Badger Country

One of our stated goals is the desire to visit each of our married kids on their turf annually. Already, we are behind. A twenty-four hour flight to Thailand does not seem to equate to a jaunt to Tennessee or New York. Our 2012 Bangkok adventure may have to hold us for awhile, but at least those grandbabies (oh yes, and their parents, too) are coming to the States this summer. But I have digressed. A visit to Diana and Aaron in Madison, Wisconsin was our most recent connection.

Having married only two years ago in September, this cute young pair has just made their fourth move since taking their vows. (Oh, to be young again). They started off in Greenville to finish schooling and to launch a job that took them to Madison. Their next two apartments were in old houses renovated for maximum student occupancy near the university. Also, living just two blocks from the Capitol and city hub, they easily walked to concerts, coffee shops, museums and their gym. The farmer's market surrounding the square is a huge happening each Saturday morning of the summer season. They delighted in their new digs and became well-acquainted with the Midwestern, college-town venue. Alas, the quirkiness of hundred-year-old habitats with pocket doors nailed open (or closed), beautifully crafted woodwork interrupted by the addition of a wall, hot and cold water faucets invariably reversed, toilets with obstinate "personalities", and a myriad of other idiosyncrasies drew them to the suburbs. 

Twenty minutes from the area they used to walk and knew so well, Diana and Aaron are now tucked away in a community of multiple housing options. Apartments, town homes and single family dwellings nestle into a community that feels like a vacation haven. Silos and farmland create a backdrop for  adjacent property that includes acres of green fields, perfect for frisbee throwing and fetch-games with Remy. Miles of pathways wind through the woods behind the neighborhood. (Maybe don't tell these southerners that these are actually cross-country ski trails that may be a little more difficult to navigate come snow season.)  Evenings, we sat on the deck and watched rabbits emerge from the shadows, quite literally multiplying, as they cavorted and congregated in the parking lot. Altogether, it was a parent's delight to see our kids engaged together in making their house a home and extending hospitality.

As Murphy's Law would have it, our idyllic visit ended with a four-hour delay at the airport. Not altogether negative (I much preferred hanging out in the terminal to the predicted thunderstorms in the air) Dennis and I had the chance to reflect on our early days "setting up housekeeping" as they used to call it. We remembered scurrying around the night before houseguests arrived to hang pictures or paint a room or finish a piece of furniture being renovated. We would move out of our bedroom, offering it to our company, making a pallette on the living room floor for ourselves. Sometimes, our grocery bill would increase with the anticipation of extra people at our table, so we happily carved from the budget in advance to make a way. So proud we were to set the table with our shiney new things. How people must have rolled their eyes at our "firstborn". Schawnroi, our Olde English Sheepdog, was large, unmercifully ill-mannered and cute-as-the-dickens. He came with the territory and our guests kept coming back. Maybe they thought we would surely get him under control, but that never happened. Schawnroi actually ate a pound of woodwork in our own version of the hundred-year-old dwelling every time it thundered. That, too, is another story. Anyway, we reminisced about the fact that once those challenging days of scrimping and saving and improvising and getting started give way to a more regular rhythm in life, there is something about the simplicity and serenity in together facing the struggles of those early years which one misses. 

It has been said that God wants to do a greater thing through each subsequent generation. We are humbled and encouraged by the home these two are creating together, their commitment to applying godly principles to their life decisions, and their witness to those around them. And, by the way, our grand-dog Remy is way better behaved than Schawnroi.

"We should so live and labor in our time, that what came to us as seed may go to the next generation as blossom, and that what came to us as blossom may go to them as fruit. This is what we mean by progress."

Henry Ward Beecher

Celebrating the Art of You

I

 Recentiy, I was asked to share with a girlfriend-gathering at a local  church launching their summer programs. During the course of the evening, a plethora of options for serving, giving, creating, learning and relating were introduced. The theme, amidst Mexican cuisine and festive fare, was CELEBRATING THE ART OF YOU on which I was invited to speak. At the end of the evening, several of the gals suggested that the material covered--the art that each of us was made to live--be available in written form to share with others. A blogpost seemed the genre through which to easily launch the thoughts. Paging through my notes, (I spoke for only thirty minutes, honest!) it appears that we might best tackle this topic in more readable, shorter segments. Intermittent blogposts may scoot off to a current happening or two, but readers will be able to follow the thread of discovering the art we are each meant to live and heed the challenge to live it.

First, let's defuse that common complaint we each have muttered under our breath at one time or another: "I am just not creative." In a current favorite read, Creativity is a Verb, author Patti Digh makes a good point in the sub title: "If you're alive, you're creative". Because we are made in the image of the Creator of the universe, we are each image-bearers and therefore, creative.

Graham Green has said, "There is always one moment in childhood when a door opens and lets the future in."

Mrs Delaney was a vintage friend of mine in our old neighborhood. A renowned hand-painted china artist and instructor, she tutored me at her dining room table in the art of dabbing images of forget-me-nots, dogwood blossoms, and delicate birds on saucers and vases. Mostly, I just watched, awestruck at her expertise. Yet, a story she shared has stuck with me way beyond a knack for painting fruit and flowers on tea cups. Mrs Delaney, then in her eighties, lit up all over whenever she would recount her memory of being two years old sitting in her high chair with a teddy bear under her arm. She distinctly recalled laying her bear atop a piece of paper on the tray, and with a crayon, drawing all the way around his furry perimeter. Mrs Delaney repeated often, with childlike glee, the delightful sense of satisfaction she felt as she tucked her teddy back under her arm and gazed at the paper, having made a mark with her hand that was pleasing to the eye. It was that moment of inspiration that carried her dream into the future.

My own door was a set of oak pocket doors that led to my daddy's office. When I was growing up, Daddy worked out of our home and the doors remained closed during business hours. But when the workday was over and he emerged to join the family, I was permitted to inhabit his office and make myself at home at his enormous desk. My legs dangled from his creaky, swivel chair and with feet barely touching the floor, I plunked out stories on his Royal typewriter. We did not have reams of copy paper in those days. I crafted my compositions on the backs of envelopes or blank sides of letters Daddy had received in the mail. The red stripe of the typewriter ribbon was for my use, the black being reserved for office work. When finished, I would add illustrations, staple the pages together and happily pop back into family life, with the most delicious sense of accomplishment.

Where do you remember a door that opened in childhood?

Creativity does not point exclusively to those who are bent toward the fine arts like painters, sculptors, composers or even to those with the athletic skills of pro golfers and tennis champions. Well-educated professionals like CPA's, trial lawyers, brain surgeons and astronauts have undeniable talents. But let us consider the everyday art of a grandfather who spins yarns that are captivating to his audience, a  woman who cleans a hospital room carefully (full-of-care) with attention to detail that is beautiful, a hairdresser that specializes in grey heads, listening to and loving her clients in a way that is almost sacred. 

Who have you watched tending a garden, feeding a kitten with an eye dropper, repairing a car engine, or waiting tables with such joy and enthusiam that you knew they were about the very thing that made them tick?

My own art, in part, would be that of celebrating everyday days. My mother did not live to meet my husband or my children, but they know her somewhat because I have passed on her art of making everyday days special. Mother would sometimes put a little flag on a toothpick in our mashed potatoes or dessert that said, "I love you" or "Happy Report Card Day", even it it was not necessarily a happy report card. She crafted whimsical presentations at meals, like a bunny salad that consisted of a half-pear turned upside down, with two carrot ears, a cherry nose, raisen eyes, and a marshmallow tail. Her creations made those fruits and veggies so much more appealing. Everything from our milk to the pudding got a dose of green food coloring on St Patricks Day. And on George Washington's Birthday, we inevitably baked a cherry pie, crowned with whipped cream and a construction paper hatchet. We made Ivory soap boats that we floated in our bath on Columbus Day...the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria emblazoned on sails held high by Popsicle sticks.

Seasonal and special events are celebrated to the hilt at our house, often with a vignette which is simply a visual collection that points to the moment in time, the person, or the season being celebrated. Birthdays are a big deal. Presents are mostly modest offerings, but the celebrant is royalty-for-the-day. Someone else does your chores and the honoree does not have to practice the piano, or violin, or whatever the instrument du jour might be. There's always a photo fan display along with memorabilia distinct to the celebrant which might include a trophy, created object, favorite cap, ballet shoes or tennis racket. These icons are clustered together in a central location like the kitchen table or countertop where the message is, "We are celebrating YOU."

Because my daddy also did not get to watch my family grow up, we include photos of him, grand fathers and great-grandads, as a kind of visual family history, in our Father's Day vignette. Daddy was bald and often wore a hat, so I place one of his wide-brimmed fedoras on a stand. His dog tags from the Navy where he served during WWII, pocket knife, cuff links, and tie clasp are strewn around. A shaving mug that belonged to one of the dads in our lineage, a straight-edged razor, and a class ring are among the artifacts the children have handled over the years, asking questions and thereby becoming acquainted with the stories of those who have gone before them.

The evolving calendar year brings opportunity for changing up the visuals. Vignettes do not have to be a big production, but rather can be an interactive affair as family members grab hold of celebrating the season and one another. This time of year we drag out everything beach-y. Bottles of sand on the mantle wear labels tied with rafia on which are scribbled the names of the beach from which the contents was gathered. Conch shells, starfish, and sand dollars perch atop a stack of beach books with smaller specimens tucked into a mound of sand inside a mason jar.

So there you are. Art might be a sculpture, a painting, a sonata or a beautiful home run. But art

is so, so much more. Art is doing whatever you do in the most beautiful way possible. Every person is created with the capacity to live the art they were uniquely made to live. What's up next? Let's call it Discovering Desire. 

When "thank you" seems "not enough"...

How to say "thank you" to those who have gone before us? How to understand what they have experienced, sacrificed, weathered? How to let them know we will remember and attempt to pass the baton to the next generation?

Dennis's dad, affectionately known as Granpa to our family and friends-beyond recently participated in a local Rotary Club's Honor Air flight to Washington DC. This is one organization of many around America that focuses on honoring those "ordinary people who saved the world" by providing opportunity for a free day trip to visit the World War II Memorial in DC.

Seventy veterans made the trip on April 14th, each accompanied by an escort of their own selection. To accompany him, Granpa chose Eric, our oldest son, also a veteran having served in Korea, Afganistan, and Iraq. Pre-dawn,the group gathered at a central location from which they were led via police escort to Hartsfield International Airport. The entourage of police vehicles, motocyle honor brigade, three red, white and blue buses bearing vets, and follow-up squad cars drove under a celebratory arch formed by two firetrucks with ladders extended. Fireman atop each ladder held a pole between them from which hung an American flag. It was quite a goose-bumpy visual in the early (albeit rainy) morning light. 

Once aboard the chartered flight, veterans found the cabin decked out  quite patriotically. Firetrucks at Reagan Field in DC created a welcoming water-spray arch into which the plane landed, while representatives from various military branches stood sentinel and hundreds of citizens cheered welcoming the honored guests. 

The rainy day did not dampen the spirits of those who, years ago, endured so much more that we might enjoy the freedoms we sometimes take all too lightly. The vets, many in wheelchairs or with canes, soaked up (no pun intended) the sites with the culmination of the day being the changing of the guard ceremony at Arlington. One can only imagine the awe of the moment as octogenarians and nonagenarians remembererd comrades and days spent on the front lines. 

Granpa married Gramma a week before he went off to WWII. He served with the 44th Infantry Division of the US Army National Guard in the European Theater. His last name made for interesting situations. Soldier's names were emblazoned on their helmets. Sometimes, a German POW would approach Scheidt thinking they could speak German together.  But Granpa no sprechen sie Deutsch. The incident brings to mind Civil War stories of brothers fighting on opposite north-south sides.  And really, that's always the way with war, is it not? Brothers fighting. 

Photos were taken. Contact informations, swapped. Articles appreared in newspapers. Facilitators were acknowledged and life goes on. Remembrances are tucked away in the treasure trove of memories to be taken out and examined on other days. How can we know how much it means to be honored and appreciated long after the battle is fought, the victory won? We can only guess, but we have detected tears in Granpa's eyes as he reflects on the fact that "not everyone who served got to do this". We, with him, feel very blessed. Indeed, there are others who remember, who are passing the baton to the next generation. Our son remembers. His son Emery, now stationed in Germany with the US Army, has picked up the legacy. 

And there are others. Last night at a church supper, we sat with a young officer now involved with training Rangers. Attentively, he leaned into our retelling of the awesome trip Granpa has just experienced. Quite humbly, this young man shared that he had once served as a part of the Honor Guard at Arlington. Although, the visitors to that hallowed ground included kings, queens, dignitaries and diplomats from all over the world, none, he said, was as moving to him as the WWII vet who would laboriously raise himself from his wheelchair in a proud salute.

God bless America.

God bless our veterans.

Meltdown

Okay, so this is not the post I intended to write today. I am already two or three themes behind in my mind. Plus the fact, that after a speaking engagement Sunday evening, a dear friend exhorted me to "practice what I preached" and to say "yes" to my own desire to write. She encouraged me to post the contents of the musings I shared with the ladies gathered at a girl-friend evening. That will have to wait for another day.

Today, I am tangled in the mesh of the internet. (They don't use terms like web and net for no reason.) In order to act as discussion leader for a Saturday group coming up, I need to have listened to some online audios. Easy enough? One would think so. It seems my ipad does not support the  (blah, blah, blah) whatever it is, so the material had to go to Dropbox where I could access it on the desk-top (cozy & cute, not!) and listen directly from there. More steps, more ID's and PW's and a more-than-patient friend who made that happen from across town. Now then, I end up with six or seven emails from Google Chrome after resetting security codes, etc because I had not used that particular device in a long time. All set to listen and the audios (hurrah!) are actually loaded on Dropbox. I click the little arrow and see the seconds ticking away. No sound. The speakers are on. I crawl into the scary place under the desk and check the wad of cords through spider remains (more of those webs) and dust bunnies to be sure all are connected to the PC, electricity and one another. Alas, no sound. The little volume icon on the screen indicates sound is at full tilt. Not so.  Groan. 

Okay, after several hours (truly) I give up.

Moving right along to the next project for the day, I decide to attempt to send photos to Walmart to have copies made. This feat I accomplished last week (all by myself) and it worked. For some reason, strange things are popping up on the screen today and I cannot get beyond "upload photos". They are all just sitting there staring at me, with no icon in sight that would help me move any closer to the pick-up counter at Walmart. Sigh.

More hours gone.

I quit. I am running away to Key West. Alexander (who had the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day) announced to all that he was headed to Australia. Not going there. That would take a plane ticket, more frustration with the internet, and result in eyes more red and swollen than those I wear at the moment. I have labored over the wonderful, modern technology for ions of time this morning with no results. Prayed, tried hard, (my kids often think I am feigning ignorance), researched and cried. I cannot do this. I am going to thank God for the way He has made me and be open to learning new tricks, if He  has that in the plan for this "old dog". Meanwhile, I am going to leave the enigma of the web behind and do what I know how to do today.  I will craft a note of encouragement and blessing to several young people in my life who are about to graduate....another to my friend whose son is marrying in two weeks as she moves her mother into hospice. I will clean up the yard sale remains, bake for tomorrow's church supper, fold laundry and dwell in my own domain. 

PS And why, you may ask, is she not using this time to dig deeper into the annals of computer science. I have sniffled enough for one day. Sometimes, we just need to see an immediate result. My daddy used to say, "An honest confession is good for the soul" (or is that scripture? Sometimes, I mix the two.) I confess that I cannot, at this point, embrace the plethora of creative & educational options for this generation out there on the net. Give me my pen & paper, scissors & hard copies, spatula & rolling pen.

Everyday Days

Though time crumbles stone and the story grows old

The Savior we love still watches His fold

And His star still shines over city and mart 

And His voice still speaks to the listening heart

Rote, redundant, repetitious are not usually words we associate with being full of wonder and awe. We think of them more as being mechanical or automatic as if there were no intention, as if mundane were the opposite of mindfulness. Jesus made reference to the kingdom of God belonging to the children and perhaps their way of reveling in what adults may call monotonous makes them more aware of the delight of repeating everyday pleasures. "One more story, one more trip down the slide, one more walk with Granpa." GK Chesterton reasons that the cry of children for "more" is a reflection of the God who created them:

 “It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that God has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we. The repetition in Nature may not be a mere recurrence; it may be a theatrical encore.”

When Jesus asks us to consider the lilies of the field and how they grow assuring us that He cares so much more for us, He is inviting us into the glorious wonder of observing and participating in the predictable repetition of a His created world, both the ordinary and the extraordinary. He is encouraging us to experience His attention to detail in both the stars in a child's eyes and those that make up the galaxies. He is gracing the moments that we trek through toddler-dom, walk a tightrope with teens or care for an aging parent. He infuses the good, the bad, and the ugly with fresh springs of light that cause us to see beyond just having a quick look. 

My father-in-law has collected a series of little houses, the ones that are lit from the inside often displayed at this season. Over the years, he has gathered banks and barns, shops and vintage houses, a light house and several churches. Altogether on the mantle, where they are carefully arranged with cords neatly hidden behind gold garland, the miniature buildings create a warm glow throughout the room almost reminiscent of a Victorian village.  It is only when one draws very near and peeks into the windows that one can catch a glimpse of treasures within...tiny figures trying on hats or others sampling confections from the bakery. 

I have mused often this Christmas season as I sit sipping afternoon coffee with my dear in-laws of the haven they have created in their rather ordinary little home. Their lives, not unlike the little row of houses, are predictable. They eat three meals a day, let the dog in and out, venture to the grocery, bank and hair-dresser and watch a bit of TV in their recliners. All ordinary, mundane, unspectacular. Yet, there is a light reflected from within their lives which makes the repititous nature of their 74 years together fairly glow. They have lived out the truth of experiencing new mercies morning by morning and found God faithful in the everyday days. Nestling into the warmth of their living room and the peacefulness of their steadfast abiding I am awestruck by the wonder. My own faith is nourished. My heart is refreshed. My outlook, brightened. I drink my coffee to the dregs, reluctant to leave, but renewed, not by having dined in a king's palace but having been infused with more strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow. 

Each year, Granpa declares he will not decorate for Christmas. Each year, we cajole him into doing so. Slowly, he begins to uncoil the cords and to string the lights. Our hearts are gladdened again. Someday it will not be so. But we will have taken with us the blessing of learning to treasure  everyday days in common ways. One more cup of coffee, please.

Oh normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are. Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow. Let me hold you, love you, bless you before you depart, for it may not always be so. One day I shall dig my nails into the earth or  stretch myself taut or bury my face in a pillow and want for all the world your return. 

Mary Jean Iron

Ready, Aim, Fire

Life unfolds unexpectedly.

"We didn't do Santa when our kids were little. Now I AM Santa Claus."

This from my cousin-in-law (we love to get into those "now, what are we first cousins once removed, or second cousins?" discussions at family gatherings) who now grows a full, snowy beard in the fall, dons a fabulous Santa suit and charms old and young alike with his winsome banjo-rendition of favorite Christmas carols and HO-HO-Ho-ing. 

Why is it, that after a few years of parenting we sometimes find ourselves doing a 180 on issues to which we doggedly adhered in our earlier days? These are some we have heard:

-Our children are only going to play with wooden toys.

-We will NOT use a pacifier. 

-Our kids will be potty trained by the time they're two.

-No one gets their ears pierced at our house until they're thirteen,

-We plan to hold off on getting a cell phone for our kids until they are in high school, (or middle school....or until they start school.)

But not to point fingers, here are some of ours:

-We do not watch R-rated movies. (Then came The Passion of the Christ)

-No Halloween candy in your room. (Yeah, well. Oh, you meant pockets,too?)

-We do not play with Barbies (but then, all of our best friends do.)

-Gum day is cleaning day. (Yes,well think about a bunch of little kids with carte blanche gum privileges)

-Our skirts will be "this length"...or that...or wait. Hemlines are always up for debate.

-Our bathing suits will be modest. (Who decides modesty?)

-Recreational dating is not a good thing. ("Oh, we're just friends", echoes more than once.)

-Evangelistic dating is not a good thing. (Ditto above)

-Cell phones (once invented) get parked at the door to preserve table conversation (Now we text down the row at church?)

We watched the generations before us. We were going to get it "right". What happened? As we grow and mature, do we realize more and more the naïveté, pride, and eternal optimism of our youth? Do we cash in and give way to cultural pressure? Do we realize there are more important issues at stake and attempt to not major in the minors? Is it true that times change and there IS a season for everything? Are we just plum tired? Or do we simply give life our best shot, instructing from the integrity our hearts, wearing out our knees in prayer and leaving the results to a sovereign God?

Is it both/and? As we endeavor to nurture households of faith, do we hold to the basic tenants:

"Stand by the ways and see and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is, and walk in it; and you will find rest for your souls."

Jeremiah 6:16

And, at the same time, do we remain open to new leadings while tenaciously seeking truth:

"Do not call to mind the former things, nor ponder things of the past. Behold I will do something new."

Isaiah 43:18

In the end, it is His story. It is God's redemption story written in and through and by and for each of our lives and those of our offspring.

"I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have entrusted to Him against the day of Jesus's coming."

II Timothy 1:12

Here I am on a very fun date at the shooting range with my son.

And no........we did not play with guns when he was growing up. 

Learning.

Aiming.

Still focused on the goal.