Nothing Gold Can Stay

Returning to one's roots can be a little unsettling.

Things that once seemed to be huge have shrunk. The local swimming hole. The high school football field. The backyard where we played as children. The hills of the golf course where we sledded in snow. Some things, however, appear comfortably and predictably, to have stayed the same. The whistle and clatter of the freight train making it's way through the night. The strength of the iron fence bordering the cemetery on Southern Avenue. The face of that small child....until I realize that, of course, the face I am remembering (although exactly the same) is that of this child's grandparent from decades ago. And then there are the things that have made a shift almost beyond recognition. A totally new road diverts pass-through traffic from the business route that goes through town. The corner ice cream shop where we used to purchase a nickel cone that dripped double-dips down our arms on hot summer nights has now been transformed into a tattoo parlor. An abandoned lot now yawns in place of the movie theatre where we watched Maw and Paw Kettle for a quarter while munching popcorn that cost a dime. And the church where I was baptized, confirmed, and married is now gone. Totally obliterated. Evaporated without a trace, like it was never there.  Sometimes, the emotions are too hard to absorb all at once. 

Admittedly, fall brings out the melancholy in me. So, on a recent pilgrimage to my hometown, I collected leaves along with memories and reveled in the beauty of the present moment. I could not help contemplating how our God who is immutable ministers change in our lives that He might transform and conform us to His image. All the while,  He remains constant, steadfast, true. With leaves tucked between pages of books, I returned home thinking of those who have gone before. I ache with desire to preserve the inevitable fleeting of this season. Yet, I am thankful for new bloom and flower and leaf that will come as the next generation flourishes. 

1. Immortal, invisible, God only wise, 
in light inaccessible hid from our eyes, 
most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days, 
almighty, victorious, thy great name we praise. 

2. Unresting, unhasting, and silent as light, 
nor wanting, nor wasting, thou rulest in might; 
thy justice like mountains high soaring above 
thy clouds which are fountains of goodness and love. 

3. To all, life thou givest, to both great and small; 
in all life thou livest, the true life of all; 
we blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree, 
and wither and perish, but naught changeth thee. 
 

These are my people. Photo albums and digital files track the journey of our lives together. My gathered-leaves are stashed between pages of books, under potted plants and strewn on the dining room table. Does God color the Autumn spectacularly that we might more highly prize all that is precious and fragile and fleeting?

Teach us to number our days that we may present to Thee a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

Memory Lane & Lucas Street

I like fall:
it always smells smoky,
chimneys wake early,
the sun is poky;

Folks go past
in a hustle and bustle,
and when I scuff
in the leaves, they rustle.

I like fall:
all the hills are hazy,
and after a frost
the puddles look glazy;

And nuts rattle down
where nobody's living,
and pretty soon . . .
it will be THANKSGIVING.

by Aileen Fisher

And there's nothing like returning to Hometown USA where the landscapes are vibrant this time of year and every gust of wind produces a kaleidoscope of color swirling through the sky. Here's Lucas Street where I grew up, the sidewalk where I roller-skated and rode my bike, and the hill down which we raked the leaves into the street. Mother would wrap our hair in scarves so it wouldn't smell smoky and  the raking party ended with a bonfire in the street. We roasted marshmallows on sticks and the smoke curled into ribbons at days end. 

Here's the building where my daddy went to first grade, where I did as well, and where I graduated from high school. The old bell tower, rung only once a year by graduating seniors, is gone now. Along with that tradition, I recall the one that forbade underclassmen from entering from by any door other than the ones on either side, reserving the center doors for juniors and seniors. 

We gathered buckeyes from beneath the trees near where our parents and grandparents lay.

Aunt Christine recently turned ninety-eight. She's says that number doesn't bother her but the thought of ninety-nine sounds scary. Her treasured hand-written letters have become sparse in recent years, but I have a stack that I have saved, that I can read and re-read. She always began with "I am sitting at the southeast corner of the kitchen table"...or the "north end"...or the "west side". And so, today we sat around all sides and reminisced. 

There was always much work to do on the farm, but Aunt Cnristine took time to ease us "city girls" into the routine. She patiently let us bottle-feed the lambs, scoop grain for the calves, and pour milk into bowls for the ever-growing family of kittens. She took us to the woods and introduced us to wildflowers and mushrooms. To this day, I coax my husband into letting me spray in our own little woods so that I can save the trillium and the Jack-in-the-Pulpit that she taught me to recognize. 

Long before I was a mother, this lady was teaching me. She once remarked that it was hard to know which way to turn to get one's work done sometimes. Her theory was that first thing in the morning you take care of what yells or smells and the rest kind of falls into place. When I became a mother, I realized there were some days you really didn't get further than that. 

 I remember her saying she often would leave her work at the children's bedtime to read to them and lie down with them until they fell asleep when she would get up and finish her day. While other aunties might have been scurrying around in the kitchen, Aunt Christine always took time to have a project for us kids. She taught us to make doll dishes out of acorn hats or walnut shells and how to fashion ballerinas from hollyhock blossoms that danced in a bowl of water. Her eyes sparkled today as I reminded her of our fun memories. She mused thoughtfully, "Well, children are only young once, you know." How well we both understand that fact, now. 

How glad I am to have grown up in this sleepy little one-horse town. Today it was full of sunshine and leaves and blue sky and people who colored my childhood like the autumn's splendor.

Beautiful Darling Child

My baby turns twenty-one today. 

Long, slow exhale.....

...and now, what to do with the rest of my life? I am trying to decide whether to turn cartwheels and jump into all those things I said I was going to do when the children grew up, or whether to have a meltdown? Seriously. There are those stacks and piles and closets into which I have stuffed "I'll get to it later" projects throughout the decades. And then there are the want-to's like painting and writing and learning how to do my camera and how to file digital images. Plus I would love to have a beautiful  cutting garden, learn to play tennis and run a marathon (just kidding).  So much to do, so little time. These are hankerings that have haunted me for years. But over-riding the cobwebs and grunge of neglected lists is the realization that we make a lot of choices along the way. We choose. Now, the question-of-the-day is "what do I really want to do by way of finishing well"? The sand through the hour glass slips silently whether I acknowledge it or not.

Do I really want my epitaph to read, "she went out with amazing closets"?

What is my new role with these grown offspring that were entrusted to my care for a little while? When one has rarely slept through the night for decades, either getting up with teething toddlers or listening for tip-toeing teens returning in the wee hours, it is hard to turn off the "parent alert" part of the brain. One does not stop caring, being concerned with what concerns them, and hurting when our kids hurt. When we wonder how they are and where they are, the mother-heart remains restless. No matter their age. No matter their gender. No matter their self-assured confidence. 

Years ago, we young parents of the 80's found the title Parenting Isn't for Cowards by James Dobson, to be a bit humorous, in light of toddler challenges that consisted of potty training and temper tantrums. But somewhere down the road, we were overcome by the sheer terror of realizing that the book title held a much deeper message. The fact that God would entrust children to other of His children is, indeed, a scary phenomena. 

God has faithfully used my children every day to bring me to my knees and show me how much I need a Savior. He does not get my attention while I am playing golf or bridge or tennis, because I don't do any of those things. (Who would have time while mothering the multitude?!) But, when it comes to my children, He has my attention. Just let me say, I have messed up a lot. I have been impatient. I have disciplined harshly and unfairly, at times. I have heard words when I should have listened for the heart. I have been selfish and sinful and sleepy. I have not always practiced what I have preached.  But God, in His infinite mercy...in spite of me, not because of me, but because of Jesus...has been at work. He has been gracious in not giving up on me as He has worked to transform and conform me in the process of my tending these two-legged treasures. However imperfectly I have done so, I hear His voice today saying that I may be "confident that He who has begun a good work will continue His work until it is finally finished on the day when Jesus Christ returns" (Philippians 1:6).  I may rest. He will keep me in perfect peace as my mind is stayed on Him. (Isaiah 26:3) And He will keep those I have entrusted to Him. 

And so, to my beautiful darling child I gift this quote that I happened upon. Characteristically, I would have chosen to edit the text suggesting that the heart should be guarded rather than wide open and making analogies to the spiritual roots that would make a difference in her budding world. But, no. One has to trust that she is learning to translate, to take on the mantle, to carry the Light. No longer is it my job to draw a picture and color it in.  While my original intent was to frame the quote on lovely parchment paper appropriate for hanging, something prompted me toward a pillow that would be winsome, inviting and comforting. Just so, the Father's heart...a place that beckons us to rest.

Because the words are a little hard to decipher in the image, the quote appears below: 

PS The text transfer to fabric ala a mirror-image printing process is another blog for another day and should only be attempted with the aid of a (very, very patient) friend who is much more computer-savvy than I am.

Now You See 'Em, Now You Don't

June and July have been a bit of a blur. In recent days we have found ourselves trying to log the summer festivities. "Where were we when....? Oh, you weren't here, you were still there. Did we see them before or after our family reunion at the beach? Why wasn't I with you when...?"  But altogether we have made some great memories and, in looking back over the list of options outlined for the summer ahead, we have covered a lot of territory.  God has thrown in plenty of unanticipated bonuses, too. 

So rich were the hours. So filled with laughter and comings and goings were our days. So many steps on the stairs, giggles in the night, doors slamming and dishes clattering. So much stillness now. The quiet is deafening.  The ticking of the clock has never been louder. Even the dog sits forlorn by the kitchen door waiting and watching for the kids to come back from fishing at the lake. 

Maybe in addition to "scratch and sniff", modern technology will soon be able to recreate multi-sensory, 3-D experiences that can play back the golden moments. Could technology ever reproduce the delight of Popsicle-slurping with cousins on a sweltering summer day...the combination stink and serendipity over a hooked bass....rollicking laughter at a challenging checker game or the clinking of marbles on the game board? Could some yet-to-be device recreate virtual glee as frosty, root-beer float mugs are passed? How about conversations in "make-believe-land" and the resulting joy of Great Granpa, who crafted the decades-old dollhouses for other little girls?   Could we absorb again the wonder and awe of walking the neighborhood where our kids grew up...hear the cacophony of memories echoing at the same time grandchildren meet the creek, the old treehouse, the cul-de-sac, and the polo ponies for the first time? Could we experience vicariously once again the  rousing cheer over a strike at the bowling alley... the aroma of baked goods and culinary creations...a poolside French-toast-with-lemon-curd-and-strawberries-with-blueberries breakfast... and those delicious soft little snores from the back seat at day's end? 

A gift to myself, the photos. A gift from God, the precious memories. Here follows a photo melange of the fading family melee of summer 2015.

And then, rest with me in permission to grieve, if you've ever known the bitter-sweetness of separation because of a Love bigger than your own. The link sent below was shared by my daughter as she waited for her children on the opposite coast  after I launched them toward her at summer's end. Because she is a mother, she is beginning to understand. And because her chicks are still under foot and in her nest, she hasn't a clue.

http://clearingcustoms.net/2012/09/19/parents-of-missionaries-another-group-with-hidden-sorrow/

May she have daughters

of her own

to care

when she is old

and I am gone.

I should have loved

to care for her once more

as I did then

long years before.

I was a mother young

and she – my child.

Caring was joy. So when

she is old and I am There,

may she have daughters

of her own

to care.

 

from “Sitting by My Laughing Fire” by Ruth Bell Graham (1977, Word Books)