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?

Christmas Potpourri

I hope you’ve had a beautiful Christmas. For me, it has come in bits and pieces this year: quiet moments of reflection in the midst of our busyness.

It came - as it always does for me- in the music. The carols played in my classroom throughout the days of December, and I don’t think my students will ever forget learning “A Song of Peace” for we all felt God’s Presence among us during that lesson!

There were the times of Advent worship at church, always so thought-provoking and meaningful. Each Sunday was a gift. And the special traditions of our church body, especially the annual Christmas supper, were times of warmth and joy.

Christmas Eve candlelight services have been a long-standing tradition for our family whenever possible. This year, we attended two services on Christmas Eve.

One was a homegoing service. When we got the news that Becky Dzieken had lost her battle with cancer just a few days before Christmas, my first thought was, “What a tragic loss for her family. And why now?” But as I reflected on the radiance of Becky’s life, I was reminded of John 1: “In Him was Life, and that Life was the Light of men.” I’ve never known anyone who reflected that Light any more clearly or transparently than Becky did. Besides her gift for communicating joy and faith, Becky was blessed with an incredible voice, and her memorial service closed with her own rendition of “Cornerstone.” It felt like Christmas.

Later that evening, we attended a simple, unhurried service in town. In the quietness and darkness of that candlelit sanctuary, the message and meaning of Christmas settled into our spirits. For us four busy Hunts, Christmas had come.

On Christmas Day, as we talked to family scattered across the country, someone must have asked Brooke if she had had a good Christmas. All I heard was her reply: “Yes, and it’s not over!” All the packages had been unwrapped. Christmas dinner was done. But Brooke was still having Christmas.

So was I. I still am. And I hope that you are too.

Aunt Lu

My Aunt Lu was my “fun” aunt. She and my mother’s brother, Uncle Roland, were unable to have children of their own, so they enjoyed everyone else’s.

Once a month or more, they would make the trip from across the state for a weekend visit with Grandma Mary who, after her stroke, lived first with us and later in a nursing home. It was always a treat to awaken on Saturday morning and find that Uncle Roland and Aunt Lu had arrived while I was asleep.

Sometimes they’d bring an extra surprise. Once it was a kitten for me. Other times it might be a sack of fresh oysters that Uncle Roland would shuck in the backyard for my mom to fry up as a delicacy for Grandma. Sometimes it was a grocery sack full of pecans from the old home place. Aunt Lu would spend the afternoon filling and refilling a baking pan with nuts, then cracking and picking them out.

At 4’10” Aunt Lu was little girl sized. To drive a car, she relied on a big red leather pillow placed behind her back to help her reach the pedal. It seemed she could barely see over the top of the steering wheel. When we nieces and nephews got to the age of ten or eleven, we’d reach the milestone of finding ourselves taller than she was. (I’ve served as that same sort of measuring stick for the next generation.)

Back home her life may have been more sophisticated with bridge partners, Eastern Star, and Mardi Gras balls. But at our house, she seemed to enjoy just watching Uncle Roland give my brothers haircuts on Saturday afternoons. After Saturday night suppers of smoked sausage and cornbread with Steen’s cane syrup, sometimes she would pop popcorn in the heavy old pot we used especially for that purpose. She loved to tease us all, and she played a merciless game of “Sorry.”

Sunday mornings would begin with Aunt Lu in her over-sized men’s pajamas eating her soft-boiled egg and toast. Then I would be privy to her transformation into a lady of glamour. I’d watch, fascinated, as she would apply rouge, lipstick, and Estee Lauder, then go in search of the cheek of one of my brothers to blot her lips. Soon afterward she and Uncle Roland would be off, with the rest of us standing outside to wave goodbye.

She and my daddy were the talkers in the family. In her distinctive “Noo Ahlins” accent, she could “tawk” and laugh for hours, sometimes while crocheting or doing other needlecraft projects. She was a perfectionist with a needle, and I treasure the things she made especially for me: an afghan, a muffler, a cross-stitch picture when Brooke was born.

After we lost both Daddy and Uncle Roland in 1975, things were quieter when Aunt Lu visited. It seemed that the fun part of her died when she lost Uncle Roland. Only when the great-nephews and nieces would come around would Aunt Lu make an attempt to be jolly once again.


For many years she could not mention Uncle Roland without tears. I remember her whispering to me one evening, “Jackie, it’s so hard.” She had always been religious, but in the years following Uncle Roland’s death, she turned to her Bible more and more.

I graduated from college and moved away, but Aunt Lu visited me a couple of times in Oklahoma and even came to Idaho when Steve and I married. Over the years, her old friends moved away or passed on, her only sister died, my mother – her traveling buddy- developed Alzheimer’s, and Aunt Lu became semi-bedridden and housebound. Loneliness, pain, and age began to take their toll on her mind.

By the time we moved back to Louisiana, Aunt Lu was in a nursing home. I didn’t break away to visit her more than once a year – sometimes less. The last time was about a year ago. Aunt Lu was blind and didn’t remember me. She seemed noticeably more childish than the last time I had seen her, so I tried to steer the conversation to things I thought she still might remember like her early days in old New Orleans. I asked if she remembered Roland. She looked a little puzzled then said, “Yeah, he was a fun guy,” and she grinned. I was glad that if she still remembered him at all, there was no pain in the memory anymore.

I received a call last weekend that Aunt Lu had passed away at the age of 93. It has been an emotional week as I’ve tried to help from a distance to see that arrangements were made for her burial. There is to be no funeral service.

When I told Aunt Lu goodbye last fall, she had a question for me. “Have I been a good girl?” she asked. Of course you know what I said.

New Blog

Friendship Church held its annual Homecoming service yesterday morning, something I look forward to every year. I love learning more about the history of the church and the lives of some of the old-time saints. After morning worship there's always a huge meal followed by a quiet evening at home.

That's how I came to be watching Sixty Minutes last night when Andy Rooney came on with his weekly essay. He was talking about the job of writing and poking a little fun at himself. He said being a writer takes a certain level of ego. According to him, the basic assumption that one has something to say that someone else may want to read is egotistical.

Well, I guess I agree, but how about just opening one's mouth? Doesn't the talker assume that he has something to say that someone else wants to hear? And how about the listener? He has no choice in the matter. At least we bloggers give our readers some options!

For me blogging is a little like a heart-to-heart conversation, howbeit one-sided. Ideally, it goes a little beyond the trivia of life and into what matters more to us. Just by going through the writing process we take a little time to express ourselves more thoughtfully.

So I was so excited to get an email from our beautiful daughter-in-law Samantha saying that she and Blake have begun a blog. (I've been doing some broad hinting and gentle arm-twisting for awhile!) Sam's first post brought tears to my eyes, and I wanted to share it with you. I know you'll agree she has a lot to say. Welcome, Sam and Blake, to the world of blogging. And thanks so much for sharing your heart! http://www.blakeandsamallweare.blogspot.com/

Communion

Steve asked me today if I would assist in serving communion with him tomorrow, something our district superintendent and his wife routinely do together. The request gave me pause. I've come to think of the sacrament of communion without the fear and trepidation I was taught to have as a kid (see I Corinthians 11 in the King James Version), but it is still a very solemn and sacred occasion. So I've had it on my mind throughout the day.

Is it possible for anyone to eat the bread and drink the cup with worthiness? My heart whispers lines from favorite hymns: "Nothing in my hands I bring. Simply to Thy cross I cling," and "Just as I am without one plea but that Thy blood was shed for me." Those words became more real to me three years ago than they had ever been before. I've learned to live them, and they become more and more true with time.

Last week our congregation gave us the thoughtful and generous gift of tickets to a Gaither concert. For the first time ever, I heard the incredible harmonies of the Gaither Vocal Band in person. During intermission I bought a couple of CDs, making sure to get the one with "I Then Shall Live." It takes Jean Sibelus's melody from "Be Still My Soul" and adds more prayerful words by Gloria Gaither.

I then shall live as one who's been forgiven.
I'll walk with joy to know my debts are paid.
I know my name is clear before my Father -
I am His child and I am not afraid.
So greatly pardoned, I'll forgive my brother
The law of love I gladly will obey.

Your kingdom come around, and through, and in me,
Your power and glory, let them shine through me.
Your Hallowed name, oh may I bear with honor
And may Your living Kingdom come in me.
The Bread of Life, O may I share with honor
And may You feed a hungry world through me.

As another old hymn says, "I am not worthy...but Jesus left Heaven to die in my place. What mercy, what love, and what grace!"

Dreams for our Children

Brad with Tyler, the beautiful grandson I can't wait to meet!

It's been a busy month. The to-do list has been varied and often fun, but never finished. Somehow I've managed to get from one deadline to the next with some remnant of sanity (I think)!

Maybe that's why I enjoyed the parent-teacher conferences our school scheduled last week. It seemed like a luxury to actually have time to sit across from parents for one-on-one conversation about their children. We talked about grades and expectations, but almost always there was more. Parents talked about dreams.

There was the single mom who can't afford the music and art lessons her creative daughter longs to have. The mother of a vivacious daredevil who expects to see her on Xtreme sports TV someday. The parent of the child with sickle cell anemia. Some are amusing, like the rather large lady who takes great pride in the fact that her rotund son has sold the most cookie dough. Others are heartbreaking, like the tentative single mom who works nights and fears that her beautiful daughter is growing up too fast and falling prey to the wrong influences.

My heart instantly recognizes these parents and their dreams. The language of dreams is one we parents speak fluently. We're somewhat beyond youthful dreams ourselves --in my case probably closer to the "bucket" list! It is the season when our personal goals take a back seat while we try to provide the children and youth in our lives with the encouragement, resources, and foundations to help their dreams come true.

Sometimes we can get carried away, as in "cheerleader mom" or "stage dad." It's sad when otherwise level-headed, kind-hearted people get so caught up in living out their dreams through their children that they leave a trail of hurt in their wake - the collateral damage of unbridled ego - sometimes without even realizing it.

In the past couple of weeks it has been my delight to read - in bits and snatches - a sweet and wise little book called The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. When faced with terminal cancer, the author found time to dictate his story and dedicate it "with thanks to his parents who allowed him to dream, and with hopes for the dreams his children will have." It was his attempt to pass on to his children who he was and what was important to him. Although, sadly, the subject of faith is almost totally unaddressed, the book has a lot of food for thought - like the following:

"Having seen so many students go through my classrooms, I've come to know that a lot of parents don't realize the power of their words. Depending on a child's age and sense of self, an offhand comment from Mom or Dad can feel like a shove from a bulldozer.... I would just urge my kids to find their way with enthusiasm and passion."

Brayden would interrupt me right here to ask, "So, Mom, why are you making me take band when I'd rather play football?" Thankfully, it doesn't have to be an either/or choice, and I keep thinking that someday he'll be glad I "encouraged" him to add this skill to his life. Just call me a stage mom!

Basically though, I think Randy Pauch had it right - at least as far as he went. It's good to know our children are in the care and keeping of a Heavenly Father, the Giver and Fulfiller of our highest dreams.