My Deck of a Day

They came early in the morning. Daniel and Heather first with their family in tow. They unloaded tools and got right to work. Shortly after, Kelly and Dan came with their three kids. Before I could blink, my back yard was in the process of a major transformation.

We can’t help ourselves. It’s what we do, we build stuff. It’s in my children’s blood. They
grew up in the sawdust of their father’s latest project. They have no memory of a time when he wasn’t building something. They learned it all in his shadow. He loved having them by his side.

We all have a fondness for the smell of lumber. The whine of power tools connects the dots of fond memories. To us, a new project is more exciting than Christmas.

It’s the one thing Tim and I did best – we taught our children to work together. That a family is a team. And by combining our strength, we could do big things.

So that day, I stood by in awe at the talent of my children. I watched new father’s introduce my grandchildren to the same things. I saw mother’s encouraging their sons and daughters to work hard. I saw my family once again, accomplish a big thing. I call it my “deck of a day.”

For in less than eight hours, they had transformed a space of nothing…
into my little bit of paradise…

They made an unusable area a place where I can garden.

But most of all, they did this mama’s heart good. By working together and using the skills learned as children, they trained the next generation to to be good craftsmen of the gifts God gave them.

So in the early mornings hours, when I sit on my deck and read, I’ll soak in the memories of my “deck of a day.” I’ll work hard at counting my Godly blessings, while pushing aside those that add no value to my life. One of those will be the knowledge that no matter where my children are, they carry with them this legacy. It was born from their earliest childhoods, and I’m sure they’ll pass it on.

 

The Simplest Things
My friend posted a picture of her husband on facebook. An insignificant picture. He’s standing, looking off in the distance, in what looks like a driveway. She wrote underneath “Oh to be in that moment again.” He died a few months ago. I share in her grief. I understand what she means. You long for the return of the simplest things.
It’s a message passed down through the ages. “Life is short, cherish it.” Few of us fully grasp it’s meaning until many of our moments are gone.
Time is a thief. It steals from us when we’re not looking. It takes work to not let it happen. We must be intentional in how we live our lives.

I cherish this memory. On many a vacation, Tim was up first. On this one he gathered the grandkids. Rigged up their fishing poles. And shared his passion and wisdom for gathering food. I got to glimpse it. I ran back in the tent for my camera. The fullness of the memory, the moist air, the cool breeze, the quiet chatter, all are embedded deep in my heart.

I long for eternity. The promised restoration of the life God intended us to live. The life that Jesus bought for us on the cross. The chance to reunite with those we love.
Oh for the opportunity to never again miss a moment. For time will no longer be able to rob us of anything.

Til Death Parted Us

It’s been a year since that rainy day when I opened the sliding glass door to let in some fresh air. After weeks of a full house of visitors, I was at home with Tim and just one hospice nurse.

The day seemed surreal. Quiet in an other worldly sense. The nurse was a temp, not one we knew from the agency. Part of me was glad to be alone, part wished someone was there with me.

For days I’d been looking for the signs I’d been told would tell me death was near. By early afternoon I began to suspect he was slipping away. Before I had time to call the kids, he was gone.

I wept as I helped the nurse bathe him one last time. Sponging down his lifeless legs, I thought of the rich man who claimed Jesus’ body. I wondered if he washed off the blood  from the wounds in his hands and feet. Something in that exercise was so reverent. As if respect for the empty shell of a man honored the life he lived.

In the hours it took for the coroner to arrive, I couldn’t leave his side. I kept thinking “We did it honey, we stayed together until death did us part.” For us, a huge accomplishment. A sheer act of our wills. A byproduct of the tenacity imbedded in both of us.
 Til Death Parted Us

Tim’s  three year battle with cancer changed my perception of love. I discovered there’s a depth of romance found in the midst of a struggle. That a powerful bond forms in the simplest moments. Like waking in the night because he reached for my hand. How silently laying in the dark, we were more connected than during any act of sex we’d ever had.

I remember the many times I wanted to give up on us. How foolish was I to think life could be better without him.

I want to tell young couples my story. Tell them not to be so eager to trade in what they have for what might be. That there’s nothing like a relationship that spans a lifetime. That staying together, until death does them part, beats anything else out there.

Come and Dine
Twenty years ago, our family celebrated the first Thanksgiving in a brand new house. To show it off I invited my brothers and sisters and their families to come join our feast.
All day I imagined the Norman Rockwell painting, Thanksgiving Dinner. Only I was the radiant Mom bringing the turkey to the table with the glowing faces of my family staring in awe. I just knew I’d be the star.
As my guests arrived I scurried around putting the finishing touches on my masterpieces.  With the table set, the food cooked to perfection, and everyone seated, my moment to shine had arrived. Well, when you grow up in a large family, you learn one thing – nobody is ever a star.
My brothers in their truest form found something funny in everything I did. The jokes ran rampant with even my husband and kids joining in.  Instead of a Norman Rockwell celebration, I had a Married with Children fiasco.
Days later, wanting someone to share my pain, I phoned my Aunt Jeanne Marie in California. Patiently she listened as I went on and on. Barely coming up for air, I spared no one, “Jim did…and then Brian…Tim even thought it was funny…the kids said…” I felt better getting it all out.
After an uncomfortable silence, her quiet voice gently asked, “Ellen honey, can I tell you how I see it?” I knew by her tone she did not share my indignation.
“Sure,” I said reluctantly.
“For my entire married life, my sisters and their husbands, nor my mother and daddy, never sat at my dinner table. My father only came to my house one time. And then he stood in the foyer for about fifteen minuets. The fact that you and your brothers and sisters could all sit down at the table, means our family has come miles.”
She was right, I had heard the stories of broken relationships. And when I did visit relatives, you could feel the tension brewing below the surface. But Aunt Jeanne Marie was different, she defied the family history by choosing to model unconditional love and grace. Sadly, I was looking at the here and now while she had the perspective of multiple generations.
Maybe that dreadful Thanksgiving, while I pouted, God celebrated a victory that had taken years to win. Perhaps all the time I spent feeling sorry for myself, heaven was rejoicing over the tearing down of strongholds.
This year, I pray our dinner tables will be a place where walls come tumbling down.  Where laughter reins, and the enduring peace of God is abundant.  You never know, heaven just might be celebrating as we feast.

My Prodigal Heart

The fog had not yet lifted the morning our van climbed the hill to the Staunton Correctional Center to pick up our son Daniel. His five and a half-year sentence for foolish crimes he’d committed were over and we could finally take him home. To keep Daniel from spending one hour more incarcerated than necessary, we made the 2-½ hour journey the night before. At 6:30 that chilly March morning, he was free and we were there to greet him.

It felt strange pulling up that long road in the dark dawn. A thick fog made the prison seem eerie. Inside the car, silence fell as none of us quite knew what to say. Our daughter Kelly and her husband Dan had spent the first five years of their marriage making sacrifices to visit Daniel. Tim and I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of not spending our week-ends driving to a prison. None of us knew what to expect.

Tim, ever the prankster, went to the guardhouse with a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, but the guard didn’t seem amused. Then we sat in the van and waited. The sunrise began to burn off the fog, but a thin grey mist still made it difficult to see across the yard. The prison seemed almost devoid of life.

It was strange to think Daniel would just walk out the gate we had entered so many times. It seemed an odd process when so much effort had been exerted to keep him inside.

Suddenly, someone in the van said, “there he is!” But we all seemed frozen.

Carrying a large cardboard box, Daniel stood just on the other side of the sally-port gate. A guard stood by his side. Daniel didn’t move as the first of the two gates opened. There was a brief exchange between the guard escorting Daniel and the guard at the hut, and then the second gate opened and Daniel walked to freedom.

At the same time, the vans doors opened and we all leaped out. Daniel’s blaze orange baseball cap covered his curly hair and his old prison issue denim jacket was unzipped. Underneath he wore a tan shirt that still had the creases from having been just removed from its package.

Without speaking, Daniel stood next to the car as if unsure of what to do next

Even though we had new clothes for him back at the hotel, I could no longer stand seeing Daniel in prison garb. I removed his cap and asked him to take off his jacket. As soon I spoke, the words of the Father of the Prodigal Son echoed in my mind. “Hurry, bring the royal robe…” Tim took the box from Daniel as I shoved him his father’s jacket that was laying on the front seat. He pushed his arms in the sleeves and climbed into the front seat.

On the ride back to our hotel I marveled at why I didn’t love our obedient daughter more than our prodigal son. In so many ways it seems prodigals get to eat their cake and have it too. It’s always seemed unfair in a logical sense, yet emotionally, it’s crystal clear. But I sometimes struggle with putting the two together.

Perhaps it’s because I too have the heart of a prodigal. In my own frustrations over the direction God is leading me, I too have run away, taking with me God’s inheritance. I seldom hesitate to shake my fists and stomp my feet because God didn’t do something I thought He should. After hours anguishing over my foolish tantrums, I marvel at a God who loves me in spite of them.

Could it be the prodigal son was surprised to learn his father still loved him?

Too often, I measure myself against folks who seem to do the right thing no matter what. I cringe as family members tell how they never complain. Or how they press on with a positive outlook. Words that could never be said about me. When I get angry, I want to run away from God. But, when I’m out in the world, I’m always shocked by how big the wake of my rebellion grows.

More than once, the overwhelming responsibility to be a “good” Christian has driven me away from my relationship with Christ. I don’t feel like going the extra mile, turning the other cheek, or holding my tongue. Not that I’ve ever been successful at any of those, but the burden of trying weighs heavily on my heart. And in those dark moments, well meaning folks say, “Let go and let God.” But I don’t want to.

Fortunately, in the midst of my pity party, I run out of steam. Then I start to remember the blessings I have enjoyed because of Him. I remember how much I matter to my God. And the moment I acknowledge the error of my ways, the realization that He proclaims, “quick, get the royal robe…” amazes me every time.

Having a prodigal of my own has made me aware of the anguish my prodigal journeys cause our heavenly Father. It has made the power of grace very real to me. For it is His grace that makes us all loved equally and unconditionally by God. It’s grace that is the great mystery of our faith. The very thing that never ceases to amaze me. And the thing that calms this prodigal’s heart.