard and flowers and shrubs were tended and lovely, as Grandma possessed a green thumb. She preferred her plantings and gardening to people. Other than gardening, her interests centered around creating beautiful pulled rugs while watching the Chicago Bears, and heaven help anyone who blocked the television on Sunday afternoons. A complicated and difficult woman, she married her extreme opposite. My Grandpa Herbie was every bit as sweet and mild-mannered as Flo was stubborn. Yet when she laughed, tossing back her head, I knew exactly why Grandpa had fallen for her. Her wedding photos are stunning.
Grandpa was quite handsome himself, hair slicked back with olive skin, set off by clear blue eyes. He quietly watched the Bears with his wife, pot roast and German potato salad perched upon the plate balancing atop his knees. He chewed slowly, mild-mannered even in eating, washing down bites of pot roast with hot coffee, every now and again murmuring: Oh Golly, as the Bears fumbled. Herbie smiled passively and smoked cigarettes liberally, humbly watching life pass by like a slow parade. He was a hard and steady worker, a housepainter by trade, timely and neat in his work and appearance, yet never rushed.
After a spell, when the pot roast was gone, he softly slipped to the garage. His hobby was woodworking, and he labored carefully cutting and sanding and blowing away sawdust in the garage. I have a toy bench with my name burned in the bottom, plus a doll cradle he built, my heritage from this grandfather. That and his blue eyes, same shade.
When my grandparents passed away, their four sons found decades worth of Christmas gifts we had purchased for them: belts, gloves, shirts, sweaters, vases, cologne, and picture frames, neatly stacked in the guest closet, unused. They also discovered thousands of dollars hidden throughout the house, in coffee cans and unmarked tins. My grandparents had been excessively frugal, plus mistrustful of all banks, unforgiving even decades after the Great Depression.
I grew up one thousand miles away from these grandparents of mine. Whether or not they sent birthday gifts, I do not recall. Christmas gifts arrived, painful evidence of their ignorance of us, their own grandchildren. But it was their lack of relational pursuit that stung. In my entire life, they visited us one time, Out East, as they said, and that was before I was even in kindergarten.
We traveled many summers to visit them, driving nearly twenty hours. I remember finally arriving at their home, which smelled of coffee and aftershave and cigarettes. I was quite young and beyond excited, combing my hair repeatedly minutes before we pulled into their driveway. Yet after shyly saying our hellos, there was nothing for my brother and me to do. No games, no outings, nothing special planned. They did not ask us about our friends or pets or hobbies or school. We were perfect little strangers; our heritage invisible regardless of both shared blood and last name.
After a time, we ran outdoors, screen door banging, ready to play with neighborhood children and our younger cousins.
It was always thus.
***
I grew up in New England, where the magnificent seasons spun in brilliance. My maternal grandparents also dwelt in New England, on Washington Street, the only childhood home my mother and her four siblings ever knew. Their home remains at the center of my childhood memories: a fenced yard, woods in back, a wide front porch with French doors, bunches of loud holiday gatherings and meals, and most importantly, Grandpa.
Grandma was certainly there too, but as moody and difficult as my other grandmother. She excelled in bookkeeping and running numbers, plus her secretarial work. Grandma kept a clean, tidy home and was an exceptional cook. But people were simply not her thing. She could knit circles around everyone, and she adored her Boston Red Sox. Grandma and Grandpa spent evenings in their television room, ball game blaring. Grandpa was more interested in reading by lamplight each evening, donning a noise-blocking headset, while amicably seated next to his wife. He rocked in his chair, turning pages, lost in story, while Grandma rocked, knitting needles clicking while she clucked at those Red Sox players: correcting, criticizing, and cheering them to victory.
Grandpa was the best people person. It did not matter where you came from from, what you wore, or what you believed. He found a friendly commonality, and in a snap put even the most reticent person at ease. He was a salesman by trade, and a delightfully honest one. People simply adored him.
God was kind to gift my brother and me with such a grandparent, who made up for all of the withholding from my other grandparents. He was a Go Big or Go Home Grandpa, lavishing us with laughter and gifts and complete presence. Grandpa took the mundane, and wrapped it up in adventure. Errands to the hardware store and town dump and the gas station were fun. He shared stories and sang songs, and treated us to ice cream cones at the funniest times of day without batting an eye. We felt like royalty in his presence, cruising around town in his Volvo. We were cherished and honored, deeply known and forever loved.
Grandpa remained trustworthy: he protected his family, drove safely, was consistent in working hard, and although he spoiled his grandchildren, he was fun without being embarrassingly silly. There was a steadiness at his core that allowed my stomach to relax. I was a quiet child, and preferred a bit of personal space, while my brother was far more social, interacting and talking constantly. Grandpa seamlessly honored both personalities, understanding our depths like no other. His favor over us had no strings attached and never increased after our achievements. It anchored us, and remained as steady as the rising sun. He was proud of us simply because we were his grandchildren.
His love dazzled through his actions, and I do not recall him telling us that he loved us. He did not need to. His love was strong and unspoken. The very best kind, because it was proven; a steady stream flowing through our childhood. Likewise his devotion to God. He never announced that he was having his quiet time. Instead, he simply prayed and read and marked his Bible. Who Grandpa was was evidenced in his daily living. It was beautifully uncomplicated.
As it goes, bees are drawn to nectar, not vinegar. I loved my Grandpa.
***
The other day, while cleaning out my dresser, I found Wormy.
Wormy was my beloved childhood bookmark. He is a very thin leather shoelace, with an orange head and two googly eyes. He kept my place in more library books than I could ever count. Wherever I meandered, I brought a book, and that book contained Wormy.
The year I began first grade, I had one wish for Christmas: my very own dictionary.
Word spread through the family, and my uncle could not let this go. A first grader who wants a dictionary? He grabbed my mother’s elbow. Should you take her to the pediatrician? What first grader wants a dictionary?
Grandpa did not make fun. Of course she needs a dictionary! His voiced was clear; certain. Every true reader needs a dictionary!
That Christmas morning, on Washington Street, I ripped open my gift. I was now the proud owner of a Macmillan Dictionary for Children. I had been given the world. Wormy did his job and marked pages as I expanded my vocabulary.
Grandpa softly elbowed me with a twinkle in his eyes. We bookworms must stick together.
***
One spring, we packed our bags for a long weekend trip to Maine: Grandma and Grandpa, my parents, my brother, and me. I must have been seven or eight at the time. There was to be plenty of fishing and outdoor fun, eating out and after-dinner ice cream cones. My brother and I couldn’t wait.
The rain began to fall as we headed north in Grandpa’s Volvo.
We arrived hours later at the cabin door, soaked, suitcases in hand.
The cabin was not quite as advertised, and there was scarcely enough space for two, let alone six people. Grandpa promptly announced that everyone was to get back into the car, as we would be dining out.
It took an hour to find a suitable restaurant. When we had finished dinner, Grandpa asked to see their dessert menu. No ice cream.
We left, and Grandpa said that no vacation was complete without ice cream for his grandchildren.
Oh really, Bob. We are tired, said Grandma. We’ll get a cone tomorrow.
Grandpa was not as mild-mannered as my other Grandpa. If he said we were getting ice cream, then so be it we were getting ice cream. And we did, over an hour later, as we drove through the winding woods in rain.
***
It was still drizzling the next morning, when we scurried to the Volvo, to take a drive to an outlet, something to do since fishing was out.
The rain was torrential. We eventually picked up sandwiches at a local deli, and ate silently, scrunched in the car. I pulled out my book and read, passing time as we waited for the rain to lighten. It finally did, and the sun peeked out. We emerged from the car to stretch, and to throw away our lunch wrappings.
Things were definitely improving. Without rain we could finally go fishing and perhaps even play mini golf.
Thirty minutes later, while Grandpa was driving, I picked up my book that had fallen at my feet earlier when we had exited the car to stretch. Wormy was gone.
I frantically flipped through the pages, felt near my seatbelt, and looked on the floor. Nothing.
My eyes filled.
Wormy’s gone, I told my mother.
She helped me look, but to no avail. We stopped at a gas station and everyone got out. We searched the Volvo, but Wormy had vanished.
There’s nothing we can do, my parents said. Your bookmark is gone.
I began to cry.
Why is she crying? my grandmother asked. It is just a bookmark, for Pete’s sake.
Grandpa grew serious.
He is not gone, he said matter-of-factly. In fact, he is probably waiting for us back at the spot where we ate our lunch.
I felt a spark of hope.
The three adults began murmuring at once: It is too far and This is our chance to fish and It is just a bookmark and These things happen and She will get over it and…
Who died and made you boss? Grandpa’s eyes were wide. My brother and I giggled.
So we headed back, and it was a long drive. The rain picked up again, just as we sailed into the parking lot. Grandpa hopped cheerfully out of the car, and walked around, opening my backseat door. I felt like the luckiest girl in the entire world, with a Grandpa who understood and cared enough to go back for Wormy.
We looked around for a minute, before I spied his orange head in the dirt.
I knew he was waiting, Grandpa offered with a smile.
He opened the door for me with a low bow, and I am quite sure that I felt more cherished in that moment than I ever have.
***
Real love is costly and unselfish. A gigantic mural, painted with sweeping strokes of unmistakable goodness in action: colors vibrant, alive, and utterly impossible to hide.
Grandpa died over thirty years ago, but I remember.
Thank you, Grandpa for loving well, for not leaving me mere crumbs, wondering if I belonged or if I mattered. Thank you for giving me an entire banquet feast, a surety of belonging and love through presence and pursuit: the likeness of the heart of God.
My husband had been given tickets to a comedy night at a nearby church.
I hear this guy is pretty funny, said Jon as we herded our four children into our van, many years ago.
The small sanctuary was packed, standing room only. Five minutes before the show was to begin, our two youngest informed me that they needed to use the restroom.
I took them to the foyer, pointing to the twin doors with a Make it snappy! We don’t want to miss the beginning!
As I waited in the lobby, tapping my foot, and watching the clock, the church’s front door opened and a man stepped inside. He was dressed in ratty jeans and an old t-shirt, with a mop of tangled hair. Without warning, he dropped to the ground, completing rapid-fire pushups. Then he sat up, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
The poor man, I thought. Homeless. He probably can’t even afford a ticket. I decided to give him mine.
My two children joined me, and I grabbed their hands, heading back to our seats. We passed Homeless Man, who was performing yet another round of speedy pushups on the foyer’s carpet.
Why is he doing that? asked my six-year-old.
We slipped back to our seats, and I leaned over to ask Jon about giving the man my ticket, but the crowd was now standing and applauding and he did not even hear me.
As the pastor welcomed the comedian, everyone clapped. I turned to see this comic jogging up the aisle.
Wait a minute.
It was Homeless Man.
Everybody give it up for Tim Hawkins! cheered the pastor.
***
We have had plenty of laughs over this.
Can you imagine if I had offered him the ticket?
I never would have lived it down. My reserved nature is a running joke in our family, and this comedian would have had an absolute field day.
It is good medicine to laugh at myself and all of those quirky happenings that unfold in everyday life.
***
I remember a season, before Jon became a pastor, when we were serving in a local church. We had recently moved long-distance and were new to this small congregation.
Joe and Marie.
That is what I will call them.
For whatever the reason, these congregants took a strong and immediate liking to our family.
Joe and Marie were sincere and friendly, sixty-something with precious little concept of personal space, standing uncomfortably close during every conversation. Marie wore the thickest of glasses, which might have provoked such proximity. Who knows about Joe.
My natural instinct was to back up, flee, or maybe disappear into thin air. But I quickly discovered that it was nearly impossible to kindly slip away from these two. I heard myself repeating, Well, I better be going, as they doggedly continued speaking, ignoring my cues, which no longer felt subtle, as they persisted with another story, another opinion, another idea.
I never recall seeing them at church without Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee in hand. Joe and Marie were an overtly animated couple, constantly interrupting and speaking loudly over one another, while emphasizing everything with exaggerated and frequent hand motions, thus prompting their milky coffee to slosh over cup’s edge, dripping on the floor.
They were, as Tim Hawkins quips, window-washing–hand-raisers during worship, in a group that was not, shall we say, quite as expressive. One morning as the congregation sang, Marie began window washing, which clearly inspired her husband, who joined in. I am not sure if they forgot the coffee at their feet, but one of them bumped it and it flooded the tiled floor. Joe bent down to wipe it up, and as he did so, kept window-washing with one hand, while swirling napkins on the floor with the other, one eye closed before the Lord, and one eye trained upon the mess, in a unique wink. While this was happening, the chorus picked up, and Marie, quite overcome, began deeply swaying while window washing, inadvertently clunking a woman standing next to her.
As the woman rubbed her head and glared, Marie carried on, blissfully unaware of her mishap, eyes closed, tipping over yet another coffee, which kept Joe busy even longer as he sopped up the mess, one-handed and one eyed, with too few napkins that were now drenched, dripping, and ineffective.
This was all too much. My children’s shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, and I felt a contagious giggle bubbling up. My husband was working hard to keep a straight face as he helped clean up the mess.
We howled in the car later on, laughing until we cried, tears streaming down our faces.
***
After a few months at this church, Marie invited us over for dinner. The first two times she extended an invitation, we legitimately had other plans and were unable to go.
I assumed she would forget, but she did not. She was, in fact, perfectly relentless.
I don’t want to go, I informed my husband one night as I brushed my teeth in front of our mirror. They stand too close, and they don’t stop talking. Ever. Can we please decline?
Maybe we should just say yes and endure one evening? he said.
I sighed in defeat.
They were being hospitable, after all.
***
Joe and Marie swept us into their home without missing a beat. The conversation was unsurprisingly one-sided, as they talked and talked and talked some more, literally picking up from the place they left off the previous Sunday. I tried to keep up but found myself struggling to endure.
I was pretty sure, while listening to Marie talk, that I heard Joe telling my husband, that he had once siphoned gasoline with his mouth.
I am resourceful, if nothing else, he added proudly, hands resting atop his rounded belly.
Jon was visibly stunned.
Somehow, we survived dinner, and thanked them for hosting. My husband glanced at his watch: We must be going!
Our children revived, the boys especially. This was Saturday night in late fall, and college football was whispering our names. I was proud of our crew…they were polite troopers who had graciously endured a most tedious evening. Perhaps this would build character and fortitude in us all.
Wait! Before you go, we must show you our collection! Joe and Marie herded us toward a side room.
We moved in a cluster through the slim hallway, stepping into a bubblegum-pink guest room.
Dolls.
They were everywhere. These were not cute baby dolls, but adult dolls with staring eyes and shocking hair and candy-appled cheeks. A few clown-type dolls were strewn about for good measure, which I found greatly disturbing.
These beings sat perched upon chairs, beds, shelves, and even the floor.
Marie picked up one doll, and Joe another. They created high-pitched voices to these lifeless toys, holding them up to our faces, attempting to spark discussions between us and these ghoulish creatures.
It was wildly uncomfortable.
I am not quite sure how, but we finally managed to exit. I seem to remember Jon thanking them once again, his hand firmly propelling the small of my back toward the front door.
At first it was quiet, driving home.
I cleared my throat.
What in the world just happened? I said.
One of our sons started to laugh, and soon we were doubled over, roaring, not so much at the oddity of such a night, but rather at the memory of each other’s facial expressions during those bizarre conversations. It was hard to get complete sentences out as we laughed, but a few words triggered understanding… Mom’s face…Dad’s shock…Siphoned gasoline?
My sides ached from laughing so hard.
It ultimately became a story for the ages. We have bunches of them, actually. Memories understood in our own language; comical tales and inside jokes that resurface at perfect times. When the going gets tough, we pluck them liberally from our treasure chest, laughing all over again, and it is good, good medicine.
A joyful heart is a good medicine; but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. ~Proverbs 17:22
Somewhere, a reader sighs after they click my blog and recognize an old post pulled from my archives. Sensing their disappointment, I apologize, and feeling like a heel, murmur:
New content is coming! Soon! I promise!
For the past several weeks, I have been away from my desk, romping with grandchildren, pushing my granddaughter high on her swing, singing songs, as I once did with my little ones. Sunshine sparkled as the wind gently tousled our hair, and my Little Miss, only 13 months old, smiled and clapped.
Later, the two of us splashed at her water table, and when she emptied her plastic watering can all over the porch with glee, I realized I am finally old enough to delight in such things again, just like my granddaughter. After a while, she toddled over to me and shot her arms straight out, asking to be scooped up, and I thought: How wonderful is this?
Later, I rocked her newborn brother, so handsome and snuggly, the scent of his head, divine. He made little peeps as he slept on my shoulder, and I am old enough to see that infancy is fleeting–the days are long but the years are short–so I leaned back and hummed another lullaby, as I reveled in the wonder of this precious person.
Before dinner, I raced our four-year-old grandson–One, two, three, go!–from the kitchen to his backyard, and we played basketball and chit-chatted about things such as goaltending and alley-oops. Then I upped the ante, and we poked around until we found a small beach ball and took turns hurling it onto the roof, aiming to make it roll back and sink into the basketball net below. We were highly unsuccessful, but one of his attempts was this close, and we squealed and laughed and hollered in delight as he gave me a fist bump, yelling, Nonnie, this is so fun!
Once upon a time, I played with our children, but did not typically think to make up such a silly game like throwing a ball upon our slanted rooftop, given the fact that I was busy with the daily warp and woof: homeschooling, perpetual laundry, wrangling schedules, chores, and preparing three meals (plus snacks) daily for our family of six.
But now? I am Nonnie, a grandmother who sees the mighty forest through all of those trees.
After basketball, my grandson and I stepped inside and played store. He was the cowboy in charge of the joint, a cowboy with an American flag-cowboy hat, red boots, and a rope just right for lassoing. He fastened a cape around his neck because, of course, he is a superhero cowboy.
I was the inquisitive customer who purchased a flag, a lawnmower, two sandwiches, stones, a few sticks, and fruit, which cost nothing less than a hundred and seventeen million dollars. The store closed when it was time for the store’s owner-superhero-cowboy to feed and water his horses, which took one minute, maybe two.
After that, we read the Billy and Blaze books.
///
No sooner did I return home from playing with and caring for these three beauties, helping our daughter adjust to life with two babies, than my husband and I received the news that our son had been in an accident, which prompted us to race back to the town from which I had just returned. We prayed for much of the drive, phoned our other children to share updates as we rallied, and listened to many Psalms on our Bible app.
God protected our son, but his injuries are painful, and will take time to mend.
This scare was both jarring and clarifying, reminding me that I am a woman who writes, and not a writing machine. Life happens, and there will be times I repost here on The Palest Ink in order to be present for my favorite people. I am a person, with a family to love and serve in busy seasons, tumultuous times, and in unexpected events. When my family hurts, I hurt. And sometimes, it is good and right for me to lay down my pen and just be.
I create sentences slowly, taking time to craft each weekly post, resisting the notion of churning out passable content for the sake of getting her done. I know that my words will better serve my readers when properly seasoned with time, thought, and care; left to gently simmer for a bit.
All of this to say…
June is a wild child with projects outside of my blog, the excitement of our son returning home from the mission field for a few precious weeks, our family vacation, plus a healthy dose of time set aside to enjoy and encourage our children and grandchildren.
So I thank you in advance for your kind understanding.
Still, I warble:
New content is coming!
Soon!
I promise!
Indeed.
After a few reruns.
This month marks six years of weekly blogging here at The Palest Ink, and it has been my joy to serve you. You may click the quill to support my writing ministry. Thank you!
The Palest Ink 