Safe In The Arms of Love

This is my favorite picture of my son and me, taken many years ago when he was young and my hair was brown. And dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Back then, my son was snuggly and cuddly and really, really loved his mommy. I miss those days. Turns out, teenage boys don’t have much use for hugging their mamas. I’m sure Freud would have an opinion as to why that is the case. My open arms have sometimes been met by his stiff one, or by a turn of his shoulder. Words have pushed me away, telling me to leave him alone. He’s trying to become a young man, to stand on his own two feet, and that’s as it should be. No mother should ever willingly keep her son a mama’s boy. Watching a boy turn into a man can get ugly and messy, however, and it can be hard on a mother’s heart.

Last week, though, I got hugs. My son had his wisdom teeth removed. He was in pain. He felt helpless and afraid; he let me draw him close and comfort him. Now, before anyone gets the idea that I get some sick satisfaction out of seeing my son hurting, let me assure you I pray for his healing, for the regaining of his strength. Seeing him humbled and brought low, however, reminds me that humility is a gift God gives when I am refusing His offers of comfort and peace.

I can be a bratty teenager before my heavenly Father, wanting to stand on my own two feet, doing things my way. I can pitch a fit, slam doors, tell Him to leave me alone, push Him away in stiff-armed rebellion. Until.

Until my wisdom fails and I’m out of ideas and life is too messy and hard for me to figure out on my own. Like when I’m raising teenagers, for example. When I am frightened and in pain and humbled and brought low, I am finally ready to hear my Father’s voice saying:

As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you… (Isaiah 66:13)

Joining Emily and unwrapping the gift of humility.



Sausage and Peppers and Rock and Roll

Remember when parents used tell their kids to turn off the rock and roll music?

Back in the day when I attended Baptist Youth Camp, one of the speakers called on the youth from my church to reject rock and roll. We were told to gather our collections of the devil’s music, bring them to church, and throw them into a bonfire. Begrudgingly, I sacrificed my copy of The Partridge Family album, thus protecting my soul from being led down the road to perdition by Keith Partridge. Eventually I backslid, and the music of The Eagles, Steely Dan, REO Speedwagon, Boston, The Cars, and Styx filled out the soundtrack to my childhood.

When I saw that Dennis DeYoung, former member of Styx, was playing at a local harvest fair my first thought was, “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” Then I thought, “I wonder if teenage son would be interested in driving to the fair, eating some unhealthy but oh-so-delicious fair food for dinner, and going to the concert?” Instead of telling my son to turn off the music, I decided to drag him along with me for an evening of classic rock.  I had seen a PBS special featuring Dennis DeYoung, and knew that, in addition to having written many hit songs for Styx, the guy had some mad keyboard skills. Because music is teenage son’s love language and the keyboard is his instrument, I thought he might be willing risk the embarrassment of being seen in public with his gray-haired mother in order to see an aging rock star perform live.

After filling up on sausage and peppers, corn dogs, and soft-serve ice cream, son and I settled onto the fairground’s bleachers and watched as the roadies set up equipment and performed sound checks. Son was intrigued, fascinated by watching people who obviously knew what they were doing and were very good at performing their craft.

The stage lights dimmed, and out walked Dennis DeYoung, wearing the standard issue white sneakers of AARP members on bus tours throughout national parks. I was a little afraid to hear him sing. The long-haired rock star I remembered from my youth is now a sixty-three year old, white-haired man.

Once he launched into The Grand Illusion, however, I realized my fear was unfounded. At age sixty-three, Dennis DeYoung has a voice that is strong and clear and more in tune than most American Idol finalists orTaylor Swift on a good day. Man, can he sing.

And his keyboard skills? That man's fingers move in directions and at speeds that hardly seem human. I glanced over at teenage son. He was smiling big. He didn’t even seem to mind that I was singing along to all the songs. All the words. Out loud.

When introducing Babe, the most popular song Styx recorded, Mr. DeYoung introduced his back-up singer who also just so happened to be his wife of forty years. They had been high school sweethearts, had gotten married, traveled together on the road, and stayed married despite his living the life of a rock star. He told the crowd that he had written the song as a personal gift for his wife, that is, until his record company heard it and told him it had to go on the record. Turns out that was a good call by the record label. Every girl on the hall in my freshman dorm used to go weak in the knees whenever it played.

I have no idea about Dennis DeYoung’s worldview; neither about what motivates him to remain married to his childhood sweetheart over the long haul. I do know that I was privileged to witness a man doing what he was put on this earth to do—write and sing and play music, and honor his marriage vows.

And on a perfect autumn-like evening, the scent of fried foods hanging heavy in the air, I received the gift of connecting with my son while listening to the devil’s music.

Linking up with Emily at Chatting at the Sky, unwrapping the gift of connecting with my son.

It Tickles My Nose

My friend Lauri, who blogs at Living To Die Well, (which you all should read) recently gave me a book titled, The Happy Book.  Inside, I found this inscription:

Sometimes joy is easier to find with writing prompts.

I love Lauri, and I love this book.  It's just a funky journal for making lists, taking notes, drawing pictures, scribbling, celebrating gifts received, and unwrapping them on its pages.

This is what I did on the page that asked about favorite smells:

Because I paid very little attention in most of my science classes, I really have no idea about the physiology behind the sense of smell, nor the part of our brains where memory dwells.  But I bet they are connected.  The simple process of making a list of happy smells evoked in me an abundance of happy memories.

And honestly, I'm not quite sure why God created us with the capacity to smell, other than it pleased Him to do so, and He knew it would give us joy.  Scripture tells us that Israel was given specific direction about how to make incense which, when burned, would produce a fragrant offering pleasing to the Lord.  So I think taking time to drink in delicious smells reflects, in some way, the image of the One by whom we were created.

The gift I'm unwrapping today:  The gift of smell.

How about you?  What smells trip your happy trigger?  Which ones instantly connect you to beautiful memories?

Sisterhood

Jesus asked, "Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?  Pointing to the disciples, he said, "Here are my mother and my brothers.  For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother."  Matthew 12:48, 49.

My sweet friend who is undergoing her second round of chemotherapy sent me this video link--an author's reading of an essay about the way women bless and support one another.  I have known this blessing through so many women who do the will of their Father and so are my sisters in Christ.

Unwrapping my gift for today:  the blessing of true sisterhood.

R-U-N-N-O-F-T

Today I'm linking up with Chatting at the Sky, unwrapping and celebrating another gift.

Yesterday was a belated celebration of Ethel day, she having reached a significant (ahem) birthday milestone last week.

We drove to some of our favorite places in Vermont (or, Furr-mont as my children used to call it when they were little), picked up food from our favorite country deli, remembered some of our previous trips to the area, got caught up on each other's lives, and laughed ourselves silly.  Ethel wore her birthday crown.

In the midst of the fun, I was surprised by a few moments of melancholy.  The places we visited were brimming with memories. As a brand-new New England bride, I had spent part of my honeymoon in this area in southern Vermont.  The beloved Swede and I enjoyed many family vacations there when our children (and we) were young.  While walking familiar streets, I felt my heart tugged by the reality of how quickly the years had flown.

But the memories, for the most part, were sweet ones.  Some of my favorites:

• The way my kids used to call route 9 the snake road because of the way it twists and turns its way up Hogback Mountain
• Taking a picture of the sign in front of the local laundromat because it read: Bucket-O-Suds. Clean Clothes. Good Gossip.  I keep this picture in my laundry room.
• Seeing blooming lupine.  I really like saying, "blooming lupine."

• Seeing the Moo-ver, the local transit bus.  It's painted to look like a cow.  One of my firm convictions in life (having to do with my love of all things Christmas) is this:  In general, things with jingle bells are better than things without them.  A corollary:  In general, things with polka-dots are better than things without them.  I think I need to add a second corollary which is this:

In general, things painted to look like cows are funnier than things that aren't.

(Ethel and I drove past the Moo-ver on our trip, but we weren't able to stop and get a picture.  This will have to do.)
• Remembering the year our son got sick in the car during the drive and we had to do laundry at the little house where we were staying. Not realizing that we had washed and left his Curious George behind until we arrived the following summer and found him waiting for us.
• Hiking to the top of the fire tower at Molly Stark State Park.
• Packing a picnic lunch and driving down to Shelburne Falls, Massachusettes, to see the Bridge of Flowers. Sitting on benches on the bridge, trying to eat our sandwiches, and getting chased away by bees.
• Having one of my last conversations with my dad from the pay phone on the corner in Wilmington, VT.

 It's hard to put my finger on which precise gift I'm unwrapping today, because yesterday delivered so many--a day away with a good friend, good food, and much laughter.  Just getting to see the Moo-ver again is a gift in itself.  If I had to single out one particular gift, though, I think it would have to be the gift of memories.  Though sometimes they surface unexpectedly, bringing with them tears of longing or regret, I think it's far better to have them than not.

And it's always good to make new ones.  Especially when there's a birthday crown involved.