Today I’m over at Deeper Culture writing about the flannel boards from my childhood Sunday School and how they’ve led me to make up my own ending to one of the stories:
But there was one story that always left me wondering. It was the one with flannel Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden in their new clothes of flannel animal skins. They looked sad and dejected. Behind them, two flannel cherubim guarded the entrance to the Tree of Life, and a flannel flaming sword glowed, reminding me of Saturday morning cartoons and the sword of He-Man, Master of the Universe.
That story of the first two people being sent out of the garden stuck in my mind because when I was a child I always wondered, “What happened to those two angels guarding the Tree of Life? Are they still standing there, flashing sword burning fire?”
Today I’m giving away a free copy of Matthew Paul Turner’s wonderful children’s book, God Made Light. All you have to do in order to be entered to win the book is leave a comment here letting me know your favorite children’s book. Good luck!
This is a poignant post by my friend Jim Ogle about what it was like for him to go to Vietnam as a tourist 47 years after serving in the Army during the Vietnam War. It was first posted at his blog, and I asked if I could share it here.
Forty-seven years after volunteering for the Army, I am in Vietnam. I did not expect my emotions to be fresh. I’m confused. I doubted memories from that time could come back so clearly. I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be here. There is still blood in the ground.
Most of the guys I hung with were sent to ‘Nam. A couple of them died. Some of my friends tried desperately to avoid the draft. My brother-in-law hid in the basement of of his own home until amnesty was granted. He died anyway. We were all boys.
I drew an incredibly long straw. I spent 1968 in South Korea, lonely but filled with false bravado. We were pampered by houseboys and protected by the ROK Army. Our mission was to aim missiles at an airspace the enemy smartly avoided. We drank and partied away the notion that we were on their target list, too. I am forever grateful that I escaped the war without a single scar or moment of danger. And, I am forever ashamed that I bragged of being so clever and capable as to have selected and attained a specialty that was not featured in ground combat. I just played while my best friends prayed.
My lifelong friend Roger and I double-dated a lot before he was drafted. He had a pale green ‘53 Chevy with a big back seat. We hunted together after the war, but I could tell by the manner and speed with which he handled a firearm that he was reliving something we could not share. I gave up hunting. He died last summer.
When I returned to the States, those who stayed home seemed to have evolved into elites or dope addicts or both. They were smug and unrecognizable with their dirty long hair and pot stained mustaches. They had stolen our girlfriends and screwed our wives. I didn’t know if I should try to fit in or ship out. I came within hours of re-enlisting. I was confused. I wanted to be told what to do.
In my Army, the Drill Sergeants could still spit in your face while they screamed obscene descriptions of your worthless nature – and you’d better not flinch. It didn’t help. We lost the war anyway. No one outside Washington had heart in the fight and it seemed no one in the bubble had skin in the game. When the enlightened were at Woodstock cheering Janis Joplin, I was at Fort Benning guarding William Calley. I could be gung-ho one day and a slacker the next. I bought a VW Microbus and Nehru jacket in September, then a coat and tie in December. I was confused
I couldn’t vote or buy a drink and had been branded a veteran. I was twenty.
If you’d like to follow Jim and his wife Susie as they travel around the world, you can find his blog HERE.
Also, if you’d like to check out the Kickstarter campaign where I’m raising money to publish my first novel, you can check that out HERE. It was fully funded in two days (!) and now we’re working towards a few stretch goals.
The words didn’t come out of my mouth, but they came close, derailed somewhere on the way from my brain to my tongue. And they stuck there, in the back of my throat, settling like ash. I was left staring down into my daughter’s eyes, not knowing what to say, surprised at my unchecked response.
That thought had never entered my mind about anyone else before in my life, that there were people you shouldn’t pray for. Her words stirred around in my mind.
Make sure you pray for him in prison, she had said. You know, pray that he’ll have a good night’s sleep.
* * * * *
Today, I’m posting over at Deeper Story. You can read the rest of the post HERE.
Today’s guest post is brought to you by my friend Chris Hall. Thanks for reading.
Wednesdays are hard for my mother-in-law. There’s too much time in them, too many memories.
Wednesday nights, Sara and I meet her for dinner or, at the very least, take her out for ice cream. It doesn’t matter which. They’re both just a reason to get her out of the apartment.
On this Wednesday we’re eating at one of those “All American” restaurants where the menu has more pages than the last book I read and the drinks are served in mason jars. She sits across the table from us. She looks tired, like a statue that’s been standing in the rain too long.
“I came home from work yesterday,” she begins. “And I don’t know how I hadn’t seen it before, but Becky wrote on the wall above her bed.” She stops and takes a breath. Her eyes fall to the table. “She said ‘I will fight’ and wrote the date with it. April 21st 2014.”
The rest of the restaurant felt suddenly vacant. No cooks, no waitresses, no customers, no mason jars, just those words. I will fight.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said. “She was always writing things on the wall in her room when she was just a kid.
“That’s our Becky,” she sings. “She loves to push my buttons.”
The way she speaks of Becky is always an odd pairing of past and present tense. I don’t think she’s ready to speak of her in only the past yet. I’m not sure she’ll ever be.
I look at my Sara, the ink barely dried on our marriage license, and softly run my hand over her back. She’s been strong, stronger than I would be in her place.
* * *
It’s been less than two months since our wedding. The day was warm, breezy and bright with a sky like the sea from a distance. We were surrounded by fields of almost-ripe wheat, still green with the vigor of spring. My bride walked down the grassy aisle, her feet gliding over the blades until she was next to me, breathtaking. Her dress was pink, like the first blush of a garden rose. I took her hand and we pledged our lives.
We laughed, we danced, we kissed.
Perfect. The day as perfect.
. Except it wasn’t. There was an absence keenly felt, readily seen.
It was visible in the too few number of bridesmaids, on the deeply drawn lines of my mother-in-law’s face and in the empty chair at our table.
Becky had gone into the hospital five days before the wedding, racked with pain in her abdomen. We prayed for fast answers and faster healing, but it wasn’t until 2 days later that we had any answers: Peritonitis, an infection in the thin tissue covering the abdominal organs, and Sepsis.
Becky was placed in the Intensive Care Unit. She wouldn’t make the wedding. I did my best to catch Sara’s tears. The doctors were hopeful they’d caught the infection in the early stages. That was enough, enough to hold on to as we prepared for our wedding.
* * *
I like to think that Becky was born with her dukes up, ready to brawl, because that’s what she did throughout her life. She fought.
Born with a heart defect, she had open heart surgery at only a week old. Her chances were slim. Her will, iron. She grew up pushing the limits of what her ailing body could handle, dragging oxygen with her for years. At age 7 she was diagnosed with Protein Losing Enteropathy, a side effect of her heart condition that rendered her body unable to absorb proteins. Life with PLE was like putting numbers into alphabet soup. It complicated everything. By 20, she was in need of a new heart and liver. Still, she fought.
I once heard Becky talk about the future, of all the things she wished for her life, as though it were her’s to claim. There was no diagnosis that was going to keep her from trying, no handicap that would keep her from dreaming.
* * *
A week after the wedding we visited Becky in the hospital for the second time. Concern flushed my mother-in-law’s cheeks.
“Why are you worried, Mom?” Becky said softly, her words came at the expense of an entire breath. “I’m not worried. God’s going to take care of everything.”
The following Monday I was back at work when Sara called. The Sepsis had damaged Becky’s kidneys beyond repair. She was back in the ICU. After over 21 years of humiliating the odds, Becky was losing her fight.
We rushed to Philadelphia. Becky was still with us but her bouts of consciousness came in short bursts. We spoke with her, each of us reassuring her of our presence, our love.
More people came throughout the day. Friends who had been a part of her story from the outset, family who came back so soon after a celebration. They came to see Becky, to wish her farewell as she prepared to make a journey none of us could make with her. They came to comfort a mother caught in the agony between giving everything for her child and giving that child over.
“Where is God?” someone asked.
The question filled the hospital room. It was the expectation of a friend who said they’d be there only to stand everyone up. “Where is He?”
We gathered around her that night. We sang. We prayed. We spoke the words of those who have no hope left but for a miracle. It would be another one to add to the list. She just needed one more.
It didn’t come, though. Not this time. On Tuesday the rest of her organs shut down and we waited with dreadful anticipation.
Still, she fought. Just as she had done from the day she was born. Her mother fought, too. She fought to keep her will from spilling onto the white tiles. That waiting, that in-between, was the hardest thing I’ve ever seen anyone endure.
My new wife cried into my shoulder, her salty tears rooting in my skin. When I said “For better or for worse” I didn’t think the latter would come so soon.
“Where is God?”
A thousand pat answers rambled through my mind. All the promises I’d been taught, all the words of comfort I’d heard from the pulpit fell flat. I held Sara, mixed her tears with my own and hoped it would be enough.
Wednesday began with a call at 4:40am. They’d turned Becky’s pacemaker off. It wouldn’t be long now. It couldn’t be. Sara and I drove what had become the all too familiar route to the hospital.
Becky’s breaths – short, raspy struggles – came only a few times per minute now. We held our own with her between each of them, wondering if this was it.
Her mother could only be in the room for brief moments. She who had endured the loss of her husband to a brain injury, who had taken up the mantle of leader for her family, who had given all she had and more to raise her three children, was face to face with the day she had beaten back for so many years. If Becky was a fighter, it was because her mother had passed that fortitude on to her.
Becky’s last breath came shortly before 11:00 that morning. The vibrant, goofy girl who’d had such tender hold in all our hearts was gone. What remained was like the shell the locust sheds, giving the appearance of the thing but holding none of what made it.
I sat down that afternoon to write the obituary of the girl who ran to hug me every time I walked into the apartment, of the girl who had been my sister for 11 short days. Words have never been more difficult.
Becky’s memorial was held that Saturday. People from her everyday, from far away and long ago filled the church to remember her. She was loving, compassionate, brash, adventurous, temperamental and bright.
Bright. That was how I saw her. She was like a star who doesn’t care that the night is far darker and far longer than it knows.
“Where is God?”
The question clanged in my mind again, like a misshapen bell in a crumbling tower, ugly and cold. I looked up as my mother-in-law held a tissue under curled fingers, a microphone in the other hand. She shared of her grief, of her thankfulness for all who were there, all who had shared in Becky’s life.
God was there.
He was in the presence of friends around the hospital bed. He was in the songs that were sung as Becky drifted slowly from this world. He was in this church, not because it was a church, but because of those who were there, bearing his name, and comforting a grieving family. Grieving with us.
* * *
I watch my mother-in-law across the table. She finishes the iced tea in her mason jar and asks “When are you two gonna give me some grandbabies?”
Sara and I laugh. We’ve heard this a hundred times already.
“You know I’m just teasing,” her mom says. “Just don’t wait too long.”
I smile, glad to know she’s looking forward to something, and I think to myself that sometimes the fight isn’t as much about a test of will as it is the willingness to move forward, to hope.
Today’s post by Angela Oberg is one most of us parents can relate with – the sense of rejection that’s felt when your child is rejected. Or maybe it’s the same sense of rejection an author feels when their book is rejected. Or a worker’s effort.
The game was about to start. I looked out over the field and did not see her. I looked over at the sideline, and there she sat, on the bench. Again. It wasn’t that she did not get playing-time or was not good at the game, she was. Even so, this soccer season more often than not, my daughter seemed to start the game sitting on the sidelines.
As an adult I have learned how to deal with rejection, or so I thought. However as I saw the potential for rejection start to unfold for my child, I was not about to sit on the sidelines. It took everything in me to stay in my seat and not stomp over to the coach and demand he put my daughter in the game. Just as I was about to pull myself up out of my fold-up chair, I saw my daughter come out on the field.
As I later shared this experience with a friend, she listened thoughtfully and then was kind enough to confront me with some truth. She suggested, “Maybe this is not as much your daughter’s struggle as it is your own.” She was right; I had allowed my fear of rejection to affect how I parented. I wanted to protect my children from any experience that hinted of rejection. And in middle school and high school there are plenty of opportunities for this; team tryouts, clothing choices, relationships with friends, just to name a few.
I remember one instance specifically; it was a conversation I had with my older daughter. She shared with me some difficulties she was having with a friend at school. I asked some questions and in my questioning without realizing it, planted seeds of doubt and insecurity which only moments before were not there. Rather than help my daughter navigate her friendship struggle there and then, I allowed my past experience to color her experience in a way it should not have.
As I continued the conversation with my friend, I knew that to help my children navigate fear and rejection; I needed first to be free from my own. Only then could I help them objectively, my past no longer affecting their present. My friend graciously suggested we pray, and as we prayed, I could feel those old feelings of fear and rejection slowly slip away.
Later that day, standing by the sink doing dishes, I thought about how I want to live the opposite of rejection, and how I want to parent there too. I went in search of the word opposite rejection, and when I found it I could not help but smile. The word was acceptance.
At our church once a year, every individual (who wants to) can go front to the stage and pick an envelope containing a card with a word on it. These words at first for many may not always make sense or carry much meaning, yet sometime during the year, the word usually finds its way into our hearts.
Can you maybe guess what my word was, this particular year?
Today’s post comes to you from Alice Chaffins, a wonderful person, writer, and friend. I am happy she can fill in here during my week away from the blog. Enjoy.
The tools and ingredients were laid out on my counter. Gram’s potato masher, our biggest stock pot, sugar, pectin, and loads of fresh blueberries. We had picked 22 pounds of blueberries the night before and I couldn’t make and eat enough cobblers or pies or cakes to use all of those berries. And while I don’t consider myself a particularly good cook, jam isn’t terribly complicated to make, and I’ve made it before with some success, so I thought that would be the best way to use a portion of our harvest.
I carefully mashed, measured, boiled, and added the ingredients together. I watched the mashed berries morph from an unappetizing brownish goo into a beautiful dark indigo sauce. It smelled amazing, but as I added the pectin and sugar, it didn’t seem to thicken. I ladled it into the jars that I had prepared and hoped that it would begin to congeal as it cooled, but a few hours later, it still looked far too runny to be considered jam.
As the afternoon went by and I could see that what I made wasn’t setting, I went online to see if there was a way to save reluctant jam. One site to let it stand for 24-48 hours to make sure that the pectin had plenty of time to activate. Before the directions on how to remake the jam, the author also said that it was okay to adjust your expectations. Maybe call it preserves or syrup instead and let the ingredients be what they would rather than trying to make them something else.
So I gave it time. I waited for the jam to thicken on its own. After 48 hours, I dumped the contents of the jars back into my pot and tried again. Once again, I followed the directions at the site, adding more pectin and letting it boil well past when I thought it might start to scorch the berries. I ladled it back into new jars, but once again, I had a feeling that this jam was not meant to be. Hours later it was clear – this was a failed experiment.
I’m not sure what went wrong. Maybe I miscounted the cups of sugar that I added. Maybe it was a bad batch of pectin. Maybe I tried to make too much jam at once. Whatever the issue, this particular combination of berries, sugar, and pectin was not cooperating and doing what I was asking. Instead of jam, I have 7 jars of really delicious fruit topping for ice cream.
Failure doesn’t feel great. Often we can look at the process that led us to the place where things just didn’t turn out right and see our missteps. But sometimes things simply don’t go according to plan. Even when we have all of the right tools and ingredients. Even when we follow the steps exactly according to the directions. Even when we go back and try again and again and again.
Sometimes there are failures. The book doesn’t sell. The illness doesn’t abate. The prodigal child doesn’t return home. For all of our efforts, we don’t get the desired results. It can be disheartening. Sometimes it damn near crushes us.
When I failed at my first marriage, I just wanted to crawl into a corner and stop. I thought I had done everything right, but in the end, I was an adulterer. I was a liar. I was a bad wife, a bad mother, a bad person. I was tempted to define myself solely in terms of that failure.
Accepting that failure was one of the hardest things I’ve done, but it was necessary for me to become the woman that I am today. It was necessary for me to evolve into the woman I will be tomorrow.
I don’t know what to tell you about your failures. Maybe you need to keep going. Keep working, keep hoping, keep persevering.
But maybe you need to accept the failure. See what lessons you can learn, what tidbits you can save, and let the rest go. Adjust our expectations for what is acceptable and move forward.
Acceptance can be difficult, but it can allow us to try something new. It can teach us about ourselves. It can allow us to see the goodness that still was a part of the journey.
To check out more of Alice’s work, please click HERE.
