The Other Grandmother

One of my fears, and I’m not saying it’s a rational one, is of becoming the other grandmother; the one who lives further away and doesn’t get to spend as much time with the grandkids. When I was growing up, my family spent many Sunday afternoons at my grandparents’ farm. The farm was about an hour’s drive from my home which, when I was a child and prone to carsickness, seemed  an insufferable length of time to be trapped in the backseat of a Chevy. My other grandmother lived about a half hour further away, and so I saw her less frequently than I did the farm grandparents.

I didn’t know my other grandmother well, but I do have a few distinct memories of her. I remember that during the extra half hour drive to her house, we passed a small wildlife exhibit which featured a bear kept in a cage. The bear’s name was Toby and, even though it would make the trip to Grandma’s take even longer, my siblings and I always begged Dad to stop and let us see Toby the Bear.

I never met my grandfather; he died when my father was a young man, before my parents were married. Grandma lived with one of my aunts who never married, in a tiny house in a small town in the Allegheny Mountains of Pennsylvania. Next door to her house was an actual mansion and, although its owners shared garage space with Grandma, I never met them or knew anything about them. Several years ago my brother told me he saw the mansion listed for sale in The Wall Street Journal, and I realized I’d never learned the story of who built it. I’m guessing its first owners were somehow connected with the oil boom which took place in that area in the late 1800s.

Dad and My Brothers, circa 1976

The Allegheny River flowed through the rear of Grandma’s property. The small town in which she lived continues to host the annual Pennsylvania State Championship Fishing Tournament. One year my dad took my two brothers to Grandma’s for the tournament, and each caught monster-sized carp. The younger of the two, and the one who caught the larger fish, still remembers that his measured twenty-eight inches and weighed fourteen pounds.

Triumph Swedish Union Church. Tidioute, PA

I don’t remember Grandma being a church-goer, but I learned sometime after her death that her parents, Samuel and Lovina Donaldson, had sold a piece of their property to a small Swedish church in town. The church served a small congregation of immigrants who were mostly farmers and oil field workers. Grandma even taught me a Swedish phrase: tack så mycket which means thank you, very much. I’m sure she used the phrase when I made the trek to her house to introduce her to my beloved Swedish fiancé.

When I think of my grandmother, I think about yarn. She always had piles of the stuff which she would pull out to describe her latest project. I remember the year she gave me a pink poodle she’d crocheted to cover a bottle of clear nail polish. Even now, in my home I have three afghans which bear witness to the work of her hands. I remember her in her later years, when she could no longer work her needle, and felt as though an important part of Grandma was gone.

Grandma often kept cans of Pepsi in a refrigerator in her basement which seemed a luxury since, when I was young; my parents didn’t often keep pop in the house. To get to the refrigerator, one had to walk through Grandma’s mudroom, passing a cactus which was taller than both she and my aunt. She didn’t have many toys or games at her house, just a few puzzles and an electric organ which my cousins and I played around with when we visited. Grandma often served us Jell-O, which she referred to as “wiggle food.”

My grandma taught me a technique for memorizing the alphabet backwards, a party trick which I continue to pull out to this day. A school teacher by training, Grandma explained that the secret was to break down the alphabet into short letter sequences. She told me, “Once you learn it, you’ll always remember it.” And I have. The sequence is here:

ZYXW    VUT       SRQ        PONML             K             JIHG      FED        CBA

I have no idea if or when I might ever be a grandmother, or how far away I might live from grandchildren when they come along. I’m certain I won’t crochet them anything. But perhaps, when they come to visit, I’ll tell them that the real name for Jell-O is Wiggle Food, and I’ll teach them the trick for reciting the alphabet backwards. And as they drive away, I’ll be sure to wave with both hands.

Sharing another imperfect memory over at emily's place:

The Carnival

Mom stood by the stove, in the stickiness of a hot summer evening, stirring together peanut butter, sugar, and condensed milk. The scent of sour milk clung to the sticky night air, escaping through the window screen and reaching me on the porch railing where I sat watching. I couldn’t bear to be inside the hot kitchen where my mother worked.  As mom stirred, I knew the sour would turn into the sweetness of peanut butter fudge. She had already made chocolate fudge and baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies to sell at our backyard carnival for Muscular Dystrophy.

My sister had sent away for the carnival planning kit advertised during Paul Shannon’s Adventure Time show which we watched every day after school on the local Pittsburgh TV station. We planned our carnival hoping to raise enough money to be invited to the studio and appear on the show. My mom made cookies and fudge on a hot summer evening to help us because she’d watched her brother die from the disease.

The carnival kit came with instructions for planning and advertising our event. We tacked up posters around town, placed ads in The Allied News, our local paper, and listened for our announcement on WEDA, the hometown radio station. The planning kit included an official letter from Paul Shannon himself which we took to local merchants asking them to donate prizes for our carnival. A jewelry store owner donated a ceramic elephant decorated in flecks of gold paint. It had come from a jeweler and was flecked in gold, so I was certain we had scored a valuable raffle prize worth perhaps hundreds of dollars, all because of our official Paul Shannon letter.

We planned simple games: ring toss, a bean bag throw, a fishing pond in a wading pool. I wished we could have had a dunking booth like the one at our downtown street fair each summer. My dad helped us set up a sheet we could poke our heads through so kids could take turns throwing wet sponges at one another. It was close enough.

Because we hoped to raise a lot of money and get ourselves on TV, we wanted to charge a quarter for each of our games and for the refreshments. On the night before the carnival, Dad asked us to lower our prices. He thought a quarter might be too expensive for some of the kids in the neighborhood, and he wanted to be sure everyone who wanted to could come and have a good time.

The day of the carnival arrived, and it exceeded almost all of our expectations. Our front yard was piled high with the bikes neighborhood kids had ridden to our house. Our backyard was full of fun and games and summertime play. We soaked one another with wet sponges. A neighbor boy from across the alley must have spent every bit of loose change he had buying raffle tickets for the gold elephant, which he won.

At the end of the day, we’d raised a couple of hundred dollars. We didn’t reach the threshold for earning an invitation to appear on TV. We were rewarded with a ride on The Gateway Clipper, a party boat which travels the three rivers which meet in the city of Pittsburgh.

Muscular Dystrophy has not been cured; the Muscular Dystrophy Association continues to hold fund-raising telethons every Labor Day weekend. But perhaps our afternoon of backyard summer fun helped a family afford leg braces or a wheelchair. And remembering my parents as they worked alongside us holds great value, worth more to me than an appearance on TV or any gold-flecked jewelry store elephant.

Linking with emily:

Why I Want More For Christmas

This Christmas, I want more.

I know. I’m a follower of Jesus. I should be focusing my attention on celebrating the season in a Christ-centered way. I see the ads on TV and in my mailbox, the blatant appeals to consumerism and greed. I read about Christmas shoppers trampling one another in an effort to snag this year’s hottest item for a few dollars less. In this country, we celebrate the birth of our Lord by exchanging animal print Snuggies ™ even as children across the globe cry out in hunger and in need of clean water.

So we talk in our churches and across the blogosphere about doing Christmas differently. We want to focus on those things that really matter—the shepherds, the angels; the story. We try to come up with fresh ways of communicating biblical truths to our children, attempting to dispel fairy tales and myths. We try to teach them, and ourselves, to squelch desire and want less.

But what if Christmas really is about wanting more?

I remember childhood longing, the desire for something better and new. When the glossy, new Christmas catalogs arrived from Penney’s and Sears, my siblings and I took turns poring over their pages. I circled and starred my favorite items, things I didn’t even know I wanted until I saw them on the pages of the Wish Books. I made a list, alternating my hopes and dreams on paper in red and green ink. I noted colors and sizes. I wanted a rock tumbler. A candle-making kit. An outfit that would make me look less dorky when I walked the halls of my junior high school. I remember Christmas as a magical time when I dared to dream big and believe I could have the things my heart desired. I imagined life could be better.

I didn’t know, back then, that my parents could afford few of the items on my list. Usually, by the time I posted it, my parents had already completed their shopping. I received few of the items from my lists. When I did unwrap a gift and find in my hands something from the shiny catalog pages I knew my parents had heard the cry of my heart, perhaps recognizing my desire to appear less dork-like among my classmates.

It didn’t take long, however, to realize that the gifts I had longed for failed to meet my expectations. The new outfit didn’t look nearly as good on my gangly teenage frame as it had on the model in the catalog. I learned that the rock tumbler would take weeks to polish my chunks of granite into smooth chunks of granite. The candle molds leaked when I poured melted paraffin into them, spilling hot bayberry-scented wax onto my mother’s kitchen counters, dripping it into the crack next to the stove. I’ll bet there’s still a pool of hardened wax between the stove and counter top in my old house.

Although the gifts I imagined would bring me joy failed to satisfy my deepest longings, I’m glad my parents didn’t tell me to stop hoping and dreaming. In his recently published e-book titled Discovering Advent, theologian Mark D. Roberts wrote of children and their hopes and expectations for Christmas. He said,

Rather than discouraging these hopes (which is a hopeless task!), I would urge parents to help their children get the “feel” of Advent by relating their hopes to biblical Advent themes.

I don’t want to stop hoping and dreaming, and I’m not sure it’s wise to teach children to do so. Perhaps instead we should recognize desire as a good thing, a holy restlessness for things to be better than they are. I’m not content believing that this life is as good as it gets. Maybe the problem with Christmas isn’t that we hope for too much; it’s that our hopes are too small.

Because what I really want is to live in a world where everyone I love is happy and healthy and whole. I want the entire family gathered around a table, where food and wine are abundant and good, and there is no tension or conflict. I want beauty and lights and music everywhere, and all the time. I want to live in a world where cancer, mental illness, addiction, and abuse don’t exist; where children don’t die of hunger or preventable disease and aren’t trafficked as slaves. I want to see organizations like Compassion International run out of children who need sponsors.

And I fully expect to get everything on my list.

Because all those stories about shepherds and angels remind me that God knows the deepest longings in the hearts of his people, and He keeps His promises. The birth of that baby fulfilled all the promises of the scriptures and the prophets. So when scripture tells me that the Joy of Every Longing Heart is going to return, and He is making all things new, I dare to hope for unimaginably big things.

Because I think wanting more is the most Christ-centered way of keeping Christmas of all.

So I will give and receive gifts this Christmas; some of which will satisfy hopes and dreams, however imperfectly. And I'll support the work of those who offer hope in the name of that Bethlehem baby. But rather than trim my wish list or pare down my expectations this Christmas, I’ll give full voice to my deepest longings and desires. Join me?

If someone asked what your deepest longings were for this Christmas, what would you say?

Joining emily:

 And Bonnie @ Faith Barista:

 

And wishing a happy birthday and hoping for big things for David, my Compassion child who turns five years old today! Click the link for more information about offering hope to a child through Compassion International.

Joyriding: The Airplane Story

When I was a teen my dad wasn’t terribly strict, but there were certain boys from whom he forbid me to accept rides. I grew up in a small town, and my dad knew who had a reputation for reckless driving. He never said anything about airplanes, however.

One Fourth of July weekend, I was scheduled to work at the local pizza shop. I stayed behind while the rest of my family traveled to my grandparents’ farm. I was a fairly responsible kid; I held a job, participated in Young Life, and had a track record of making reasonably good choices.

After my shift I drove to the local McDonald’s to grab something to eat. Although I could have eaten as much free pizza as I wanted while at work, somehow it made sense to my teen brain to spend my hard-earned dollars on greasy fast-food burgers. Besides, McDonald’s was the center of my town’s teen universe, and I knew I might run into my sometimes-on-sometimes-off-again high school boyfriend there.

I was right. Just as I pulled into the parking lot he pulled in next to me. In the passenger seat beside him sat a friend, a young man whose father owned one of the two funeral homes in town.

“Want to go to Cleveland?” asked the sometimes boyfriend.

“Sure,” I said. “Do you want to drive, or do you want me to?”

“We rented a plane,” he said.

I remembered hearing the voice of Mrs. McGinnis, the school’s secretary, crackling through the static on the intercom, and disrupting classes for an important announcement. She congratulated two of the school’s students for achieving the distinction of becoming the youngest licensed private pilots in the state. So, of course, this girl with the reputation for making good choices said, “Okay!” And off we drove to the local airport.

In my defense I had an uncle who was a private pilot, and he had taken me up in the air with him several times. And these two were licensed pilots, I reasoned. “How dangerous could this be?” my incompletely formed teenage brain must have concluded.

Because it was the Fourth of July, we were able to witness fireworks displays below us. It was a perfect summer night, and the lights below shone with stunning brilliance. All at once it occurred to me that my parents were somewhere down there amidst the lights below, and they had no idea where I was. They slept soundly, not knowing their responsible daughter flew overhead, having entrusted her safety to the hands of two teenage boys.

If I were the parent of my teenage self, I would have grounded me for all of eternity. World without end.

We arrived safely at the Cleveland airport and found a small sandwich shop which was about to close. Because I hadn’t eaten at McDonald’s, I was hungry. All I could afford was an order of fries which probably cost four times as much as those I would have eaten had I stayed safely on the ground back in my hometown.

After we ate, we returned to the plane for the return trip home. The flight was uneventful, and we arrived safely. None but the three of us knew about our late night Cleveland escapade.

Until.

Several years later, when I was in college, I took a human development class about death and dying. I was given the assignment of interviewing a funeral home owner and writing a paper about the process of planning a funeral. I scheduled an appointment with the father of my Cleveland adventure co-pilot, and drove home one weekend for the interview. My mom thought the project sounded interesting and asked if she could sit in with me.

“Sure,” I said.

When we arrived for our appointment, the funeral director shook my hand and asked, “Aren’t you the girl who flew to Cleveland with my son that night?”

My mother looked at me. I looked at her.

“I never mentioned that? Funny story. . .”

Thankfully the statute of limitations on parental anger must have expired by then. There seemed little value in grounding me since I had moved on to college. But years later, Mom was able to exact a small measure of revenge.

When my kids were teens, I hammered them about the importance of making good choices. I knew from experience that even responsible kids sometimes did really stupid things. One year when my daughter was in college she decided to spend fall break with her grandmother. While she was visiting, my mother asked her,

“Did your mom ever tell you about that time. . ?”

Telling my tale of childhood stupidity and linking with emily:

Keeping Secrets

In a frame atop my piano is a photo, taken a number of years ago, from a wedding in which my entire family participated. We’re all dressed in our beautiful Barbie-and-Ken-doll clothes and are smiling happy wedding smiles. Also in the picture is a young adult, one I don’t know personally, but one who is intimately connected with the horrific news swirling around the campus of my Alma mater. The photo is a sobering reminder that there are real people in real pain behind the sensational headlines.

I can’t read the stories; they’re too ugly. I’ve read just enough to have images etched in my mind I wish I could erase. Unspeakable horrors were committed against children. I’m compelled to respond in prayer, though I hardly know how to pray for something so big and so ugly. I beg for God’s mercy on behalf of those who were abused. I pray for healing of mind, body, and soul. I ask that each name be transformed from Victim to Triumph of God’s Grace. I pray for those who minister to students on campus and in the surrounding community.

Powerful men allegedly kept deep, dark secrets for a very long time. When the secrets were exposed, the extent of the damage seemed incomprehensible. The river of grief flowing through Happy Valley is deep, and it is wide. If the charges are true, the lives of those abused, as well as those of a wife, children, grandchildren, co-workers, and friends of the accused will never be the same. There's been a lot of collateral damage.

I keep wondering whether the man under indictment kept his secrets so perfectly and so well that those surrounding him honestly didn’t know; or whether his friends, family and co-workers knew or suspected, but failed to act. I’m having a hard time figuring out which scenario is more disturbing.

If you see something, say something is a slogan crafted in this age of international terrorism, one which asks citizens to be alert and speak up when something seems out of place. Clearly its warning needs to be considered more broadly. The guy in the cubicle next to you may not be plotting nuclear and biological attacks, but he may be contemplating unimaginable harm toward the child next door, or around the block; or in your home, or in mine.

It’s easy to point fingers at those who failed, and failed miserably, at Penn State. But I have to ask, “How many of us have failed to speak up when seeing others behaving in ways harmful to themselves and others?” Have you, have I, confronted the friend who always seems to knock back one more drink than seems responsible? What about the co-worker who always closes his web browser when someone walks near his cubicle? Who pays attention to the young woman hiding in her dorm room at the end of the hall, the one whose wrists are covered in bandages? What of the friend who confides she chats online with an old flame late at night while her husband and children are asleep?

Am I courageous enough to speak up when I see these things? Are you? How many of us want to allow the possibility that the worst we might imagine about another human being could be true?

And what of my own secrets, and yours? The stash of candy kept hidden in the laundry room? The purchase I hope my husband won’t notice? A bad decision made years ago that continues to haunt? Data fudged on a report? Some of the secrets we bury seem small and laughable; others run serious and deep. If allowed to fester and grow, those secrets and our shame are capable of causing great harm to ourselves and those around us. If scripture is true and the ugliness in the headlines teaches anything, our sin will one day find us out. There is simply no such thing as personal sin.

It’s hard being Penn State proud in this moment. I feel like removing the decals from my car and tucking my blue-and-white jacket away toward the back of my closet. This scandal hits a little too close to home for me, but not because I share space with someone in a wedding photo. It hits home because I know I’ve got secrets. You probably do, too. Maybe one of the lessons coming out of Happy Valley is a call to listen anew for the voice of one crying, “Where are you?” Might the grief in this moment help us find courage to expose our secrets to the light of healing grace? Might it teach us to show up in the lives of others and help them find courage to do likewise?

Linking with emily, looking for beauty in the brokenness:

Neighbor On a Plane

“Make me a blessing to someone.”

I prayed the words more out of routine than expectation. Believing that every person who crosses my path provides me an opportunity either to do good or harm, I’ve developed the habit of praying for the former each time I step on a plane. Lately it seems, though, that few people are open to blessing or to any other kind of human interaction. We avoid eye contact with one another, shielding our faces behind a magazine, a Kindle, or a book. We stop our ears with ear buds and gaze out the window at nothing in particular. Invisibility cloaks, it seems, come in many forms.

I slid next to the window and started thinking I’d be enjoying the luxury of two empty seats next to me while missing the opportunity to be a blessing to anyone on my flight. Just before the cabin door closed, however, I saw her walking down the aisle toward me.

She was short and pudgy. I hesitate to use the word pudgy because it sounds sort of judgmental and mean, but pudgy is the only word which seems to fit. A young man behind her lifted her suitcase into the overhead bin, and she plunked a large tote bag down on the seat next to me.  I kept waiting for her to stow it under the seat in front of her like she was supposed to. After several announcements instructing passengers to secure their belongings, and after several flight attendants passed by without addressing her, I began to get annoyed. I argued with myself about whether or not it was my responsibility to tell her to take care of her bag.

She didn’t stow it. Instead she began pulling items out of the bag, Mary Poppins-style. She retrieved a battery operated fan, flicked it on, and pointed it toward her face, down the front of her blouse, and at the back of her neck. She pulled out a pair of pillows and placed one behind her back and the other under her legs. Her feet were clad in slippers, and she pulled out of her tote a pink sneaker which contained a plastic bag filled with almonds. I couldn’t allow myself to think what they might taste like.

Using her opposite hand, my seatmate began pulling lengthwise along each of her fingers. She rubbed her palms, and then began pulsing and flicking her fingers forward. I began to suspect she had a fear of flying, and all her props and gestures were aids to help her manage her fears. Her finger movements escalated to arm movements. With the precision of a drill team member or hip-hop dancer she began pumping her arms, punching and slicing the air. Dancing in her seat, she began shaking the entire row. Her movements built to a crescendo then faded until she was, once again, pulling against her fingers.

People around her looked in my direction. Some shook their heads.

Phrases like, “degree of functionality,” and “quality of life” started running through my mind.

The flight attendant began her safety spiel, and my seatmate pulled out the instruction card from the seatback in front of her. She asked me what several of the symbols meant. I explained, and she told me it was her first time flying. She was on her way to visit her sister, she said, who had thyroid cancer. Several members of her family had cancer, she told me, and she’d gotten so she didn’t even want to go to the doctor for fear of what she might find out. She told me how much money she received every month and, out of that amount, how much was taken out for Medicare. She told me she was going to tell “them” to stop taking money out because she couldn’t find a doctor who would take a new Medicare patient anyway. She had four children; she had grandchildren.

I suggested she might want to place her bag under the seat in front of her so that nothing might fly out and hit her as the plane was taking off. She thanked me. As the plane increased speed for takeoff, she threw her arms in front of her and squealed about flying like Superman.  She quickly shushed herself as, I assume, someone had taught her to do.

Several times throughout the flight, my seatmate repeated her dance routine. She asked if I could reach the button to signal a flight attendant for her. When the attendant arrived, my seatmate asked if she could order a ginger ale. She was told, politely, that the beverage cart would be brought down the aisle shortly, and she could ask for something then.

During beverage service, my neighbor requested Crown Royal bourbon. The flight attendant showed her the kinds of bourbon the airline carried. At first, she turned down the selections offered, regaling the flight attendant with a lengthy explanation about why it was important that her bourbon be of a certain proof. Later she changed her mind, purchased a bottle of airline bourbon, and poured its contents into her water bottle.

As she performed her dance routine one final time and the crowd of observers grew, I overheard the flight attendant re-tell the bourbon story to several behind me. She told the story with a nervous smirk, and it made me sad.

After the plane landed and we were told it was safe to use our phones, my friend began checking her messages. With each push of a button, she flung out her hand with a flourish. She giggled and smiled and swung her slipper-clad feet which barely reached the floor. She had completed her first flight, and she was happy.

I excused myself and walked past her off the plane, carrying blessing with me.

Joining emily:

Good Medicine

We excused ourselves from our father’s hospital room; my siblings and I did, and slipped out quietly. It was a Saturday, near lunchtime, and we were headed to the Pizza Hut across the street. Our father, the man who had labored all his life to keep food on our table would, we knew, receive nourishment for the remainder of his days from a plastic bag dripping into a tube. We kissed our father, promised we wouldn’t be long, and walked toward the hospital elevator.

When the elevator reached the first floor, its doors opened to a deserted lobby in a major Pittsburgh medical center. Both the lobby and the city street beyond the glass doors seemed uncharacteristically quiet, lacking people and activity. The security guard desk sat unattended, and the silence which filled the lobby was downright creepy. When I said I needed to stop and use the restroom before leaving the building, my sister said, “Make sure you sing so we know you’re alright in there.”

As my siblings waited in the abandoned lobby I began, in my best Ethel Merman voice, to belt out,

I like New York in June, how about you?

I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?

I walked out of the ladies’ room and was met by the formerly absent security guard. He looked at me and, in all seriousness, asked, “Do you need any help?”

I believe my sister may have suggested to him I’d just been let out of the psych ward on a weekend pass.

Once the laughter started, it was impossible to contain. We crossed the street, got ourselves seated, and placed our orders; but I have no idea how we managed to eat. The laughter was the kind that built on itself, the kind that escalated in response to things not remotely funny on most days of the week. It was the kind of laughter that made our eyes water and caused us to choke on our food and spew it out of our mouths. Our laughter was messy, loud, and simply would not bed down and keep quiet.

I sincerely hope we tipped our poor waitress well that day.

It seemed wrong, indulging in laughter so outrageous and deep, as our father lay dying in a hospital bed across the street. “Even in laughter, the heart may ache,” reads the proverb. (Proverbs 14:13) While seated in that pizza shop in downtown Pittsburgh, mine certainly did.

I wonder, sometimes, why God created us with the ability to laugh. He certainly didn’t have to. There was no instruction manual He was commanded to follow. When He gathered up that first fistful of dust and began forming us, there were no laws, regulations, or requirements obligating Him to include laughter as part of the package

Scripture tells us God created us in His image, and so I have to believe our ability to laugh reflects something of His character.  When I allow myself to think about the laughter of God, I start thinking that feasting with Him and the rest of the family throughout eternity might be an awful lot of outrageous fun. I imagine all of heaven filling with peals of unrestrained laughter and joy. I think sitting around the family table in heaven may, by comparison, make lunch with my siblings look no wilder than a Sunday afternoon catechism class

I think another reason God created us with the capacity for laughter, though, is this: He knew how desperately we would need it. We get glimpses, now and then, of just how painful and broken this world is. Having to bear the weight of the grief and sorrows of this world without the respite of laughter would, I imagine, undo the heartiest among us.

A joyful heart is good medicine, reads another proverb. (Proverbs 17:22)

And on a quiet Saturday afternoon in a pizza shop in Pittsburgh, it was for me.

Writing in community with Deidra @ Jumping Tandem as part of The High Calling writing project on laughter.

And linking with emily for imperfect prose:

Friends Help Us Finish the Song

There is a video making its rounds on the internet, of a young man with autism singing the National Anthem at the beginning of a Boston Red Sox game. Midway through the song, the young man began stammering and fumbling his way through the words. The performance could have turned into an embarrassing disaster. Instead the crowd at Fenway joined the young man in singing the familiar words, and he was able to finish his song triumphantly.

Throughout the pilgrimage of faith I often stammer and fumble, even when the way is familiar. From childhood I have known the Holy Scripture which is able to make one wise unto salvation. Psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs are lifelong friends; I know many of their words by heart. “I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I’ve committed unto Him against that day.” 2 Timothy 1:12, KJV.

But sometimes the way of faith becomes hard. The road turns rocky and steep. I grow weary and my steps begin to falter.

In Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan wrote of two friends—Christian and Hopeful—who journeyed together on their way to the celestial city. They relied on one another to keep from falling into weariness and slumber.  Along the way, Hopeful sang this song:

When Saints do sleepy grow, let them come hither,

And hear how these two Pilgrims talk together:

Yea, let them learn of them in any wise,

Thus to keep ope their drowsy, slumbring eyes.

Saints' fellowship, if it be managed well,

Keeps them awake, and that in spite of Hell.

Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan, [1678], at sacred-texts.com

The One who created us and invited us to walk with Him in a pilgrimage of faith never intended us to journey alone. The One who has eternally existed in communion with Himself as Father, Son, and Spirit calls us to walk in community with one another. Three times a year the people of God journeyed together to Jerusalem to climb holy Mount Zion. They climbed together; the older helping the younger, the strong encouraging the weak. Together they sang Psalms of Ascent, joining their voices in praise while helping one another remember the familiar words of faith.

I am grateful for those friends in my life, the ones who rejoice with me in my triumphs and weep with me in my sorrows; the ones who have been there to share with me the joys and challenges of parenting. The ones I can call in the middle of the night when I can’t sleep. The ones who laugh with me about embarrassing medical procedures we have had or are about to have. The ones who sit in silence when there are no words.

A faithful friend comes alongside to say, “I know it’s hard for you to believe right now. I will believe for you. I know you can’t find the words for prayer right now. Let me pray them for you.  I know the path is difficult right now. Grab hold of my hand until your weak knees regain their strength. The one who says, “I know you know the song by heart but are too weak to sing it. Let me sing it for you—at least until you begin to remember the words.”

A faithful friend helps us finish the song triumphantly.

Joining Bonnie at Faith Barista who has invited us to share thoughts on Faith and Friends. Click the link below to read more thoughtful posts on this topic.

And with emily at imperfect prose:

(Thanks to Deb Colarossi for sharing the video link)

Wind and Whispers

As these things go, it wasn’t awful. Along with several hundred thousand of my fellow Connecticut residents, I spent all but twelve hours of last week without electricity. By the time Hurricane Irene reached New England, it was merely a tropical storm. Yet the storm left more than half of Connecticut’s customers without power, and residents of New York, New Jersey, and Vermont continue trying to reclaim what’s left of their homes and livelihoods after devastating flooding.

We were well prepared for the storm, I thought. I had topped off our propane tank and joked that the beloved Swede could kill and roast his own game if need be. Unlike many in the state, we continued to have running water. My in-laws, the senior beloved Swedes who live less than a mile away, never lost power. They made space in their refrigerator and freezer to babysit some of our food. There are few things, short of a hurricane, which will motivate me to clean out my refrigerator, and now I have a clean refrigerator.

Local schools and town halls opened shelters and facilities for residents to take showers. For the most part, people remained civilized and calm. There were no mobs, no riots, no looting. This, after all, is Connecticut--the land of steady habits--where people dress in loafers and oxford button-downs, and bravely soldier on.

My in-laws invited us over for showers after our hot water tank had grown cold and we enjoyed several evenings of lovely family time, having been drawn together by the storm. Irene’s powerful wind blew in crisp, cool, sunny weather; so we opened our windows wide, not missing our air conditioning in the least. I commented on Facebook that, although I remained without power, it was hard to be grumpy while the weather was so spectacular.

After three days, I was grumpy. I was tired of having to get in the car and drive in order to take a shower. I was tired of carrying all my power cords in my purse; always looking out for places I could shoplift electricity and wireless service.  I was tired of hanging out at Starbucks and going out to dinner. Yes, sometimes too much of a good thing really is too much of a good thing. I longed for a home-cooked meal. A plate full of boiled spaghetti slathered in Prego sounded like heaven.

Lights began to go on in streets near my neighborhood, even as trees remained untouched and entangled in power lines near my home. I began to understand the temptation toward class envy—the resentment of the haves by the have-nots. I drove past people washing their cars in driveways and wanted to roll down my windows and scream, “Don’t you realize there are still people without water! How dare you?”

These past few days have not been among my proudest moments as a faithful, mature, gray-headed follower of Christ.

As someone whose heart breaks over images from places like Kenya and southern Sudan, where people experience real suffering and loss, I grew impatient with my own impatience. I tried counting the gifts, looking for opportunities to see God’s mercy and give thanks.

And I failed. Miserably. Over and over again, I found myself returning to words from a precious hymn I have loved all my life:

Oh, to grace, how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be.

Daily. Hourly. Minute by minute I need grace. In my whining self-pity, I found myself returning again and again in confession:

Lord I’m doing it again, being an ungrateful brat; thinking I deserve more blessing than you have given me.

And He, the One who reveals but the fringes of His power in the winds of the hurricane, answered me--not with the thunder of condemnation, but in a whisper of grace. Because I belong to Him.

I know, He says. I forgive you; you are mine. Continue to follow me, to learn of me. We’ve still got much work to do. I’m not finished with you yet.

Near the peak of my frustration last week, I heard a knock on my door. Upon opening it, I found the woman who works at the local post office. She bears a long, vertical scar on her chest and often wears a halter monitor while working behind the post office counter. I’m guessing she’s acquainted with suffering and is grateful for mercy received in her life.

She was going door-to-door at homes where she knew folks were still without power, offering bottles of water, snacks, and popsicles; offering a glimpse of God’s mercy, goodness, and grace. I pray that in whatever small measure of suffering  I experienced last week, I’ve learned some of these deeper things of God--demonstrated both in the wind of the hurricane and in the still, small whisper of His kindness.

And may God give me the grace to take the things I've learned and put them into practice.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

and with emily at imperfect prose:

Seven Simple Words

“I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”

I had been disappointed and hurt. I felt as though another had chosen sides in a disagreement without considering my point of view. In my opinion, she hadn’t acted in a biblical manner.

For months, we didn’t speak. If we met in public, we smiled politely but avoided both eye contact and one another. I resented those who continued spending time with her, those who seemed oblivious or insensitive to the pain I felt she had caused me.

Many times I prayed, asking for the ability to forgive. Every time I thought I had, the anger came creeping back. I nursed it and allowed it to fester. In the middle of many sleepless nights I rehearsed my arguments and laid out my case, constructing a solid theological defense as to why I was right and she was wrong. My argument was airtight. Given the opportunity, I figured, I would nail her to the wall until she conceded she had done me wrong.

And then the day arrived.  I found myself alone with her in an empty church classroom. We exchanged small talk, pregnant with chilly silences.

“I feel like we have some unfinished business,” she said.

She had given me my opening. I began laying out my side of the story, wanting her to acknowledge the pain she had caused me.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Will you forgive me?”

I stopped, stunned. Then I began again, “I’m sorry, too. But you see . . .”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Will you forgive me?”

She didn’t give me a chance to finish my argument, to rehash all the details of who had said what to whom and in what tone of voice. She simply asked me to forgive her.

She didn’t offer her words lightly, or in a way that made me feel as though she was dismissing me or wanting to sweep everything under the proverbial rug. She also didn’t say, “I’m sorry if I offended you,” or “I’m sorry if there was a misunderstanding,” or “I’m sorry, but here’s my side.”  She spoke the words simply and honestly, from the heart, as though grieved by the distance which divided us for so long and longing for it to be bridged.

She was offering to own her part of our problem and asking for healing and reconciliation. My friend sat before me extending the opportunity to practice the life-giving grace of the gospel, the unconditional forgiveness of sin. And I was undone.

As she reached her hand and her heart across the divide, my arguments became pointless and irrelevant. I saw them revealed as the flimsy tools of the enemy they were, designed to keep us apart and discredit the gospel.  My carefully constructed arguments fell away from my heart as I offered the same seven, simple, life-giving words back to my friend.

Forgiveness is an easy concept to understand, an impossible one to put into practice apart from the grace of God. By using seven simple words my friend, my sister in Christ, humbly demonstrated how to begin the transaction. The practice of forgiveness requires both a giving and a taking, and each of these is a gift to the other.

My friend showed me the beauty of offering these seven simple words, the practice of both extending and receiving forgiveness. I try, as a follower of Jesus, not to say and do things which are hurtful to others. But I fail miserably and often. When I am honest with myself, I know I have ample opportunity to practice saying these words. I’m learning to say them to my children, hoping they will learn sooner than I did the beauty of resting in forgiveness both offered and received.

Linking with Ann, considering the spiritual practice of forgiveness:

And with emily at imperfect prose: (Please stop by her place, joining her in prayer and giving today)

About The Blog Title

The funny part of it all is that relatively few people seem to go crazy. – Gertrude Stein

For some time, I’ve been thinking I should explain the origin of my blog title. Despite what some members of my family think, sometimes I do have reasons for the things I do. The short version of how I came up with my title is this:  I stole it.

I can’t recall where I heard the line, but I remember one character asking another, Are you out of your alleged mind? If I had to guess, I’d say it came either from an episode of M*A*S*H or The Carol Burnett Show, aired sometime during the seventies. I really do have very few original ideas, so I often resort to stealing from songs, movies, and other pop-culture venues. I always try to give appropriate credit, but I honestly can’t remember where I got this one.

The line was a play on words, and it amused me. Since I make a fair number of decisions based on what amuses me, I googled to see if it was available as a blog title. It was. So I typed the words into the header of a Blogger template, and this became the place I write about things that are bumping around inside my head.

Since I've taken up residence in blog world, however, I've come to know and care about a number of folks for whom the pain of mental illness is no joke. I'm concerned that some will read the title of my blog and think I'm insensitive to their experiences. Nothing could be further from the truth. I've had a front-row seat to what the pain of this world can do to a person's body, soul, mind, and spirit. I'm no stranger to the heartache caused by mental and emotional distress. To borrow a line from the movie Arsenic and Old Lace:

Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.

(I've created a separate page for this piece. Won't you click here to read the rest of my story?)

Linking with emily and her community of broken and beautiful people: