Ten Years

"Grow old with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made."

Robert Browning

In some ways it feels like just yesterday when we said "I do" and in other ways it feels like forever. In these ten years, we've certainly seen our share of "tempests" that Shakespeare warned of and at times were a tad bit "shaken," but we found our stars in a wandering bark and the height was taken...

but the worth unknown.

Rosy lips and cheeks have met the bending sickle after tireless nights and two kids, but you still tell me I am beautiful and I still somehow believe you. And when I look back on pictures, on our collection and scrapbooks of memories, I realize now my favorite moments weren't found when...

Standing on the Lock Key Bridge in Paris

Or kissing at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower

Or gazing out of the top of the Empire State Building

Or standing beside a majestic Mayan Ruin

Or in front of beautiful Niagara Falls

My favorite moments were the simplest ones...meeting at the coffee shop every day at three o'clock before I had to go tutor, learning to drive stick shift on the dirt roads in your truck, our long talks and rides to the hunting land, nights of badminton in the backyard with no net, climbing fences to go duck hunting with you, and camping together in the backyard as a family...

I can honestly say there has never been a dull moment with you by my side. I love your love for life. So in the words of Andrew Peterson, "I'll walk with you in the shadowlands till the shadows disappear" because you are my one true love, my ever-fixed mark, and I cannot imagine filling the pages of my Adventure Book with anyone else but you.

Grandma's Shoes

Grandma’s Shoes

My mother is wearing her mother’s shoes. 

“You know what’s special about these shoes?” she asks me.  The lump in my throat hampers my attempt for a verbal response. I shake my head as she continues, “I can walk in these shoes that she never got to.” 

We were home from the funeral of heartache and pain, memories and laughter, listening numbly to one or two-sided conversations. The last bar of “I Love the Lord” wrapped up followed by “Amazing Grace”. My heart was heaving and I could no longer bear the loss. And then silence and peace. And a still, soft whisper of hope and faith and love. 

 “Remember, Remember the Fifth of November.” I remember…my mother’s memories. The story of her hand getting burnt roasting marshmallows as a child on Guy Fawke’s Day. The memory of little mice eating her candy when she lived in a church building in Earlestown. Memories of life and hope and love. I stared at the beautiful lady who still says full stop for period, crisps for chips, boot for trunk, and fringe for bangs. I had mimicked this vocabulary and gotten ridiculed in school.

Still, I wanted to mimic everything about her.

As a child, I could not wait to fit into my mother’s shoes. She had a pair of brown boots I used to love to wear. I remember my first over-sized pair of coral high heels she bought for me on a shopping trip. Now that I think about it, they were probably extremely “eightiesh”, but I thought those shoes were beautiful. I begged her for them and she let me get them.  I felt like a princess.

Then in what seemed to be a day, I went through a growth spurt and suddenly my feet outgrew my mother’s. Amidst my sister’s, mother’s, and grandma’s small feet, I felt like Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.  I struggled to squeeze my over-sized foot into the glass slipper. 

I think this is our lifelong quest – attempting to fill the shoes of our mothers.

Like her mother before her, my mother is an angel in disguise. “I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, dwells in you as well.” (2 Timothy 1:5)

I think of mothers and the beautiful way God uses them to carry on His Son’s legacy on this earth.

I had watched my mother, my life-support and caregiver, take care of her own mother for four long years after a series of mini-strokes led to her gradual decline. The woman who had carried me in her womb for nine long months, picked me up and cradled me whenever I cried, rubbed my tummy when the pain just wouldn’t go away...had pain in her eyes. How would she function now that her own mother was gone?

She kept walking. She learned from her mother who overcame the adversity of polio and raised five children on the mission field. Who learned from her mother who raised ten children on a farm in Oklahoma during the Great Depression. Who learned from her mother, Susan Mariah Goodrum Shelton, who my grandma credited for being the reason for the family’s faith.

In her book, Coming Up for Air, Margaret Becker beautifully scripts memories of her mother and her longing to imitate her legacy, “My mom, connecting to the nurturer in her soul, moving in her gift, forming beauty, her gift soothing the agitated and finding beauty in brokenness.  It was life art, I am sure, directed and implanted by God…my last thoughts were of DNA and how I hope that along with the tangible connections, the spiritual predispositions are dispensed similarly.”

Six years have passed since that summer, the Summer My Mother Wore Her Mother’s Shoes. She is now three states away instead of just one. And I miss her. And I miss my grandma. I have a daughter of my own now and she loves to wear her mother’s shoes.

And I think back to the day I took her to get her polio vaccine. She cried from the pain and I cried because I realized she would never know the effects of the crippling disease or the lady whose lap I used to sit on when I rubbed her solitaire diamond ring back and forth, back and forth. But I smile now because I know she will know these stories through me and through my mother – her grandmother – the Lady Who Wears Her Mother’s Shoes.

Snow

Her favorite seasons were Spring and Autumn, but she found beauty and joy in the snow. She always grazed remnants of the the freshly fallen flakes and made delicious snow ice cream for us to enjoy.
I can still taste Grandma's snow ice cream.

Today you played in the snow with your Grammy and she made snow ice cream. Your little brother was wrapped up like a little bear coming out of hibernation (in the words of Grauntie D). Your uncles made a snowman and you took a picture with your cousin, "Daddeus."

You probably won't remember your first snow just like you probably won't remember your first move. That long 10 hour drive from Alabama to North Carolina. After lots of purging and selling daddy's boat and four wheeler (to name a few toys), we loaded the uhaul and moved away from family, friends, and the familiar...downsizing from a 1600 sq. ft. house to a 700 sq. ft. apartment. We moved to an old cotton mill in Wake Forest. It was a Season of Simplicity. Your daddy had started the gruesome process of getting his Ph.D. and we were in a beautiful loft apartment on the third floor with colossal windows and twenty foot ceilings. Trust me , it sounds more romantic than it was. (One day I'll tell you about the time you pooped on me in a job interview - long story - and how I had to leave you one Saturday to go to work in the snow with chronic morning sickness - a gift from your brother). But we learned so many lifelong lessons in those few months and met so many people who touched our lives forever. Sometimes God closes one door and opens another, and sometimes He closes one door and opens more than you can go through. (But that's another story for another day...)

One of our favorite memories of that place was your first snow. When the first flakes started to fall we woke you up and carried you outside in the dark to see the "snow". You were mesmerized as the flakes fell softly on your little nose.

Today I remember one particular snowy Sunday morning. I was wrestling you on the changing table, dressing you for church in a frantic hurry when my eye suddenly caught a glimpse of something beautiful. Against the backdrop of complete white was a solitary, bright, red cardinal and a still, small voice whispering,
Slow down.
Be Still.
And Know
That I
Am God.
And I realized that He isn't in the strong wind or the earthquake or fire - but in the soft whispers and gentle breeze. In the commonplace, everyday, monotonous, ordinary, tedious, tiresome...moments and routines. The humdrum. In moments of peeling carrots and changing diapers.

I always find Him there.

And He is always waiting.

We are often forced to slow down and bear simplicity only when the storms hit. What is frustration to an adult is an opportunity for play to a child. I find the same childlike peace in the aftermath of a hurricane or when driven inside on a snowy day.

In the barrenness of winter time.

David Rensberger writes, "In winter, when the world is simplified, the subtler and humbler beauties can appear to us...red holly berries, or rose hips on their dry canes..Even a blue jay stands out. The simplicity and starkness of a winter scene bring to our attention creatures we overlook in other seasons. The beauty of such small humble things is an especially important expression of holiness for us, who are so easily impressed by size and ostentation."

So I pray for eyes to see. The beauty of red against white. His blood for our sins. "Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow. Though they be as crimson they shall be as wool."

Our family theme for for this year is joy in simplicity. And you remind me of this. When you say,"pray mama" (when I've given you some cheerios and forgot to pray) or..."sit mama" (when I'm busy and need to stand) or..."dance mama" (when I'm tired and want to sit). When you remind me to slow down and stop and smell the roses. {Literally. Every. single. dandelion.} When you have so much awe for God's creation. You soften my heart.

And I want to you to remind me of this when I am in too much of a hurry to see the beauty of stillness. To see the beauty of you. Because I want the eyes of Mary, but so often I have the eyes of Martha.

This morning you woke to see if the snow was still there. Your fine blond hair disheveled from sleep. It was a sweet reminder.

Today I am thankful for the joy of snow. Today I am thankful for you, my sweet girl.

Candy Apple Red

My cousin rode "shotgun" that night as my grandad drove his treasured, hand-controlled candy apple red van. From the backseat, I stared at two genertions in stark contrast to one another. One whose ears were lost without gauges and earphones, the other whose ears were fading while listening in silence to his Big Band music.

Promptness was an implicit stipulation for Grandad. He liked to be on time and honked his horn if Grandma wasn't ready for church on the dot. That night my cousin and I were ready on time. We sat silently as we rode in the dark, listening to Grandad's choice of music.

The backseat of a vehicle was not the most coveted spot when Grandad was at the wheel - especially in his later years- (he must have taken his driving skills after his own father, who supposedly drove with his knee while tying his tie), but I took my seat with pride that night. Somehow after living away from home for so long, I had started to miss those reckless rides to church when Grandad was in a hurry and destined to be on time. I missed the Sunday mornings when he asked me to button his sleeves as "I Know the Lord will Find a Way For Me" was playing in the background.

Our first Thanksgiving without Grandma had called us all together again and I kept thinking of how my cousin was taking the place of Grandma's unarguable spot. She would always turn her head to check if a car was coming, if the road was clear, an aesthetic metaphor for their lives. They had their unspoken cues, like the closing of her hymnbook on the chorus of the last verse as a signal for him to start walking back from the pulpit with his canes. My grandad silently took her place for the "all clear" after her neck surgery stole her ability to turn with ease, forcibly stretching his own neck in search of visible cars.

Innumerable memories had been fashioned in that van. We made the road trip to Virginia to pick it up after a hurricane had ravaged the Eastern coast and left the hotel water undrinkable. Grandad was so proud to have his first custom-made, specially-designed vehicle. Gone would be the days of lifting himself into the car from his wheelchair to the seat. The remote-controlled ramp made it possible for him to push himself right in. Gone would be the days of loading the wheelchairs in the trunk. His wheelchair now locked in place. When he brought the van home, he was so proud that he sent his mother in Oklahoma City a video tape for Christmas of the ramp going up and coming down, demonstrating his entry and departure into the vehicle with effortless ease.

He had been insistent on the color - candy apple red. He once ordered a red blazer jacket for Grandma. Red was his favorite color. She was beautiful in red.

I wondered what he was thinking about as the jazz music ebbed and flowed softly through the air. I had been reading a lot of Grandma's journal of memories since she she had passed away and wondered if he was thinking of the same thing. As he sat quietly I wondered...

Did he think back to his first drive in his hand-controlled Ford to meet that blue-eyed beauty?
His father encouraging him to overcome his shyness and the pouring rain to meet her? And their first date on an airplane...that his father had to encourage him to initiate? And their follow up date to a baseball game that he finally managed to ask her out to on his own? And then couple years later, when he finally got the nerve up to propose...

Did he think back to his first sight of his bride meeting his eyes walking down the aisle in her satin-covered crutches, every sacred step in his direction towards the handsome man eager to take her as his wife?

Did he think back to their honeymoon in New Orleans and driving her to his birthplace on the way home?

Their love story hit newspapers across the country and even overseas because they were married during March of Dimes week. From Chicago to California, Oklahoma City to Germany. Grandad joked they were celebrities and had to wear dark glasses to keep the fans at bay.

Did he think back to their early married days in Tampa, Florida, teaching her how to drive?
She wrote, "H.B. gave me a driving lesson - and we didn't even once think of separating! One thing that I remember was that the police department had a place to practice parallel parking and I knocked down a few markers learning! But I passed the test in downtown Tampa!

Did he think of the year they were voted "King and Queen for Valentine's Day" sweethearts?
We rented a small two room cottage just of the campus. In my extra time (ha!), I would audit classes. I loved church history and even sat in some Greek classes! I helped out, too, by typing papers and assignments for H.B. Since H.B. was on the staff of the faculty and also a student, we got invited to all the events for both teachers and students. One year we were voted to be "King and Queen for Valentine's Day" sweethearts. It was a beautiful banquet-formal. My long dress was of lovely pink satin. We made some lifelong friendships.

Did he think of drive-in movies and root-beer floats?
While we lived in our little new home we had such happy times together. I didn't have to work on Saturdays at the IRS so I caught up with things at home. I loved to cook and make our home tide and pretty. We liked to go to drive-in movies and we would get together with couples from church and play "hearts" and I'd make my mother's famous brownies. Did I tell you when we lived in the duplex on SE 29 there was a big front porch and I would pull off my braces (to be comfortable) and crawl from my wheelchair on to the porch and through the window into our car and off we would go for a drive or a root-beer float!

Did he think back to their road trip to California in the summer of 1951 in their Mercury? 
In the summer of 1951 we went on a holiday to California. It was great! Drove in our car - Mercury. We visited Knotts Berry Farm and a studio with a live radio program. Four couples were chosen to participate - we were one of the couples. It was called "The Perfect Husband." The wives were asked to tell why they thought theirs was the perfect husband! Guess who won! H.B. was the perfect husband and he's never let me forget! Never! We won lots of prizes...toured the Hollywood studio, saw a movie being made with Robert Mitchum and Jean Simmons. Went to hear Tony Martin sing on stage, ate at the Brown Derby...

Did he think back to the first time they waved good-bye to the American coast and set sail for an unfamiliar land?
From the deck we could see the Statue of Liberty. Lots of people were on the shore to see their frinds and relatives off. We left ours back in Oklahoma and Texas! It was a gala occasion with streamers flowing from the shore to the ship as people waved g'bye and people crowded on the deck to see the take off! 

Did he think of their love story of all the places they had lived, the achievements and accomplishments they had made together in spite of polio?

Did he remember their golden wedding anniversary, and how beautiful she still was fifty memorable years later?

H.B. gave me Chanel No. 5 and I gave him a handsome jacket, pants, and tie. I'm romantic in this French perfume. Many waters cannot quench love, rivers cannot wash it away. (S.o.S. 8) Twenty-two here on our anniversary, sharing beds and floors and lots of hugs and kisses. H.B. (Sr.) was our cupid.

Did he think of the life they had built together and how he would ever manage now that she was gone?

As we arrived at my uncle's house that night, he sat quietly in the corner, giving the gift of his assuring presence as we all laughed and played games. But he seemed so lonely. Was he dreaming of the days before all of us, none of whom would be there without her, his beloved wife of 59 years?

As we drove back home that night, my cousin climbed to sit beside me in the backseat. My mind drifted again. I imagined I was being chauffeured, the wide open space and ample leg room analogous to a limo ride. Grandad sat silently up front. Finally, the silence was broken as he told me and my cousin that the song we were listening to was played at their wedding. "I love these songs," my cousin said. "I want to download them on my iPod." I smiled as a lump collected in my throat. It was a beautiful night.

Little did I know it would be my last ride with Grandad.

Stones

"There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories." (Ursala LeGuin)

With every winter comes the same nostalgia. My father is putting lights on the tree. Handmade ornaments are unwrapped with care. We are listening to a cassette tape labeled "Christmas Pop." Scents of Christmas fill the air.

This particular time of year I always miss reading my grandad's annual Christmas letters sent out to their family and friends across the globe. He always wrote with pride about his children and grandchildren, and I cannot help but think how proud he would have been to write of his great-grandchildren that he never got to meet.

How do you categorize a life?

Seems like yesterday we were driving from Aylesbury to Manchester to visit my dad's parents, listening to Tracy Chapman and Paul Simon in graceland with diamonds on the soles of our shoes...so many memories...I not only want to remember my story...I want to remember their stories. My parents and my grandparents. Stories of their childhood - corn shuck dolls and a pony named Tony, stories of trees in California that you can drive through...I want to tell my daughter and son these stories, these oral traditions.

I heard a man once say that one of the greatest failures in life is not forgetting to tell our children what God has done throughout the Bible, but neglecting to tell them what God has done in our lives. We should not just acknowledge God in the lives of others, but share firsthand testimonies of God's unfailing love in our lives (Gen. 26 :12-19) I am thankful for the stories of my grandparents, for the way God worked in their lives.

Maybe it's the English major in me, but I have a very literary view of the world, of life, of the Bible. Life is a story, a blank page waiting to be filled. I remember when I was interning for a 9th grade English class, I was reading paper after paper for an assignment on Christmas memories and thinking of how one day my children will write their own memories. What traditions will we impart to our children?

One day they will be looking back at their childhood, as I am now.

So I am writing these memories on our doorposts. This is the story of why we believe.

"This is the story of how we begin to remember."

I see the children of Israel standing at the Jordan River building altars lest they forget. How soon we forget. I see them eating the Passover, teaching their children and grandchildren about things they have never seen. Blessed are they who haven't seen and still believe.

This time of year I think of past and new traditions, of the joy and beauty and difficulty of living intentionally, my need for these tangible words to be my emblems lest I forget. I want to look back so I will remember...when the fig trees are in blossom and the bank account is full, when I'm gathering grapes I did not plant, when I am afraid to trust the unfamiliar, when I struggle to realize the importance of waiting, when I forget the beauty of brokenness. I think of gifts I treasure: a shadow box of emblems, a recipe book of favorite meals, a quilted purse of clothing - scraps from my grandparents' lives to help me remember them. My grandmother cherished the scraps of life. She clung to notes and was so happy to be surrounded by pictures and loved ones. She wrote a journal for her grandchildren with these scripted words: "These little stories I tell you may help to connect you to the past. As we become older we wish we had asked our grandparents more about the history of our family, more stories about the generations who lived before us." There is so much importance in jotting down thoughts for the generations that follow, to write them on your doorposts, on your clothes, everywhere lest you forget.

My mother told me this was the best way to help her grieve the loss of her parents - to talk about stories of their past.

I want to keep these memories alive for my children. My memories of two incredible people who chose one day in God's courts over a thousand elsewhere. Today, they would have been married for 65 years. They left a powerful legacy and I do not want it to be forgotten. For five years I have struggled to encapsulate their memory into words, but I have realized that stories do not have to be chronological or even perfect, just timeless. So without perfect symmetry, here are my sentiments. These are my findings of daily grace, random streams-of-consciousness flowing freely, memories that have happened and memories in the making, charred memories of candescent love and human faith.

These are my treasures in jars of clay.

These are my stones on the edge of the Jordan.