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September’s Child

03 Thursday Sep 2009

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blog_jacksonTen years ago today, I arrived in Oklahoma City from my Texas home to hold my first grandchild in my arms.  I couldn’t sleep the night of Jackson’s birth.  Too much excitement.  So it was easy to catch that first flight out of Houston that left the gate at O-dark-hundred.  Jackson was a mere five hours old when I arrived.

Yet it seems longer than ten years to my way of thinking;  so much life has been packed into those 3,652 days.  But I wonder what thoughts Jackson might have about his first ten years of life.  What has been grand?  What would Jackson change if he could?  Maybe I’ll ask Jackson those questions tomorrow; after we’ve sung the birthday song and shared some of that red velvet cake with Grandma Carol’s special frosting, that Jackson requested for his birthday.

Another grandmother — my good friend Kathy — was born yesterday when her first grandchild came into the world.   Kathy’s husband Jim pastored my church at the time of Jackson’s birth.  And ’til my dying day, I’ll never forget  Jim laughing at my grandmother name that my daughter Kate baptized me with.  Nana Nell.  I admit, the name keeps me humble.  And who knows that maybe my grandmother call name wasn’t payback for my giving Kate her middle name of Louise, in honor of my mother’s middle name.  If so, I’d say we are more than even.

These days Kate is a young grandmother herself  — a step-grandmother to be more accurate.  And did she call herself Nana Kate?  No, she calls herself Gigi.  So my advice to Kathy is to take charge of your grandmother call name.  Do not leave such important things to fate or to the whims of your child who may decide this is a good time for paybacks.  If all goes well, you will hear your call name many, many times in the days and years ahead.  Usually with a question mark behind it.  But always with love and trust in front of it.    

Kathy announced her joy (and relief?) to her world of Facebook friends, who were waiting two computers away to hear it.  Her words were written around midnight:

“Madison as born at 6:07 pm.  She weighs 7 lbs and is 20 inches long.  Chad and Sara coached Katie, I cheered her on and Jim prayed from the hall.  Katie did a super job!!! and deserves a long winter’s nap…but that’s not how God made it.:-)

I do not remember Jackson’s birth time or his birth weight and height.  I have those numbers recorded in a memory book somewhere, that for the life of me, I can’t put my hands on right now.  I drive myself crazy with my disorganized life.  But I can recall that his mother Kate named her new baby boy Jackson Thomas, in honor of both great-grandfather’s called Jack and his paternal grandfather named Thomas.  And thankfully, I was able to locate a journal where I recorded some consoling thoughts the evening after I left Kate and Jackson behind to live their own lives, after spending those first precious, sleep-deprived and sometimes scary ten days of Jacskon’s life.  Kathy was one of the first to encourage me to keep a journal.  So to her I breathe a word of thanks to Kathy, as I re-live these ten year old memories.

Sunday, Sept. 12, 1999

I’m on my way home after spending the last 10 days with Kate and new grandson Jackson Thomas.  It was hard to say good-bye — it always is for me.  I remember how I felt 21 years ago, when my mom left me with Kate after she had stayed with me a week.   In fact, I’ve recalled that week a lot this past 10 days as I tried to help Kate in all the ways my mom helped me.  I will miss them both very much — but they may be coming for a visit in a couple of weeks — something to look forward to.  It will be nice to get home , to see the boys and Kara and see Mac and Tav.  I won’t see Don for at least a week…until he returns from Switzerland.  As Kate points out, we will have been apart for 16 days minimum by the time Don returns.  Well, writing has lessened the emotions from departure.  I must look forward–although I will always treasure these past 10 days.

Happy 10th birthday Jackson.  You are a GRAND son.   Always have been.  Always will be.   And this Nana loves you very much.

Breakfast of Champions

02 Wednesday Sep 2009

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It is good to count on some things remaining the same, especially when life is pulling a rug out from under your feet.
Summer of '69, Jon, Christi & Mom

Summer of '69, Jon, Christi & Mom

Wheaties are just one of those constants of life.  And a few weeks back, I saw boxes of Wheaties lining the grocery store  shelf.  And though I’m not a huge fan, I could not resist bringing one of those orange cardboard boxes home.  My impulse buy was probably linked to my need to hold onto something from my past that has resisted changing with the times.

So here I sit enjoying a bowl of Wheaties.  The breakfast of champions.  I can’t tell you which champion adorns the front of the box.  But I can report that the stuff inside the box tastes just like I remember.   It’s good.  But the best part of this breakfast is that each bite stirs up memories of earlier days when everyone I loved was still here to love.

Instead of sitting at my mustard colored writing desk, I could be sitting at my Granny’s shiny and colorful oilcloth covered table.  My old window is open just as Granny’s use to be, catching the morning’s cool breeze.  Granny’s kitchen is as unpretention as she is.  For instance, Granny always stores her box of Wheaties on top of her refrigerator.  And Granny’s milk tastes funny.  At least this is what I tell Granny.  And she says something about it being fresh from the cow.  I have no idea what she means.  Old people say the craziest things.  Doesn’t all milk come fresh from cows?

But now I wonder…did Granddad keep milk cows?  It’s possible.  Granddad got bored easily, trading one job for another across the years we shared life together.  Granddad was always tinkering with something, always thinking of his next business enterprise.  He was versatile — one time operating heavy road-building machinery to some other year raising chickens…. then onto lambs.  I remember Granddad once owning a used car business; then in his final years he grew the best tasting produce — corn and watermelons and tomatoes and okra and I don’t know what else — but all of it was sold from the back of his truck, which he parked a block away from Shawnee’s Main Street.

Maybe somewhere in all those parade of jobs Granddad had milk cows too.  But against all this changing source of income, Granny always kept their Wheaties on top of the refrigerator.  I wonder now if Wheaties might have represented a thread of stability in Granny’s life, just as they do for me right now.

Summer of '69 - Jon, Christi & Dad on the Coast of Maine

Summer of '69 - Jon, Christi & Dad

I thought my elders ancient when I was young.  But of course, I now know that in the early sixties, Granny and Grandad were not so old.  They were just 50-something, my age today.  Likewise, my parents were in their late 20’s and early 30’s, the same age as my two daughters today.

These days Daddy is an old 79, to borrow a phrase of my sister’s.  And with Daddy slipping away from time, I am reminded that soon I will be the elder.  And even now in the eyes of my own grandchildren, I realize I may already be. 

 

All of these thoughts have me hungering for more than a bowl of Wheaties.  I long to hold in my hand, some old yellowed snapshots of my parents and my grandparents, especially ones that include my brother and sister and I.  And last Sunday was no different.  With no plans to do so, I was drawn to rummage through my trunk filled with forty years of musty keepsakes.  The time was well spent as I dredged up a few old photos of my parents that I took in 1969 with my first Kodak Instamatic camera.  The images are not sharp and clear.  In fact, the photos are fuzzier than my memories.  But even so, it was good to see my parents so young and vital again.

It was these forty year old photos of my young parents, who were champions of their children’s lives — rather than the champion currently featured on the front of the orange Wheaties box — that kept company with my bowl of Wheaties on my makeshift breakfast table this morning.  And as good and constant as the Wheaties were, they are no god.  And as good and fleeting as my elders were, they too were no god.  Nothing in the world can substitute for the Reality of God.  And it is  good to count on God remaining the same, especially when life is pulling a rug out from under your feet.

Hi-Lo and Ritz

31 Monday Aug 2009

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Each week brings highs and lows that keep everyday life from growing stale.    

And last week’s high arrived as low flying sparklers at the Overholser Mansion.  I wanted to shout — Hip, hip hooray!  —  the fireflies are back.  Because after a two year absence, the east lawn of the Overholser Mansion had once again become the best neighborhood spot for firefly gazing.  By sheer happenstance, we caught two repeat performances of their latest firefly ballet.  And it was worth the wait.  I was captivated; I could have parked myself in their midst and watched their flickering lights pirouette across the dark expanse for several encore performances. 

But sometimes we’re moved to be still and sometimes we’re moved just to move.  And when it comes to church these days — the scene of my most recent low-life moment —  we do both.  One Sunday we’re on the move, off visiting some local church, while the next we stay put at our current church home.  This alternating practice serves to cleanse our palate  —  in the way crackers cleanse the palate for wine tasting — by allowing us to sample new worship experiences without one running into another.  Last Sunday was our Sunday to stay put — and without need of wine or crackers —  my husband and I came home to Holy Communion.  

Our church usually serves this sacramant by intinction — where communicants dip a small portion of bread into a communal cup of grape juice —  which typically takes 20 to 30 minutes to serve.  But last week, the service had us moving between a standing line for bread to the kneeling rail for thimble-size containers of grape juice.  And with a thousand communicants facing a church altar built for forty kneelers,  the communion rail quickly became a bottleneck, which sent sinners in a Christian-like free-for-all as we jostled for an open space at the rail. 

Perhaps this new method of distribution was chosen to minimize the spread of infectious diseases. I don’t know.  But what I do know is that I observed one woman take her thimble of juice to go, just like she was going through a McDonald’s drive-through window.  Meanwhile, my husband and I joustled amongst the masses for an open spot at the kneeler, where we stayed only long enough to drink our juice.  Figuring God could hear our prayers just fine from our seats, we were making our way back when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a few souls leaving the sanctuary early.  Questions began whirling through my mind.   Had they decided to fast?  Had they chosen to eat and run?  And then came the question to end all questions:  Who am I to ask these questions?  Then, in a flash, I  knew who I was.  I was one who was ready to join their exodus; and with the taste of grape juice still on my tongue, I looked at my husband and whispered, “Let’s go.” 

The irony that my low point should come in the midst of Holy Communion is not lost on me; nor for that matter, that my week’s high should come from low flying bugs.  I fumble within the mystery and the hi-los of it all.  What was it about the firefly dances that made me want to stay and what was it about Holy Communion that made me want to flee?     

Whatever it was, my reaction has more to say about me than it does about either event.  For some unknown reason, I did not experience God in Holy Communion.  Maybe because I was preoccupied by looking for room at the inn altar.  Maybe because I felt lost in the sea of humanity washing up on the communion rail.  And for Christ’s sake, where was the lighthouse to keep us from crashing into one another? 

At the Overholsers there was no need for a lighthouse.  There was plenty of space and light for all who wished to partake of this lowly unconventional means of grace.   And for me, this lowly means of grace was just what I needed last week.  Maybe because I had just expressed a longing to again gaze on firefies.  One moment it was a wish.  And then all of a sudden, here they were.  Just like that.  Just  light that.

And just light that, God was there too.  And there on a dusk-tinted lawn — with no bread, no crackers, no wine, no juice, no confusion, no sea of humanity, no rails to rail me in — stood me and God in a sea of fireflies “puttin’ on the ritz where fashion once sat.”  Just light that.