Photo courtesy of Lil’ Sprout Memories
A while back, I posted a blog https://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/09/09/i-cry/. The blog wasn’t difficult to write, but it was agonizingly hard to post. The shed tears were real. More salinated drops fell for some points, especially the ones for my children, than others. In the end, it was cathartic to write, because in doing so, the “monsters” don’t seem so threatening anymore. It is as if with each keystroke God allowed me to replace my sadness. Well, actually it isn’t replacement so much as relinquishment to the foot of his throne.
Why is the writing of such posts a beautiful process while the sharing of them such a challenge? At times, I feel like a modern-day Jacob wrestling with God. There are plenty of things that I write that are not published, but this time I had an overwhelming sense God wanted me to share my tears publicly.
I know I cannot circumvent the reality that losing a child is horrifyingly painful. Add to that raising injured and grieving children, and my pain at times feels like pulling back layers of an onion. Every time, I shed one layer, there is just another eye-stinging layer below. I get tired of removing layers. So much so the sharing of them with others becomes less and less interesting to me. I just don’t feel that broadcasting my pain is valuable other than to show my pain and weakness, not mention my doubts and failures. What good comes from that? Where is my purpose? Is this really God’s plan?
It is a good thing my ways are most definitely NOT God’s ways, because He continues to remind me I couldn’t be more wrong. As I was writing, “I Cry” I received a call from my sweet friends down in Kentucky. They went out to dinner and felt something was missing in the gathering. That something was their “Angel Girl” whom God brought into their lives this summer. I could “join” them as they passed the phone around the table. When the phone made it to Miss E, she shared that she didn’t understand why but felt that God wanted me to know that He would be replacing my clothes of despair with a garment of praise. She had no idea what I was writing at the exact moment my phone rang. I could barely choke out an audible syllable as her words bathed my soul in God’s love. She (through God’s prompting) gave me the exact words to share in my post. A message of hope, when in truth, I needed a good reminder.
And if I needed more proof, which I didn’t, God provided it. Within ten minutes of the blog posting, I received three messages (e-mail, text, and phone call) from dear, dear friends who said through their tears how thankful they were for someone to put into writing what their hearts were holding back. In only God’s intervention, my words became an anthem for others to be rocked gently by the continued message of hope. My heart’s desire is to honor God with everything I do. Slowly He is teaching me that the road to achieving that goal may be filled with bumps and bruises AND the sharing of them with others.
I don’t have to be the poster child for grief. Yet, in my most vulnerable moments, He has used my writing to reach out to the souls of others; thereby reclaiming my mess and making it a message. I never intended for my faith to be on display during our darkest moments, but that very faith that has sustained us. A life blood filtering from the one who shed his blood.
There has been a long lull between posts. The silence was not wasted. In the quiet time since my last post, I have used this time to literally be still, finding peace and rest in the arms of my Savior knowing that He does have a plan for all of this. I pray each and every day that He helps me to see it.
As I have shared in many previous posts, sometimes that message of love and hope for my life comes to me in a song. This time it came in the melodies of one of my favorite groups: Sidewalk Prophets. Their lyrics, like the words from my long-distance friends, touch me like God himself had them written just for me. Awed and humbled, I know if God can use the darkest moment of my life, He can for you too. Simply trust – He already has a plan in place.
In the past few weeks, I have been revisiting the sad place. It is the place that I can only journey alone, in the earthly sense. I never really travel alone. There is always a heavenly presence. I don’t understand it, but often in the silent places of deep in the valley of the shadow, I feel closest to God. In the sad place, I find that I can be totally honest with myself about how I am feeling. No mask. No filter. Raw, but honest.
My littlest one asked the other day, “Momma, why are you crying so much.” I had to explain that I had to go to a sad place. She is eight; so, I likened the place to the “Slump” in Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go”. She gets that because in her world she doesn’t want a sad mommy. But sometimes, you will come to a slump. That she understands.
These were the words swirling in my most raw moments when I soaked my pillow with my tears.
I cry . . .
in a single moment all was changed. Now all we have is memories and old photographs.
I cry . . .
silently not wanting to share my pain in front of my children, for fear of scaring them. Their pillar of strength is really human, after all. Secretly I know they know this, but I will give my dying breath to protect them.
I cry . . .
The hole in my heart leaves such a scar in my existence. Its caverns echo the beat of the sad song when the wind blows out of the valley.
I cry . . .
a melody reminds me of happier days when we sang and danced and laughed about our singing and dancing.
I cry . . .
Feeling that I have let my children down because there are days when I feel hopeless is winning.
I cry . . .
Jumping at the ringing of the phone, desperately wanting the answers I want to hear.
I cry . . . tragedy brings chaos. I detest swimming in chaos. No matter which way I paddle my strokes chaos’ rip current threatens to pull me under.
I cry . . .
My scars are invisible, but theirs are real. Pain is a daily visitor, and yet they hold their heads high.
I cry . . . perseverance might be one lesson while waiting. Wondering how long that lesson must take and why did we have to earn advanced degrees. For once in our lives, couldn’t we just be average?
I cry . . .
because everything he loved was taken away, and yet there are still people who say ridiculously stupid things.
I cry . . . wishing sometimes I was the kind of person who smacked people who say stupid things.
I cry . . . choking down the lump in my throat because platitudes and trite sayings, do not help. I want to scream, “Do you not see the hole?” But we’ll take your word scars, your thoughtless actions, AND we will continue turning our cheeks, knowing very few could walk in our shoes.
I cry . . . understanding the tortuous relationship with genetics. When your children hurt, a part of you is woven into them. Like tiny saucers sending a message to the mother ship, every fiber of my being is writhing in pain for them.
I cry . . . sadness has creeping tentacles grasping for all of my family. Mustering the strength to become a warrior to fight back its choking appendages, some days takes all my energy.
I cry . . . bearing burdens is grueling, heart-breaking work.
I cry . . . fervently hoping that my visit to the pit of sadness won’t be long enough for my card to be punched.
I cry . . . eternity seems so far away. Wanting to hear your giggle and wondering how you will look without glasses. My ears longing to hear, “Hey Mom. This is Jesus. You are going to love Him!” followed by one of those sneaky behind the back hugs.
I cry . . . knowing that in the light of eternity all of this seems small.
I cry . . . remembering that He is collecting every tear in his bottle.
I weep . . . embracing the promise that He will replace my cloak of despair with a garment of praise.
I sob . . . knowing His grace is sweet, yet powerful enough to cover it all.
The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears. ~John Vance Cheney
Today marks the end of an era in my neighborhood, and I am not happy about it. We have lived in this town for a little under seventeen years, and this has been my gas station all through that time. Len’s Southside has been the place where I began to go out of necessity. Who wants to pump gas in the middle of one of the worst winters on record with a precocious toddler on her hip while being 8 months pregnant? I know of no woman who would say yes to that scenario.
Convenience. I admit it. My “relationship” with the father and son dynamic duo began as a mutually beneficial one. I needed gas, and they needed customers. Over the years however that relationship changed. It really had very little to do on my part (or the other beloved customers’ parts either). It was the way these gentle men put service into service station.
When you came to the corner of Greeley and West College Drive, you came home. Everyone was treated that way. The last full service station in our town was the place to come to fill more than just your tank. Over the years, we have swapped fishing and hunting tales. It is Minnesota after all; so, of course, we talked about the weather. We have chatted about school, sports, and pigeons. The elder was so excited to learn that we raise them; because back in the day, he did too.
On more than one occasion, my husband has accused me of frequenting the station because I like to “flirt” with older men. But as he watched our “relationship” evolve, he began to refer to Len and Jeff as my dad and brother. No one chuckled more than my sweetie when I came home after buying a scooter and told of how my “family” at the station had chided me at least seven times “to just be careful on that thing”.
Of course, the brotherly and fatherly “interference” didn’t stop there because I do have a tendency to push ‘er to the limit on remembering to fill up. More than once I coasted in on fumes, guided along by angels’ wings and several prayers – mine. Len would always just smile the knowing smile, and Jeff would slip in a “Well you sure went a little far this time”.
When tragedy struck both families in different ways, our bond was forever solidified. We prayed for each other through the loss of a son and mother battling (and winning) with cancer. Hearing updates on her progress often brought me to tears, as I can only imagine watching my heart break did to theirs.
Gardening was another love we shared. When “Mom” wasn’t able to tend a garden during treatments, I would send my kiddos on a cycling mission to pedal the bounty from our garden down to the station. Today the last day of the shop being open, I couldn’t help myself; I just had to bring them a basket of love.
Two of the finest gentlemen you will ever meet!
I filled up my old van yesterday because, honestly, I am not the only one who will miss them, and I was afraid that they might run out of gas before today. There was a beautiful sign up in front thanking the family for 44 years of service. My littlest and I enjoyed cookies and lemonade on a sweltering day. She enjoyed the treats, while I reminisced about all the memories we have shared.
When they showed me the proclamation, from the mayor, which was ceremoniously bestowed earlier that morning, I started to cry. Tears of sadness – for the loss of tradition of serving others that truly made a mom and pop gas station a place of refuge. Tears of joy – for living in a town that took the time to recognize two of the sweetest men you could ever meet. Tears of pride – for two men who just feel like family, knowing in my heart that gentlemen like that are treasures indeed!
Good luck on your next adventure! You will be missed!
I almost choked on my sweet tea the other day when I saw an email in my inbox. In the message were the instructions on how to be hip and cool with my crocheting. Didn’t I want to be hip and cool? Of course! I couldn’t keep my eyeballs from looking into this! I discovered all the cool kids were making chevron afghans. (Yes, the chevron – the current fave in geometric design.) When I looked at the attached picture, it showed a plain old ripple afghan like my grandmothers have made for years. Apparently, I didn’t know my grannies were pioneers of hip fashion long before their time. When I showed the e-mail l to my sweetie, completely nonplussed he announced, “That looks like Nanny’s afghan to me.” My thoughts exactly!
Ripple or chevron? I guess it’s all in how you look at it.
The more I thought about it, the more bothered I became by that email. How many times does that type of marketing work? More often than I would like to admit I am guessing.
My thoughts wondered back to teaching junior high science. Each year at some point, I welcomed my students to the world of adulthood by letting them know a little secret: advertising is not for educated! I would share with them that sometimes even brand names were meant to evoke a certain image: Downy and Nike were two that always came to mind. I told them that they were too smart to be duped by ads. Always one for the flair of the dramatic, I would quietly tip-toe around the room acting as if other grown-ups would pull out pitchforks and burning stakes if they knew I was letting children in on this little secret. Then I would share about the moment that I caught on to the truth. It was “The Great Cholesterol Scare of ‘85”. I didn’t have a sage guide. I was on my own perusing the snacks at Food World in high school. I needed to pick up peanut butter. But which one to choose? Why not the one with large label – emblazoned with NO CHOLESTEROL. Suddenly angels appeared in Aisle 6 with rays of heavenly light shining forth. This moment was somewhat akin to the beauty school drop-out scene in Grease. At this point in my story, most of my 7th graders were hanging on to every word. Gently, because this was new knowledge in the information age, I explained my epiphany. The uneducated consumer would think that this singular brand among all others on the shelf was there to protect my health, my arteries, (and not mention Truth, Justice, and the American Way). I should buy THIS peanut butter because they cared enough to remove the horrible, evil, bad-guy Cholesterol from its product. The reality: there was never any cholesterol in it. Advertising is not for the educated.
Anyone who has been a teacher for more than twelve years knows that in the education world there are fads -lots of them. I remember a former administrator was practically giddy with excitement at the speaker we were going to for a back-to-school workshop. His words were, “This is going to revolutionize what we do here”. Because I believe that there are many ways to reach a child, I sincerely doubted this revolution was going to last long. Once there, I knew for a fact that my hunch was right. This workshop was twenty years ago, and the buzz-word for teaching was “cooperative grouping”. The idea being that if we did everything in the classroom in groups, children would succeed, our lessons would reach every child, and everyone would learn at equal gains and paces. That isn’t exactly what happened. It is a great tool, but no one can build a house with just a hammer. Why would we think that just one method would build a child?
So what do ripple afghans, peanut butter, and cooperative grouping have to do with anything? Together, not much, unless you are lucky enough to teach in classroom that allows naps and snacks while simultaneously having your students arranged in groups! (Some days, that would be my dream classroom!)
In all honesty, this concept of being easily fooled is one of the things that strikes fear in my heart. How many messages do our kids receive in a day? I want to raise kiddos who love God and who are great thinkers with big hearts. That’s a tall order! Are we (meaning: parents, schools, communities) giving our children as much of an opportunity to learn and to think as we are preparing them for standardized tests? Have we been hindered by the vast availability of knowledge at our fingertips without pushing our brains to go as far as they can? Have we settled for the quick fix rather than creatively engineering the box (not just thinking outside of one)? Have we equipped them with the tools to see through the garbage to get to what message is really being sent to them? Is there an app for that?
Whenever I ruminate too long on this subject, I think about all the ways I have possibly failed as a mom and trust me, the list is LONG. Then God gives me a glimpse that perhaps we haven’t done such a bad job after all. I had an opportunity to watch my children testing a product for a company years ago. I could see what they were doing while simultaneously having access to the questions they were being asked. I watched as one of my sons was asked to describe how the product looked. Every other child in the room looked at the product and wrote down their description. Then I saw movement unlike the others over by my boy’s spot. Behold! He picked up the item and inspected the underside.
That was PROUD moment for this momma! All those things I worried about maybe were for naught because not only did he think outside of the box – he reinvented it. If I wouldn’t have looked like a nut, I wanted to jump up and down, cheering him on!
All over the country today many are sending their kids back to school. In a really grown-up, fast-paced world, there are a lot of distractions. Some are good, but plenty have no reason other than to dupe our kids. With a lot of prayer and nurturing, hopefully, all kids will learn to think on their own two feet and not be fooled by the flash and dazzle (like the chevron afghans) of the world. Because the way I see it, a horse by any other name is a . . . well, you know what I mean.
Since my Nanny’s passing, my mom and dad have spent much of the last several months working on sorting through the items she left behind. It has been a grueling task, physically and emotionally. As they were going through volumes of items, they decided to ask the grandchildren if there were things that we or our children would like to have. Eventually one of the things making the round of the “Does Anybody Want These?” lists was garden tchotchkes.
My parents who are actually quite adept at technology and decorating sent us a picture with my dad’s legs standing among the items available balancing a yardstick to give perspective. I immediately requested the tall gnome with the measuring stick even though I couldn’t see anything more than his bottom half. I figured he might come in handy around here. My mother replied he was already taken. Since my first request was unavailable, I took a closer look at what new treasures lay waiting. I love a good garden gnome; so, I speedily replied as to which couple I would love to see in my garden. My brother chimed in on a few he would like. My sister’s response was a flat out, “NO THANKS!”
My first exposure to gnomes was when my family made a cross-country move to North Dakota. I remember being smitten with them, because my brother and I were huge Smurfs fans. Years later, I created tiny fantasy gardens with itsy-bitsy gnomes. My children grew up watching very carefully, because sometimes it would seem the gnomes had moved or new items appeared with them. We still talk about the bowling ball and pins that appeared one morning in one of those gardens. Such is the whimsy of my backyard!
Almost a month after the text messages, my parents arrived with a U-Haul full of treasures from my Nanny’s house. Among them was our new garden kitsch. At first, we placed them on our deck carefully, cautioning the kids that we would think about exactly the right place for them later.
Since they were my grandmother’s, I wanted to preserve them, put them on a shelf, and make sure they lasted forever. I didn’t want anyone or thing to touch them. Then one night, I got a nudge deep in my heart. I knew Nanny would ask, “What in heaven’s name are you thinking?”. She would never want me to box them up for display only, much like many of us do with our best china. They are meant to be in the garden bringing smiles and maybe just a touch of mischief to anyone lucky enough to spot one.
My nerves steeled. I resolved to place them in Reed’s garden, by asking my little girl to have the honors. I think both Reed and Nanny would have been proud of that choice. A job of this importance required a child-like heart, not a heart, like mine, too timid to even use them. I told her there was only one rule. That rule: Mom can’t change where you put them. Imagine the gift she received that day!
That night in bed, I realized that I do that a lot. I receive blessings from God, but I am, on occasion, too timid to use them. I want to put them on the shelf and look at them. I want to be reminded that, indeed, God has blessed me. Sometimes, I don’t want to share them in fear that the blessings will tarnish or diminish in beauty. But much like my Nanny’s garden decorations, I am beginning to realize that perhaps the reason for the blessings is for us to pour them out to others. Memories of the times that God was so good to us! Perhaps that was God’s plan all along for our new little buddies waving from the greenery in the back of the lot.
So today I choose to not hold on too tightly to my blessings, counting them one by one, but instead allowing God to use them through me.
Dear Yale University
I was daydreaming about your prestigious school last night at dinner. Had I answered a question with better timing, my mental absence otherwise would have been barely perceptible. I was thinking about what it had been like dropping off my son to become a future Eli and Bulldog fan. In the middle of supper, my thoughts drifted to thinking wouldn’t be great if we could all call him and say, “We made it home from New Haven. We’re here, and it isn’t the same without you.”
That last part is actually true. His absence from your campus, however, isn’t because he was denied admission. The stark reality is much more cruel as Reed died five and half years ago. My daydreaming was fantastical grief thinking. Wishing that the school my sweet boy announced on a family trip in 6th grade was actually where he was, rather than the bitter reality.
I remember it like it was yesterday. All those years ago, we didn’t know that a sweet red-headed boy from the Minnesota prairie even knew what Yale University was. But he did! On a snowy winter drive home from the place where he is now buried, he proclaimed he would be attending Yale, as if it was a menu option he was choosing. When questioned, he knew all about it, even going so far as saying he would much rather attend Yale than Harvard. His dad and I simply shrugged, but secretly I know we both smiled in our hearts the rest of the drive.
That year for Valentine’s Day, we gave him a YALE hooded sweatshirt. Most of his clothes have been made into teddy bears or quilts, but none of us can seem to alter that sweatshirt in any way. So it sits reverently in a drawer waiting to be worn by a boy who isn’t coming home.
The truth is admission for him would not have been hard. He was that kid! Intelligent, precocious, and a big time dreamer! He might have lacked organizational skills for material things, but his thoughts were always well beyond his years.
As your new freshmen class arrives on campus, we are excited for the possibilities the future holds for them. So too are we happy for all of Reed’s classmates and friends as we see all sorts of pictures from moving day from them and their parents. Truly, we are excited and happy for them! We are just sad for us. A heart divided really struggles.
Even though, I really wanted to purchase “Yale Mom” fan gear. (Who wouldn’t want to?) I won’t be doing that in the coming days or weeks. Just know one mom really wishes she could.
Thank you for being the place where future dreams are made and for being the place that my boy dreamed would be his school! May God bless all your new students abundantly!
Go Bulldogs!
Sincerely,
A “Yale Mom” in my heart forever
After returning from Kentucky, one of my friends asked, “How was your trip?”. I told her about the amazing trip God had planned for me. I spoke about being awed and exhausted and about how the trip home was definitely an adventure. She looked me square in the eye and said, “Traveling with you is ALWAYS an adventure.”
To say the station was packed was an understatement. I have traveled the railways as far back as I can remember, and I knew from the looks of things we were going to have a full train. I had really hoped to get a last minute sleeper car, because we were boarding at one in the morning. However, I had no luck on that one.
After loading all the families and couples, only us single passengers remained. There were four of us in a line – a college kid, an older woman, and elderly gentleman, and me. Onboard, the lady was struggling to get her bags on the overhead storage rack, and the student helped her. The older gentleman made a few loud, cantankerous remarks about wanting to sit down, and that was when it hit me. He was holding the ticket to the seat next to mine! Oh dear!
The other three were all seated while I stored my items above. Like the roaring of a lion, his voice startled me. “Well, at least, I get to ride next the prettiest girl in this car.” A sheepish, flattered grin crossed my lips as my thoughts raced to, “Here we go” and “Who I am to argue with a septuagenarian?”!
Within the first five minutes, I knew this was going to be one interesting journey. His response to my offer to place his portable oxygen tank above was met with, “I shot myself in the foot”. I am certain I had a look of horror in the dim light of the coach car. A quick smile, followed a few seconds later with an honest assessment of “years of smoking”. Then he shared his whole life story – Korean War Veteran, married and divorced (twice), father of three, railroad worker for 43 years, and drummer in big bands his adult life.
Humbled, I shook hands with Mr. Jimmy S and thanked him for his service.
Slowly the Cardinal (how fitting) rattled and rumbled as we headed on down the tracks to our ultimate destination – Union Station: Chicago. Any hopes of sleep were dashed as this old railroad man told me all about the intricacies of rail signals, troubles on the tracks, and engineers signaling off. Mr. Jimmy had me in giggles telling about his gigs over the years in the bands. Quickly, I learned he lived a colorful life. I discovered that we were both to be passengers on the Empire Builder later that day. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep.
I rose to discover he was still awake and enjoying the ride. He asked if I would accompany him to breakfast at the station because I had been a willing listener to all his old tales. I accepted the offer on one condition: He must allow me to help him maneuver around the station. It was a deal!
In Chicago, it became clear that Jimmy’s COPD was worse than I knew, and that walking was a challenge for him. I learned these things because the redcap was not waiting for us on the platform as had been previously arranged.
Slowly, and I mean very slowly, we walked the entire way, pausing many times along the way, from the rail car to the VIP lounge. I dropped him off with the promise I would come back as soon as I secured a sleeping car for the next train.
No sleepers were available, and I didn’t have the golden ticket of entrance to the VIP lounge. I entered once and was turned back similar to the scene in “Titantic” where the passengers want to get out of steerage. About twenty minutes later, I tried again. I explained the situation which was exactly what I knew to be true and holy. This man was from a different generation – where you didn’t leave a man (or female traveler) behind.
I asked if they could page him so I could explain that I wouldn’t be able to travel or wait with him. The desk clerk begrudgingly obliged.
Paging Mr. Jimmy S
Nothing
Mr. Jimmy S, please meet your party at the VIP lounge door.
Nothing
At this point, the agent began to question my integrity just as a gentle hand was placed on my shoulder.
Exasperated: Where have you been?
Looking for you. I was worried.
Relief flooded every fiber of my being. Somehow God put me with this older man to look out for him, and I knew it.
Then began the conversation I dreaded.
Did you get your ticket?
No, there weren’t any sleeper cars available; so I cannot stay here with you.
Well, why not?
Because this lounge is for first class passengers in sleeping cars. I don’t have a sleeper; so I cannot wait in here with you. I will be fine. You stay here. There are food, drinks, nicer chairs, television, and the newspaper.
I will not! I want to stay where you are. How far is it?
It’s not far, but that is beside the point. This is where you should be. You will be more comfortable here. I will be fine.
No! I am going where you are!
Jimmy, I really feel like you should stay here. Please just stay in this lounge. It’s so much nicer, and you will be well taken care of.
I’m coming with you.
At this point the VIP lounge agent chimes in. Ma’am give me your ticket. Do you have any problems riding in a sleeper car with this gentleman?
Um . . . no. (Knowing full well, I would be getting off the train before bedtime.)
Sir, do you have any concerns of this young lady riding with you in your sleeper car?
Not at all.
Ma’am, I am giving you a free ticket upgrade. Enjoy dinner on us.
You sir are a scholar and a gentleman.
What just happened here? This does NOT happen to my friends!
We went out for breakfast, and then waited the five hours until our train arrived for parts westward. Of course, our waiting time was not restful, as more stories were shared. During our wait my phone died; so, I wasn’t able to call or text home to explain what was going at the train station.
Finally, the time came for boarding. This time, however, I insisted that the train company provided Mr. Jimmy a redcap. We were driven basically from our lounge seats right up to our sleeper car. Whew!
After a quick recharge, I sent a text to my husband to tell him, “ALL WELL. SHARING A SLEEPER CAR WITH A GENTLEMAN.”
His response said it all, “What? I am nervous.”
I explained that he was a 70+ year old Korean War Veteran with COPD. I could outrun him. Trust me. God & I got this.
I don’t think he was convinced.
We rode for five hours, and again with no rest. This time, I learned much more about his time in the war. I almost lost it, when he teared up telling of an ill-fated night flying mission. He was a flight gunner, and one simple mistake (not his) caused the loss of two whole planes and their entire crews. He was on the only plane that safely made it back that night.
Finally, we were called for our dinner reservations. The jaunt to the dining car was a journey in and of itself because our sleeper was eight cars away. We had to pause twice in each car, just so he could catch his breath. My heart was breaking because I would be getting off in an hour, but Mr. Jimmy would be traveling all the way to Idaho, arriving sometime late the next evening. Who would take care of him?
At dinner, despite my protestations of being full, I was ordered dessert whether I wanted it or not. This was a proper meal, and dessert must be ordered. Stuffed to the gills, we made it back to sleeper as the engineer announced that the next stop was Red Wing.
I reminded Mr. Jimmy this was my stop and that we would be parting ways. I needed to gather my things and get to the door platform. I shook his hand and said, “Thank you for traveling with me today.”
I thought that was the end of our time. I should have known better. The ride into Red Wing is a little slower due to construction on the bridge there. As I stood on the platform with the porter, I sensed a third presence. Yep, there was Mr. Jimmy unsteadily waiting to make sure I safely got off the train. In his words, no gentleman would allow a beautiful young lady to travel alone. It was his duty to make sure I arrived safely.
When the train stopped, I showed him where my car was parked, and with a quick hug and a peck on a stubbly cheek, I disembarked with strict instructions to the porter to take care of my friend.
Walking exhaustedly down the brick platform, I begged God to not give me any more little old men for a while.
God obliged . . . for about a hundred feet.
There at the station, disembarking from another car, was a little old man who couldn’t get his walker over the tracks without it getting stuck.
I sighed, then threw down my bags and got him safely across. On my final drive home, I thanked God for the time spent with one heck of a gentleman from a great generation.
So Mr. Jimmy S – Thank you for your service and for spending time with a girl on a train.
Growing up, our family did two things almost without fail. Both followed other anchors in my life, as if that was that natural order in our home. Following basketball games, we often went out with other coaches’ and team members’ families for dessert. My standard order was hot fudge cake at Shoney’s. That succulent tower of chocolate cake, ice cream, fudge and whipping cream is still my all-time favorite dessert. The second thing we did rather dependably followed Sunday morning services. We went to eat at a local restaurant, known as The Varsity. Growing up, I didn’t much appreciate this second one, because I wanted to go eat at some hip cool fast-food restaurant rather one that served good ol’ Southern cooking. At that time in my life, I wanted to venture on the edge of dining, and not be stuck in deeply entrenched ruts. Right now (older and wiser), I wish The Varsity was still open, and I could force (I mean, take) my kids to eat there.
There are several things that I vividly remember about both of those old hang outs. First and foremost, each time we went there I was surrounded by people who loved Jesus (and who loved us). I don’t know that I can adequately describe that feeling. Growing up the way I did, there is just something about Southern people who love Jesus. They have an air to them – full of life, hearty talks, and bellies full from all the tables piled with food. It’s true what the Bible says about Christians having an aroma. Then and now, my soul senses want to soak up every molecule. Another thing that defines those memories is the ease of Southern hospitality. I miss “Yes ma’am’s” and “No sir’s”, and I really miss being called, “Shug or Honey” by just about everyone, including the waitress. Formal rituals dot every rhythm of society in those memories, but yet those rhythms come with ease. Finally laughter punctuates every memory. Next to salvation and creation, I think laughter was one of God’s finest masterpieces.
The flavor of my childhood is not something I experience often these days. It’s not that I live among heathens who also happen to be curmudgeons. Quite the opposite, I live among wonderfully vibrant and caring people (who also love Jesus and who love to laugh), but that Southern hospitality (and sometimes craziness) is seldom found in my neck of the woods.
Following my talk to the sweetest bunch of Sunday school ladies ever, a group of us decided to high tail it over to the Cracker Barrel for lunch. There were six of us at our table, but seated at the table directly behind us were fellow worshippers from that morning. We created such ruckus at our table that one gentleman from the other asked if he could be re-seated . . . with us . . . because we were having too much fun. His proclamation reminded me so much of some of Granddaddy’s friends that I wanted to jump up and hug him.
I shared both laughter and tears with sweet Miss C. Love her!
I’ve eaten at Cracker Barrels from Florida to South Dakota, but that day surrounded by new sisters is one I will remember. A biscuit is a biscuit no matter where you eat it; so, it wasn’t the food that made the lunch memorable. It was the essence. There were stories swapped, tears shed both in laughter and in awe of God’s amazing grace in trials of life. There were hands held and prayers shared.
Somewhere in that crowded restaurant, God reminded me that the things longed for aren’t always that far away because I took a deep breath and inhaled the precious air of my childhood.
Photo found at http://www.selectregistry.com
In addition to the tender moment shared yesterday, there were a couple more moments that took my breath away at the hospital. One in quiet reflection, and the other in laughter.
Over the course of the summer, my pastor has had a wonderful sermon series entitled, “What’s messing with your faith?”. His transparency is palpably real as he confesses to struggle with each topic. His genuineness in delivery has touched me very deeply, because I struggle with all the same things. These things that mess with our faith take us so far away from contentment in God’s plans for our lives.
On my travels, I decided that I would use what God had been stirring in my heart based on what I had gleaned from each topic this summer. With a renewed spirit, I wanted to travel with no agenda other than to love and to serve.
Just a few days ago, I saw a post a friend had on Facebook and it read something like this. “Are you waiting on God? Tell me then, when did you ever get ahead of Him?” Those were very convicting words, indeed!
The times when my faith is the most vulnerable is when I allow – worry, fear, bitterness, doubt, or busyness – to lead my thoughts. So upon embarking on this journey, I decided to just follow. Follow where God took me, and not try to get ahead of Him. It was already evident that traveling this far from home was His idea; so why not enjoy the travels.
One Saturday in July, following God’s heart took me to the hospital bed of a black grandfather and pastor. As we sat there swapping stories, I felt compelled to ask a question. When I say compelled, it was like an explosion of my soul as I was being pulled farther and farther away from the shore of my control. My question was simple. Can we pray?
Just the four of us, including the patient, clasped hands and prayed. I prayed for peace, for healing, for wisdom, and for all the things God laid on my heart. It was beautiful and tender and very much God-breathed.
As family members and hospital staff came in and out of the room, Ninny would introduce me. “This is Kandy. She is Bug’s friend, and she KNOWS the Lord.” Not one single person that entered that room was spared of that introduction. Those words made me smile, at first, but later became a badge of honor. I was His beloved, and I KNOW His love. I had never stopped to think of myself using those words, but they tasted so sweet. THIS is Miss Kandy, AND she KNOWS the Lord!
As the day unfolded, I was unceremoniously adopted as “Daddy” proclaimed me, somewhat teasingly, as his to the nurse. She came in to take some vital sign measurements and asked him how he was doing. Despite feeling pretty awful, it was joy to see that he still had a bit of mischief up his hospital gowned sleeve. He said that he was doing great because he got a new grand-daughter today.
“Really!”, she excitedly asked. “Where was she born?”
In a barely perceptible grin covered by the oxygen mask, he replied, “I have no idea, but you can ask her. She’s sitting right there.” At this point, he motioned to me sitting at the foot of the bed.
If I were a poker playing kind of gal, I would want to play cards with this nurse. The look of confusion was painstakingly present. How can this grown white woman suddenly be your granddaughter? The rest of us in the room could hardly contain our giggles.
I have to think at this point even Jesus snickered in heaven. His Dad’s love opens wide the door of family. When He does, you get a small glimpse of how He sees you and all his children. In those moments of tenderness and a fit of giggles, I began to see what transformative power slowing down and ceding control can do for your soul.
Allow God to lead the dance of your life’s journey, and see – just see – where He and the dance take you.
The home my Nanny and Granddaddy lived in since 1961 was one in which several additions were made to it. I’m old enough to remember the carport renovation and the subsequent addition behind that. With those two extra rooms, the traffic flow of the house became like a race track. Anyone could make laps around and around inside the house, and as kids we often did just that.
My favorite part of romping through the house was when my Granddaddy would come in from work and plop down in his chair, a burgundy swivel rocker/recliner, to relax and watch a little television. Inevitably during one of my laps, Granddaddy would stick out his gigantic hand, riddled with arthritis and aged with years of hard work, with his palm up.
This was my cue. The ritual was enduring, and it continued right up until his passing.
His outstretched hand blocked the path of my meandering. I would always stop, waiting for the next line in this well-rehearsed script. I would squeak out with glee, “Hey Granddaddy!” and then slap his calloused hand with mine, thus giving him “five”. Then in a booming voice, dripping with a Floridian Southern drawl, he would announce, “Hey Granddaughter!”
As a child, if I had been asked to define love, I would have drawn his hands. Even today, I would give anything to once again touch his gigantic, but gentle, man-paws of hands. Every once in a while, I am fortunate enough to see that kind of love in tender moments of others. I think God knows my soul needs to espy those gentle touches.
I was blessed to witness such a moment on my trip to Kentucky. One of the days, our plans were changed because my friend’s grandfather was sent to the hospital. Rather than taking in the sites of the area, I offered to ride along with her and her grandmother to sit with “Daddy”. He was in considerable pain due to diminished breathing capacity with masks, tubes, and machines everywhere.
Quickly, quietly, lovingly, it happened – that comforting ritual. Her grandmother, affectionately known as Ninny, reached over and gently rubbed his legs. My breath caught in my throat because the lump lodged there seeing such tender love. I hoped no one in the room saw my tears. God’s beauty often does that to me. Those beautiful hands that had worked for years, raised babies and grandbabies, and had many times folded in prayer were the embodiment of how God loves. I don’t know what possessed me, but I asked Ninny and Daddy if I could capture the moment. They agreed it would be alright. One click and the moment was preserved forever in image and in my heart.
Even though spending the day in the hospital wasn’t what was originally planned, it was where God needed me to be. After glimpsing love that day, I knew precisely why He had called me to that place at that moment. For gentle reminders of how tenderly He holds each of us, I am so thankful.
If you enjoyed today’s blog, I would love to hear what you would draw for love.
kandynolesstevens 