Light for my Path

Of all the symbols of the Christmas season, I think Light is my favorite. Candles in the window and lights on the tree bring to mind those beloved words from John 1: “In Him was life, and that life was the light of men.”

These days thoughts and memories of my brother Tom are never far from my mind. I have been thinking of one summer – more than twenty-five years ago – when Mother and I visited Tom and his family out in Idaho. Tom took us on a short trip to the Sawtooth Mountains, that majestic rugged wilderness area that he so loved. I remember us all drawing up to the campfire as daylight began to fade and just sitting there soaking up the serenity and beauty around us until we could barely keep our eyes open. All of us except Tom made our way to our beds for the night.

Just as I was almost asleep a light knock came at the camper door. It was Tom. “Get up, Jack,” he whispered. “I know you will want to see this.” I stepped out, huddled in a blanket, to a night that was brilliantly alive. Never before or since have I ever witnessed a night sky so beautiful. Thousands, millions, of stars I had never seen because I had never before traveled far enough away from artificial light sources. It was easy to imagine the wonder of Abraham or of David as we traded the binoculars back and forth. It seemed we were standing on the top of the world, with just the pines towering above us, under an amazing canopy of light. I felt so small, yet so secure. “When I consider your heavens…what is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him? [Yet] you made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and crowned him with glory and honor.”

Many years later, another trip. This time a very long one, a loop of more than 5,000 miles that took us through Nevada, the Oregon coast, Washington, Yellowstone, Montana, and the Black Hills of South Dakota before heading back home. On this day, Steve and the kids and I had left Yellowstone to see Tom and Carol. We began to appreciate the immensity of Montana as mile after mile passed with no towns. No highways, even, intersecting Interstate 90. Periodically there would be exits for “Ranch Access.” That was it. Under the big sky, off in the distance we could see dark clouds, but we never reached them. It was one of those summer evenings that seem endless in the West. Dusk held until we reached Miles City, but darkness had settled in as we found the two-lane road that would take us on the last leg of our journey.

It took a while for it to register just how dark it was. But as we drove on, it seemed strangely, eerily black. No light from oncoming traffic, for there was none. No security lights for homes or businesses. Not even an occasional light from a farmhouse, for there didn’t seem to be any. And no stars or moon, for the rain had finally reached us. Our cell phones had not been working in that part of the country for days, and we felt totally isolated and alone. If we weren’t looking forward to being with our family so much, we would never have continued down that long road.

But finally, there was a faint light in the darkness, and suddenly the car lights detected a country church on one side of the road. The light came from a Coleman lantern held by my big brother who was standing in his driveway on the other side of the highway. He had been watching for our car and had come out to guide us so that we wouldn’t pass up the house. Had we been through bad weather, he asked. Evidently we had missed the worst of it, for wind had snapped some power lines and electricity had been out all over the area for several hours.

With his Coleman lantern, warm smile, and welcoming hugs, Tom had made the night bright again for us. Under his rain poncho, he wore a tee shirt that said “Ekalaka, MT – 12 miles* End of the World – 8 miles.” It was a huge joke to him, especially since Ekalaka, MT was exactly 12 miles from his home, but I don’t know if he realized how close it had felt to the “end of the world” for me before he met us with that lantern.

Leaving the light on, waiting up for loved ones, is what our family has always done. My mother. Tom. And the source of Light, our Heavenly Father.

Sometimes, when I can get past the artificial haze that surrounds me, the Light that guides my life is brilliant and awe-inspiring, and I catch a glimpse of the “glory of the One and Only Who came from the Father.” But sometimes that Light reaches me more like Tom’s Coleman lantern, faint but steady, and the darkness can’t dispel it. Either way, the Light is precious. It guides me. It beckons me. And one day it will lead me home.

My brother, hero, and friend

Thanks so much to those of you who prayed for Brad during his health scare and for Blake while he served in the Middle East. Brad has been able to continue mission work in Peru and is now back in the States for a few weeks. Blake has also made it safely home. And - so hard to believe - my brother Tom has gone home to Heaven.

He became critically ill very suddenly, and for more than two weeks, we asked that God would heal him if it were His perfect will.

"Our prayers have all been answered. I've finally arrived.

The healing that had been delayed has now been realized....

My light and temporary trials have worked out for my good,

To know it brought Him glory, when I misunderstood.

Though we've had our sorrows, they can never compare.

What Jesus has in store for us, no language can share.

"If you could see me now, I'm walking streets of gold.

If you could see me now, I'm standing strong and whole.

If you could see me now, you'd know I've seen His face.

If you could see me now, you'd know the pain is erased.

You wouldn't want me to ever leave this place,

If you could only see me now." - Kim Noblitt

There is an emptiness that will never be filled here, but such thankfulness for the person he was, for the relationship we had, and for the blessed hope of seeing him again.

My memories of Tom begin when I was around three or four and he was twelve, but I don’t remember the life-and-eternity-shaping event that took place in his life at that time, just his retelling of it. Our family had moved to Lake Charles, LA, and our dad took Tom to visit the Church of the Nazarene on Easter Sunday evening, 1959. In that service, Tom felt his heart touched with conviction, and he asked permission from our dad to go forward and pray. “I’m not living the way I should,” our dad told him, “but I don’t want to hold you back.” Tom’s heart was changed that night as he was saved and called to preach.

Tom was a wonderful big brother. My special times with Tom were when he would take me to church. I always wanted to go, and until he left for college he was almost always willing to take me with him.He was a leader in the youth group, the “preacher boy” who preached in nursing homes and on the corner by the bus station. He was my hero.

Until he married, Tom was “Tommy,” and many of his hometown friends never stopped calling him that. The feelings they have shared during the past days have been so strong, the memories so powerful. “Tom modeled Jesus for so many of us,” one wrote. I know that he modeled Jesus for me.

Tom left home when I was only nine, so our times together were reduced to Sunday night phone calls, Christmas vacations, and a few weeks in the summer. He married the love of his life, Carol Keithley, just before his final semester of Bible college, and I finally had a sister! They began their first pastorate many miles away. Visiting them, or having them come home, was always a highlight. As a senior in high school, I was privileged to live near them. Tom and I discovered that in many ways we were kindred spirits, and the bond that we forged during that year has been a deep source of joy ever since.

Tom loved a good laugh. He would latch on to some small joke and tell it again and again, enjoying it more each time. When someone talked about how much milk they had to buy for their family, Tom would say, “We spill more than that!” It was probably true. If a girl had on a trendy pair of shoes, he might ask, “How long is the doctor making you wear those?” When he saw a large man getting out of a small car, he’d say, “Let me help you get that thing off.”

Some of my most treasured memories were made when Tom took me - and later me and my children - on long horseback rides through the open ranges of Idaho and Montana. But any time with him was special. We could talk about almost anything together - and we did, but not as often as we should have as life crowded in and we were both so busy with our own families. Still, I could always expect a phone call on my birthday, Mothers' Day, and holidays. And I cherish the times when we were able to travel together, filling the miles with conversation and laughter - and sometimes a few tears. His insights and wisdom made my life so much richer.

When Tom walked through dark times, he seemed to always emerge sweeter and more Christ-like. He was wise beyond his years, in part due to the adversities of his life. In his late twenties, he encountered a series of storms that tested his faith to its very limits. As he leaned hard on God’s grace, those trials – like others that followed them - only served to make him more understanding and more compassionate.

Tom never came across as “holier than thou.” To the contrary, he was always vulnerable about his weaknesses. But being around him made us somehow want to be better. He always saw the best in us, saw through eyes of mercy and hope what we could be. And he loved and enjoyed us just as we were, unconditionally. Tom was special.

Although I can’t imagine life here without him, Heaven is sweeter because Tom is there.

His Banner Over Me

The package in the mailbox this past Saturday morning was lagniappe in a week of blessings.

I had basked in the restful and renewing atmosphere of Family Camp. Brent was home after a five-month deployment. On the same day Brad, Michelle, and Tyler had arrived back in the city after their jungle adventure. Knowing they were all safe had lifted a weight I hadn’t realized I carried.

And now the package. The return address bore Blake’s name along with that mysterious military code which reveals absolutely nothing about his whereabouts. But the postmark proclaimed that he had been safe and sound on June 1. The green contents label read simply, “Flag,” a birthday/ Father’s Day gift for his dad.

I wanted Steve to experience the same delight I had felt when I opened the mailbox. Knowing that he would be coming home to an empty house while the rest of us were enjoying camp, I placed the package on his pillow.

The next morning when I drove up from the campgrounds and met him at the doors of the church, his first words were not, “Honey, you’re late again!” (Amazing, I know!) His face was working with emotion, and his eyes were glistening. “Did you see what Blake sent?” he marveled.

The certificate accompanying the flag told the story: “[This flag] was flown in the face of the enemy aboard a Special Operations aircraft through the skies of Iraq during a Tactical Combat Mission by our nation’s leading Task Force targeting Al-Qaeda in Iraq.”

Blake’s card and personal message added even more meaning to what will certainly be a family heirloom: “When I flew the flag for you I was reminded that there are indeed things worth fighting for. That flag, flown with you in both mind and heart, forced me to think about just what we are defending, and how precious those things really are.”

I researched the missions flown by the Air Force in Iraq on that date, and wondered which of them was Blake’s and what story that piece of cloth might tell. I tried to picture how it might have made its flight. I gave thanks that its mission was accomplished successfully that day, yet I will feel so much more grateful when Blake’s missions are all behind him and he is with us again. I picture him and his brother folding that flag into its proper military fold before it is placed in its own special display case.

I feel such pride in knowing that two of our boys are engaged in service to our country, taking on the enemies of our flag and all it stands for. At the same time, there is comfort in knowing that the resources of the U.S. Military, as represented by the flag, are available to come to their defense if need be.

But even an American flag has its limits.

On Monday the phone rang with news we couldn’t have imagined hearing. Brad had been admitted to the hospital with stroke-like symptoms. To be so far away when our children were facing such troubling circumstances in a foreign country, with so much uncertainty about the outcome….

Yet even in this dark news, there were things to be thankful for. Thanks that Brad was in a large city rather than the jungle. Thanks that Michelle’s job meant that she had already researched medical options. Thanks that Brad’s symptoms had abated after a few hours. Thanks for a supportive missionary family to come alongside to care for Tyler and give support and encouragement. Thanks that, though difficult, there was a way to communicate with family in the States. Thanks for God’s children who went to prayer as soon as they heard the news. Thanks for a doctor determined to be deliberate and thorough.

I’ve thought about the flag again. It would be great if Brad and Michelle could be on American soil, communicating with American doctors, and cared for in American facilities. But in spite of what they don’t have, I feel overwhelmingly grateful for what is theirs – the grace of God that is going before them, providing for their needs, guiding and overshadowing them.

The early Jewish nation knew it tangibly as a pillar of fire bringing warmth to the desert by night and a pillar of cloud bringing shelter by day. King David, though, envisioned a flag. As he prayed for deliverance in Psalm 60, he comforted himself in God’s promises with these words, “You have given a banner to them that fear You, that it may be displayed because of the truth.” Said most simply, “His banner over me is love.”

I love to think of God flying that banner in the face of our enemy and announcing, “This far, and no further. My protection starts here! I will defend what is precious to me.” For Brad, Michelle, Blake, and all those I love, I can’t think of anything more comforting.

A Few "Aunt Frankie" Stories

Aunt Frankie’s memorial service last Saturday lasted for almost two hours and would have gone even longer if my brother Tom had not cut the sermon short.

If we could all put our stories of Aunt Frankie into one volume, what a book it would make! Here’s one I never heard until last Saturday:

Back in the early 60s, Aunt Frankie and her pastor’s wife were calling for the Sunday school when they found themselves driving behind a vehicle whose driver was obviously drunk. As he approached a railroad crossing, he made an abrupt turn onto the tracks. The bumpy ride got his attention, and he quickly came to a stop. Aunt Frankie had pulled off the road and jumped out of her car. “What are you doing, man?” she called. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Walking up to his car door, she demanded, “Move over, I’m driving you home.” She instructed her astonished young pastor’s wife to follow them. Fortunately, the drunken man knew his address, Aunt Frankie lived forty-plus more fearless years, and the pastor and his wife had a great story.

On the way home last week, I thought of this long-forgotten story to share with my children: Back in the day, single gals were advised to use only their initials for telephone directory listings. One of my roommates had not “gotten the memo,” and believe it or not, there really are losers who have nothing better to do than to go through the phone book looking for women’s names, so we got a few obscene phone calls. We always slammed the phone down. One night I even slammed the phone down on a caller with a slurred Southern drawl who turned out to be my housemate’s boss calling about work. I was zealous!

During this time, the early 80s, Aunt Frankie received an obscene phone call of her own. Apparently no one had ever told her to slam the phone down. When the voice on the other end of the line whispered, “Do you want to go to bed?” Aunt Frankie whispered back, “Do you?”

Excitedly, the voice responded, “Yes!” Now Aunt Frankie stopped whispering and said, “Well, go to bed!” Then she hung up the phone.

Aunt Frankie told my mother that story, and my mother told me. She told me not to tell anyone, but it was way too good to keep.

One evening in the late 80s Aunt Frankie and I were together in a little seafood restaurant. We bowed our heads in prayer before we began to eat. At the table next to us were four or five guys relaxing with beers after a day’s work. If you’ve ever been in a restaurant in South Louisiana, you know how loud it can get. It wasn’t difficult to hear one guy grouse, “Oh great, we’re sitting next to a freaking Sunday school!”

That was all Aunt Frankie needed to start a conversation. Wagging her finger, she said, “That’s what you need!”

The guy couldn’t believe she was for real. “Pardon me?”

“You need a Sunday school,” she admonished, smiling.

Now in Politically Correct School, I had learned that it’s never okay to begin a sentence with “You need,” no matter what you might think. Aunt Frankie never went to PC school. She just pressed ahead and made four or five new friends that night. They conversed throughout the meal. She invited them to church –mine – since hers was in another town (and one of them actually showed up a few weeks later). By the time we got up to leave, they were begging to buy her dinner.

The thing about Aunt Frankie was that she was neither impressed nor intimidated by anybody’s titles or lack of them. Their reputations, good or bad, meant absolutely nothing. The fact that someone was a stranger was no obstacle. She was simply and completely a people person.

“Everyone loved your mother,” she would tell me, “and my sister Grace.” She knew she was more abrasive. Aunt Frankie was nothing if not confrontational. But when it came to loving back, no one could out-love Aunt Frankie. She loved so well. Everyone felt it.

You would think ninety-nine years would be enough for a life, no matter how well-lived. Somehow it’s not. But for all of us who find it hard to say goodbye, there are many more who are welcoming her home. I can just imagine the stories they are telling.

She's Home

June 9, 1909 - May 27, 2009

Just think...

... of stepping ashore and finding it Heaven

... of touching a hand and finding it God's

... of breathing the air and finding it celestial

... of waking up in Glory and finding it Home.

But oh, how we'll miss her!

Walking Home

When the phone rang on Mothers’ Day afternoon, I wasn’t expecting to hear my cousin Trudy’s voice on the line. Her message, though, was one I had known would be coming. Aunt Frankie was back in the hospital with pneumonia, a UTI, and fluid around her heart. She hadn’t eaten anything for several days, and while she recognized family members, she wasn’t interacting with anyone and sometimes hallucinating. The doctor had confirmed that she had taken a turn for the worse and wanted the family to begin thinking about hospice care.

“We just wanted you to know,” Trudy said, but I wanted to see her while she was conscious. So I talked to Steve, made a few phone calls, and began throwing a few things into an overnight bag. The tee shirt I randomly grabbed to sleep in had a message that struck me as appropriate. Made for our church’s centennial celebration it read, “His Century: 100 Years of Holiness.”

Aunt Frankie’s century has truly been “His Century,” a sanctified life spent in consecration to God and for others. It began to dawn upon me that time shared in her presence would have a special sweetness as she drew closer and closer to Heaven.

As I made the drive down, lines from a couple of Christian ballads blended together inside my head: “…Walking her home, holding her hand, trying to make sense of it all.” I didn’t know what condition she would be in by the time I arrived, but prayed that I might offer some small comfort.

I opened the door to the hospital room and saw her lying long and thin under the covers, a blue-gray cast to her face. She beamed at me as I walked in. And good news! She had actually eaten a few bites from her supper tray and wanted to talk.

Throughout the evening the room filled with loved ones, but by 9:00 we were alone. She updated me on several of her great-grands and asked about my family, very oriented and aware. She was especially interested in Brooke and Brayden. Soon she was ready to rest.

The coughing began in the quiet and wouldn’t stop. When I offered her water, she looked at me frightened and wild-eyed, clearly not knowing who I was. She talked in her sleep, sometimes just noiselessly moving her lips.

The fragile IV line providing antibiotics failed at about 2:30, stinging the tissue around it. Nurses tried in vain to start another but finally gave up. Aunt Frankie was wide awake then. I could hear slight rustlings from her bed, but mostly silence. I knew she was thinking, maybe worrying. When the first light of day began to filter into the room, she was ready to talk again.

“If they can’t get another line started,” she said, “this might be it.”

“It might be,” I agreed, “but if it is, you’ve been getting ready for this all of your life.”

She nodded yes. “I’m ready to go,” she said. “I just wish everyone I love was ready to go with me. I won’t be here to pray for them.”

“God’s not through answering all the prayers you’ve prayed,” I reminded her. “They’re all stored up, waiting for His perfect time.” She nodded again.

The doctor came, listened, and warned her sternly, “That’s some bad pneumonia in there. You’re going to have to eat if you want to get better.” By sheer will power, she ate her small serving of oatmeal and drank a few ounces of juice.

An anesthetist came in to attempt to start another line. “It will take a miracle,” Aunt Frankie told him.

“Pray,” he commanded.

We all held our breath, but in a few minutes another line was in place that he thought would hold for a while. “Did you pray?” he demanded to know, then confessed, “So did I.”

When we were alone again, we talked about the rehab wing of the nursing home where Aunt Frankie has been for the past several months. I had heard her say many times that she hoped never to have to live there, and I told her how much I admired her attitude of acceptance. “Why start having a bad attitude at this stage of my life?” she smiled, and I saw a faint glimmer in the eyes that used to twinkle brown, but like everything else about her are now gray.

I had packed a Bible and asked her if she wanted me to read a little. We turned to those words of comfort that have seen her through so many times before, ending with Romans 8:

“There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ hath made me free from the law of sin and death. For what the law could not do, in that it was weak through the flesh, God sending his own Son, in the likeness of sinful flesh, and for sin, condemned sin in the flesh: That the righteousness of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit….

“And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose….If God be for us, who can be against us? Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?

“…Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Her daughter and I talked on the phone several times that day. “Is Winona worried about me?” Aunt Frankie wanted to know.

I answered honestly. “I think she misses talking with you and knowing how you’re feeling about things. How you’re feeling inside about what’s happening to you.”

Aunt Frankie thought for a few moments. “I don’t know what I’d say.” Another pause. “I’m ready to go.”

She spoke a little about some of her regrets. “I wish I had understood some things better back then. I would have handled some things different. I don’t feel guilty or responsible. But I’m sorry.” All I could think of were the words to an old hymn I knew she had sung many times: “By and by when the morning comes, when the saints of God are gathered home, we will tell the story how we’ve overcome. We will understand it better by and by.” In my mind I could hear her singing along in the country soprano that I haven’t heard in many years. “Praise the Lord!” she said when I finished.

I stayed as long as I could. “If you’re not better, I’ll come again when school is out,” I promised.

“You’ve been my right arm,” she said. It was an undeserved compliment I will treasure. Even more, I will treasure these hours I was able to spend arm in arm with her as we walked together along this stretch of her road home.

College Road Trip

Brooke and I celebrated spring break with a girls' getaway. For a couple of years now she has known just where she'd like to go to college. Now that she has almost completed her junior year, we decided to take SNU up on its invitation to visit the campus, meet some professors, and sit in on some classes.

On Monday we detoured a few miles out of the way to spend a few hours with Samantha, who had just earned privileges to leave base in a bus or a taxi. It was so good to see her looking strong and confident and as beautiful as ever.

It was while we were visiting in the mall that I was first hit with a sense of nostalgia. I remembered this place from thirty years before. It was where I did my "serious" shopping when I took my first teaching job.

On Tuesday morning we drove through the town where I had lived and worked for eight years. Intersections and areas of town I used to know like the back of my hand had changed so much they were barely recognizable. A few buildings had changed hands, some were gone, but most were simply dwarfed by new retail establishments that had crowded around them.

The place closest to my heart was the block that held the Christian school and the church where I spent so much of those years. The school had celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary while I lived there, but has been closed for a number of years. It was sad to see it empty and to remember the life it once held. All the windows were boarded up, closed tightly to the light and to the community. Unless one is looking for it as I was, there's barely a hint that a couple of mobile homes used to sit over in the corner of the campus. That anyone ever lived there once upon a time.

I hadn't made plans to see anyone, but I did run into a couple of people I knew. I found myself studying their faces, trying to recognize features of the people I remembered. In all the ways that matter, they were the same. I told Brooke stories about people and places from my past as we made the final leg of our trip. She even acted interested. (Smile!)

We stopped for lunch at Grandy's across from the SNU campus before heading to our appointment. There was a dear little lady who must have been close to eighty years old refilling glasses of sweet tea in the dining room. I told Brooke she must have been a pastor's wife who didn't save enough for retirement and who sent her children to SNU!

The campus was beautiful, almost idyllic, and Jennifer, the admissions officer, gave us the VIP tour. I loved watching Brooke interact with the faculty and staff. She seemed so poised and grown-up. Still, I can't imagine letting her go off on her own as my parents allowed me to do when I was just a few months older than she is now. More than ever it seems so important to make the most of every day she has left at home.

On Wednesday my old friend Norma was able to break away from her family and join us for some girlfriend time. For four of my eight years in Oklahoma, she and I had been housemates. It had been way too long since we'd been in touch with one another, but she is the kind of friend that you can always pick up the relationship exactly where you left off. It was so good to laugh with her again. We spent the day just catching up. Our conversation was peppered with "What ever happened to...?" and "Do you ever hear from ...?" The belly laughs usually came after "Do you remember..." and were often followed by one of us saying, "I had forgotten all about that!" Between the two of us, we reconstructed enough nonsense to convince Brooke we were totally crazy.

"Doesn't it seem," we asked each other, "that we should still be in our thirties, or maybe even our twenties?"

Where have all the years gone? Who would have known they'd pass so quickly?

"Sunrise, sunset. Sunrise, sunset.
Swifty fly the days.
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers,
Blossoming even as we gaze.
Sunrise, sunset. Sunrise, sunset.
Swiftly fly the years.
One season following another,
Laden with happiness and tears."

A Belated Thank You

It was the night before Easter, 1975. In all the years since then, I have never experienced anything more difficult than what our family was going through on that day. I thought I might never smile again, much less celebrate anything. Not even Easter.

When I reflect on that painful time, one redemptive memory always surfaces. My sister-in-law Carol said to me, “We’ve got to do something for the kids for Easter. We’ve got to go to the store and get something for Easter baskets.”

It seemed surreal to do something as ordinary as getting in the car, driving to the drugstore, and looking through the picked-over merchandise to try to find chocolate bunnies for Deborah, Tom, and Julie. My heart wasn’t in it. Neither was Carol’s, but she was much wiser than I was.

She knew that life goes on in the midst of tragedy. She knew that sometimes you must put your feelings aside and just keep going. She knew that the simple traditions surrounding our holy days can help keep us focused on what is real and true. With her hopeful perspective and her mother's heart, she helped me face the future.

Carol has a gift for celebrating life. She knows "how to keep Christmas well." Also Thanksgiving, Easter, birthdays, and any other occasion that she can turn into a celebration.

She is a homemaker. A true HOME maker. She has always made her home a restful and joyful place for her family and guests. Every meal she serves turns into a time of refreshment, not just because she is an excellent cook, but also because everyone wants to linger around the table to have their souls and spirits nourished.

She is a beautiful and remarkable lady, and I am blessed to call her family.

On this Easter my heart goes out to her as she is fighting the battle of her life against cancer. I remember the courage she has always shown in adversity, and I pray that she will stay strong for this ordeal.

And I want to say thank you. Thanks for all she has taught me, especially for the lessons of that long-ago Easter weekend.

A Morality Tale in Three Movies

Last week marked the beginning of the LEAP test, our state’s performance assessment. It is a high stakes test that the students I teach must pass to advance to the next grade. The pressure to prepare has been intense, so the administration decided that a school-wide movie would be a great way to relax and boost morale the day before testing began. Nothing heavy, just something fun. The choice was Madagascar 2.

We teachers took shifts to supervise the kids, so I wasn’t in the gym for the entire movie. Maybe if I had been there from beginning to end I may have seen more of a point, but for me it was mostly silly and often crude. The reason I even mention it is because of a disturbing trend I’m noticing in children’s movies. For years now, we’ve tolerated sexual innuendo in kids’ entertainment, but in more recent movies another line is increasingly being crossed into the realm of deviant sexuality. In this movie, for example, a male lemur dresses in drag and suggests that he is attractive to another male, a penguin romances a bobble-head doll, and a giraffe marries a hippopotamus. Their “courageous” outside-the-box relationship is greatly celebrated. Even in the most pointless and un-educational of movies, you have to wonder about a hidden agenda.

In my own classroom as each day’s testing was over we watched bits of A Series of Unfortunate Events. I wanted to lure my students into reading the books which, "dear reader," spoof a literary style of two hundred years ago. When Brooke first brought Lemony Snicket home as a fourth-grader, she was deeply shocked that I found him hilarious. To her, the plight of destitute orphans left to the care of inept adults while being pursued by an evil villain was extremely tragic. My students loved the movie, probably for the same reason that I loved reading fairy tales as a little girl. In these stories the line between good and evil is unmistakably clear, and good triumphs in spite of all odds.

On Friday night the kids and I watched TheBoy in Striped Pajamas, a riveting and disturbing story set in WWII Germany. The horrors of the Nazi regime, as seen through the eyes of two children, seem even more terrible because of their trust and innocence. It is not an easy movie to watch, but one of the most unforgettable I’ve ever seen, rich in symbolism and timeless truth. I highly recommend it.

Today begins Passion week, and I want to mark out some special time to think about all it means. But today I think of what John Eldredge says in Epic: “What if all the great stories that have ever moved you are telling you something about the true Story into which you were born?” And quoting Frederick Buechner: We live in a world “where goodness is pitted against evil, love against hate, order against chaos, in a great struggle where often it is hard to be sure who belongs to which side….Yet…it is a world where the battle goes ultimately to the good…It not only happened once upon a time but has kept on happening ever since and is happening still.” YES!

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Home Alone

I’m home. Alone. For the first time in I-don’t-know-when.

I’ve slept in. Read a book. Read the newspaper - and it was actually in order. (Around our house, the sports section is usually on top, courtesy of Brayden.) I can really enjoy a certain amount of solitude.

The phone has rung once. Otherwise it’s been quiet. I can hear the birds outside the window and the hum of the washing machine. That’s about it. No cabinet doors banging. Nobody coming in or going out. No TV. No kids’ music. Nobody needing anything from mom. No arguing….No laughing.

I’m already lonesome.

Just last Saturday there were eight of us here. In addition to our usual four were Blake, Brad, Michelle, and little Tyler, here for a short while before saying another long goodbye.

A few years ago when all the kids were home, I stood at the kitchen sink watching them walk down the road, then walking back again. I wanted a picture of the memory to hang on that wall, another “window” to look through as I wished all the family back together. Little Austin was with Grandpa and Grandma when the shot was taken, and Michelle and Tyler were not yet part of the family. Otherwise everyone is there, all looking about the same except for Brayden who has almost caught up to his older brothers in height.

There are miles to go and missions to fulfill before they’ll be home again. Last week, Brad, Michelle, and Tyler began to get settled in Peru. Thank God for the internet which makes it possible to get frequent updates on their lives.

Brent has already been serving off the coast of Africa for a couple of months. Back in Virginia, Christina and Austin mark the days with emails, rare phone calls, and a jar of chocolate kisses. One kiss each night from Daddy. When the jar is empty, Daddy comes home.

Blake is preparing for deployment to the Middle East. His service to his country has involved an additional sacrifice during the past six weeks as his best friend and lovely wife, Sam, has embarked on a military career of her own as a nurse with the Air National Guard. Going through something as hard as basic training is, well, hard. But when someone you love more than your own life is going through it, the toll is doubly painful, especially since communications have been, and will continue to be, so limited.

I miss them all. I even miss Brooke and Brayden who are just a hundred miles away and due back tomorrow. I can’t wait for all of us to be together once again.

As I sit in quiet reflection, my heavenly Father has been speaking to me in His still, small voice. “Child, aren’t you a little far from home yourself?’

It’s true. I’ve traveled a path of busyness, carrying suitcases of earthly cares and never-ending tasks that have seemed so important. I think I’ll put them down and spend a little time in my Father’s house. Rest a while, and get refreshed for whatever lies around the next bend in the road.

My Amazing Aunt Frankie

Since the age of ten, I haven’t had a grandparent in my life,but that gap has been more than filled by my Aunt Frankie, my daddy’s older sister. Last week at the age of ninety-nine, she underwent surgery for cancer and came through with flying colors. Her prognosis continues to be good.

I spent the weekend with her and marveled again at her courageous spirit and the incredible filing system that is her memory. Although she is beginning to repeat many of her stories and needing to be reminded of more current events, she can pull names and events to the surface with amazing clarity.

I don’t know many ninety-nine-year-olds, but I don’t imagine there are too many who read the daily newspaper or weekly news magazines. Perhaps one secret of Aunt Frankie’s longevity is her motivation to stay connected to people and events.

Her name is actually Ida Frances, but Frankie stuck and it fits. You won’t meet anyone more “frank.” Of course, at her age she’s probably earned the right to say whatever she likes, but her frankness is nothing new. My mother was so known in the family for her tact that her grandchildren created a new verb: “MawMawing it” in our family dictionary means to practice the ultimate discretion in avoiding saying anything controversial or unpleasant. Aunt Frankie doesn’t need a verb - or an adjective. Her name suffices.

She’s the kind of friend that the Proverbs writer must have had in mind when he speaks of iron sharpening iron. There probably were some feathers ruffled in the past ninety-nine years as the result of Aunt Frankie’s direct style of communication.

She used to love to discuss differences in doctrine with her Baptist friends. These discussions were not for the faint of heart. What was invigorating to Aunt Frankie could be intimidating to anyone else. Now those differences don’t matter as much, although she did tell me that her surgeon was a "good Baptist boy."

Aunt Frankie never read romance novels or watched soap operas. She prefers real life – and doesn’t mind asking questions or voicing speculations. She loves to recount our “love stories,” in front of us. The actual facts may be fairly straight, but the “spin” she gives the story can be unsettling. In the retelling, there are “details” that never happened except in her own mind. It’s amusing if it’s someone else’s story. Embarrassing if it’s yours!

Thankfully, I learned fairly early to look past her words and straight to her heart, which is unfailingly generous and compassionate. And Aunt Frankie has actually become less blunt with age. Usually there’s at least one comment on my appearance whenever I see her. If she doesn’t say anything at all, I know she is holding her tongue. Lately her line has been, “I found a picture from your bridal shower, and you were so thin!” I know exactly what she means.

It took me awhile to learn to appreciate her. She called me her “golden girl” when I was little because she loved to see me wearing browns and yellows, colors I hated. I could always expect an “ugly dress” under the Christmas tree from Aunt Frankie. My mother was always grateful – I hope enough for both of us.

When she stayed overnight, she had to share a bed with me. She had the audacity to report to me each morning how much I had kicked her during the night. It usually made me feel either guilty, embarrassed, or mad. Staying at her house was an entirely different matter. After a long day of riding my cousins' bicycles or horses, I loved going to sleep in her airy bedrooms and hearing the night sounds of the country through the open windows. And when she would take me to campmeetin' for a week, it was a child's paradise.

During my teens, Aunt Frankie expressed an interest in my friends, my clothes, my music, my reading – my life – that I resented. I didn’t think it was any of her business. I didn’t realize that her concern led to fervent prayers. Only Heaven will reveal how different my life might have been without her prayers for our family and me.

During times of crisis in our family, we turned to Aunt Frankie. She always came. And stayed as long as she was needed. And I learned to love her more and more.

Nowadays her interest in me and my family is a balm. I look forward to hearing the phone ring and finding that she’s on the line. There’s an art to conversing with her, especially by phone. It involves yelling and rephrasing sentences on my part because of her hearing problem. Trying to understand what she is saying is also difficult because her voice sounds something like a very bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out. And sometimes there is a bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out.

She asks about each of us, remembering details from the conversation before. Sometimes we don’t quite get what the other is trying to say, and she gives up with a little laugh and changes the subject. We say “I love you,” and hang up. I’m so thankful I can look forward to those conversations for a while longer.

Dreams for our Children, Part 2

Eighteen years ago when I became a wife, I also became a stepmother to four boys who were instantly sons of my heart if not my flesh. I walked into that role with my eyes wide open, but nothing could have prepared me for what lay ahead. I’m glad I made that commitment – both to Steve and to his sons.

The past couple of days have been spent with Brad, Michelle, and baby Tyler in Florida. What a precious little grandson! On our first meeting, he came to me with the trust of one who has always been held in gentle, loving arms, and within minutes he was snuggled close, asleep on my shoulder. Nothing else in the world could feel as sweet.

While we were there, we enjoyed Brad’s thirtieth birthday. The time we get to spend together is rare since we live more than 2,000 miles apart. “Rare” as in “precious.”

One lesson I’ve had to learn is that there can be nothing possessive about a stepmother’s love. You give as much as can be accepted without strings attached and without expectations, and you receive what can be returned – hopefully with gratitude and understanding. You comprehend better than most the analogy of happiness being like a butterfly which can never be grasped, but which may alight on an open, patient palm. The lesson doesn’t come easy, and sometimes has to be re-taught.

Still, on this first day of a new year, I have an easier task than many others who love Brad, Michelle, and Tyler, for they are preparing to answer a call to serve with the Extreme Nazarene organization in Peru ( http://www.extremenazarene.org/images/peru/index.htm ). Several miracles will need to happen in the coming weeks, including selling their home and automobiles and raising financial support for their three-year term.

Steve and I have prayed that God will open or close doors as He sees best. Having lost one son, “losing” another to the mission field for three years is a sacrifice for Steve, but also a joy. All of us have feelings of caution and concern, especially Brad’s brothers.

How much harder would it be for me if I had a lifetime of memories with Brad? If we lived close enough to be a part of their family’s daily lives? If I had watched little Tyler being born, and memorized each phase of his growth thus far? If we worshipped together each week and observed cherished traditions for every holiday?

That's where Michelle's family is tonight. And yet, they too pray that God's will be done. If our situation comes to mind, would you join us?