Nancy

Lee’s Lantana

August 1, 2013 by Nancy 26 Comments

The down side of volunteering with older adults, and getting to know and love them, is that the chances are pretty high you will also have to say goodbye to them in this earthly life and be separated from them for a while. Such was my loss when Lee (short for Leora Jane), one of the residents of an assisted living facility who faithfully attended my weekly Bible study for over two years, died suddenly this month.

I was on vacation when Lee died, but a friend who was filling in for me for the summer called to let me know. I was so glad to find out about a memorial service that was to be held for Lee and to be able to attend when we returned. There I learned so much more about her life than just the last few years spent in assisted living.

Lee loved sitting outside the facility in her wheelchair. Every Wednesday when I arrived, except on the most blustery of days, she would be by the front door. She always greeted me warmly. With her gray pixie haircut, bright blue eyes, and big smile it was a greeting I grew to love. “I’ll be back to get you!” I’d say as I rushed inside to set up for our gathering.

Once our time was over, I knew Lee couldn’t wait to get back outside, so I’d push her back to claim her spot by the front door. One day I noticed a huge pot of beautiful yellow flowers near her spot. “Oh, Lee, those are gorgeous. I’ve never seen them before. Do you know what they are?”

“I don’t,” she replied, “but I’ll find out for you.”

The next week the flowers were still there. Lee still didn’t know what they were, but she’d found out who to ask, so together we learned that the bright, yellow blossoms we both enjoyed so much were lantana. Lee, lantana and laughter, three things that will forever go together for me. The laughter came when I tried to maneuver Lee back out through the heavy front doors and would forget from week to week that taking her over the threshold backwards was the best way to keep from dumping her out! Fortunately I never did dump her, but my awkward wheelchair piloting gave us both some laughs. And we never parted without a hug, after which she would pat my hand and say, “Thank you. I love you.” And I would say, “I love you, too.”

The chaplain who led Lee’s memorial service did a wonderful job. We all got to share our favorite memories. I learned from her family that she hated raisins and wondered how many times I’d served her oatmeal raisin cookies in class. She never complained. The chaplain said, “Lee would want all of us leaving here today with a smile on our faces and a smile in our hearts,” and I knew that was true. I also knew she was now embracing eternal life joyfully, and was with the husband and son she had lost and grieved. Still the tears spilled down my face. I wasn’t crying for Lee, but for my own loss.

After the service, I decided to stop by Home Depot for a couple of things we needed for Saturday chores, in spite of being overdressed and needing to keep my sunglasses on to hide my red eyes and mascara smears. As I walked into the garden area I stopped in awe. Right before me were two very long rows of hanging baskets, all yellow lantana. I know they weren’t there earlier in the season.

It didn’t take me long to put two of the baskets in my cart, justifying that they could replace two that hadn’t done well in the summer heat. Now I get to look at yellow lantana from my office window every day and thank the Lord for my friend, Lee. They not only remind me of her, they remind me that love is always worth the risk, even when it hurts.

Driveways of Life

June 4, 2013 by Nancy 23 Comments

Writers are always waxing poetic about the highways and byways of life. I’ve decided most of life is actually lived out in the driveways.

Think about it. Where did you first learn to pedal a tricycle all by yourself? In the driveway, of course. (Just like grandson, Liam, shown here in April.) And I can still remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach the day I stood next to my dad and watched him take the training wheels off my first bike. By the end of the afternoon I was making my wobbly way from one end of the driveway to the other, skinned knees shining in the sunlight.

That same driveway later became the setting for conquests of a different kind. One of my first boyfriends, let’s just call him Harold since that was his name, came over to see me on his new red Moped. He thought he was really cool, and I was at least impressed enough to spend all afternoon standing next to him in the driveway as he straddled his bike and we both tried to think of something to say.

That was just the beginning of driveway romances. Hasn’t it been the same for generations? The car pulls into the driveway. The young couple inside takes advantage of being alone in the dark to steal a kiss…or two…or three…until the porch light starts flashing off and on and the girl knows it’s time to come in.

My dad went beyond flashing the light. Some time during my high school years we bought an electric organ, and Dad chose curfew time to sit down and try to play some of the hymns in the booklet that came with it. Nothing got me into the house faster than hearing the first few chords of his screechy rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves” wafting through the living room windows.

Of course, learning to drive a car began in the driveway for most of us. Back and forth. Back and forth. When I first laid eyes on my first car, a used, white Chevy II with blue interior, it was sitting in the driveway in front of our house. A dream-come-true on wheels.

Once when I was on a radio talk show I began exchanging driveway memories with callers. An older man reminisced about helping his dad work on Buicks in the driveway. The two of them had their most significant conversations between “pass me the wrench” and “OK, give it some gas.” Somehow it’s easier to talk about touchy subjects like the “birds and bees” when you’re busy working at the same time. (Sort of like the kind of conversation moms and daughters used to have drying dishes together before dishwashers.)

Our photo albums are peppered with various driveway good-bye scenes. I imagine myself wearing a college sweatshirt and waving a pompon or two as each of my boys left for college for the first time, but the photos seem to show I was in a bathrobe with a bit of pancake batter smeared down the front. Look closely enough and you can also see the tracks of my tears. Those were wrenching good-byes.

The photos of my married sons on my desk now were both taken in driveways. In each one, a grinning young man is accompanied by his smiling bride as, vehicles packed, the newlyweds prepare to drive away together. “Bye, Mom!” they seem to say. “We’re off!”

Not everything that happens in the driveway is worth remembering. I once had a wreck in mine. As I was ready to pull out on my way to work, a car rolled down a steep driveway across the street from us. By the time I realized there wasn’t a driver inside, it was too late to get out of the way, and the runaway car smashed right into mine. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I said to my husband as he emerged from his shower moments later. “I just had a wreck, and I never left the driveway.”

Bringing new babies home, posing for prom pictures, visiting with neighbors…all of life can be lived out in the driveway. Proceed with caution.

Just Enough

May 9, 2013 by Nancy 10 Comments

This week’s rain reminded me of a 2011 column…

It began as a misty feeling in the air. Soon the first distinct drops began to fall. All day long we were bathed in gentle, soaking rain. After months of no precipitation at all, the very sound of it soothed our souls as it danced on the rooftops, collected in the gutters and trickled down the windowpanes. By afternoon, when it was still raining, we could almost begin to see the grass turn greener. Kids splashed and laughed their way through puddles and birds frolicked wherever pools collected. Glorious, glorious rain.

Yet as happy as we were to receive some moisture in parched Colorado, where the threat of wildfire hangs heavy in the dry, windy air, I know other parts of the country are praying the rain will stop. Grim images of flooded towns along the Mississippi River appear on TV as devastated residents strive to save themselves and anything else they can from the rising waters. As if the flooding isn’t bad enough, they also have to be aware of water moccasins slithering into their flooded basements. Farmers in the heartland can only watch helplessly as crops are destroyed by rising waters.

It is ‘just enough’ that we desire, isn’t it? Neither too little nor too much, but just enough. (Especially in the Waldo Canyon Fire area of Colorado Springs.) In the unlikely event that the rain continues in Colorado day after day, even we would no doubt complain, “When will it stop?” We want the moisture, but we want just enough.

This principle permeates our entire human experience. Lord, I ask, give me just enough patience to deal with this situation, but don’t let it drag on forever. Give me just enough wealth to meet my needs, not so much that it becomes a burden, or so little that it becomes a challenge, but just enough. Just enough hope, just enough well-being, just enough wisdom, the list goes on.

And yet the only thing we can be absolutely sure that we will always have just enough of is God’s grace. When the Apostle Paul pleaded with God to take away the thorn in his flesh, God replied, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor. 12:9)

God in His goodness sheds His common grace generously over all of His creation but to those who trust in Him, He adds the promise that they will always have just enough grace. Sometimes, in the midst of disaster or a heartbreaking situation, it can feel like a mere trickle. But looking back we realize it was indeed just the grace we needed, just when we needed it. Other times it feels as if God is pouring out an abundance of His grace on us—letting it overflow into every parched portion of our souls. Always, in any circumstance, it is just enough. Let’s not miss God’s grace, whether it’s a sprinkle or a deluge.

Women Running

March 30, 2013 by Nancy 10 Comments

Two accounts in the Gospel of John of women running to share good news always bring tears to my eyes—and leave me breathless. The first is when Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman, and the second is when He reveals himself to Mary Magdalene on that first Easter morning.

You may know the story of Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman—how He takes an undesirable route on a journey from Galilee in the north of Israel to Jerusalem in the south just to make sure He meets up with her. She is a woman scorned. Having survived five bad marriages, she is now living with a man she didn’t bother to marry. She goes to gather water at the well in the heat of the day in order to avoid giving the other women in the village another opportunity to gossip about her. Then she “just happens” to run into Jesus.

Reading the full account in John 4:7-29 changes lives today just as the encounter with Jesus changed hers that day so long ago. For Jesus doesn’t condemn her, He simply lets her know that He knows all about her, and cares about her anyway. He discusses theology with her, explains how He is the Source of living water, and then—to this most unlikely of confidantes—reveals that He is the Messiah. John 4:28 states what happens next: Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?”

Ken Gire, in his wonderful book Intimate Moments with the Savior, describes the scene like this: “In that intimate moment of perception, she leaves to tell this good news to the city that has both shared her and shunned her. Behind, left in the sand, is her empty water jar. Stretching before her is a whole new life. And with her heart overflowing with living water she starts to run. Slowly at first. Then as fast as her new legs will take her. “

The second encounter that takes my breath away is found in John 20:10-18. Remember Mary Magdalene? She’s the woman Jesus saved from seven demons. A loyal follower, she stands by Mary, the mother of Jesus, throughout his crucifixion. In her complete devotion, she is last at the cross, first at the tomb. How horrified she is to find the stone rolled away, and the tomb empty! First she runs to tell the disciples what she discovered, then she runs back with them to the tomb. They leave, but she stays.

And we know what happens next. She, too, encounters a man. John 20:15-16 reads: “Woman,” he said, “why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?” Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” Jesus said to her, “Mary.” She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabonni!” (which means Teacher).

Jesus tells Mary Magdalene to go and tell the others that He has risen, and will soon be returning to His father in heaven. John 20:18 tells us: Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: “I have seen the Lord!”

I can only imagine how tired she is after crying for two days, not sleeping, and running to the tomb not just once on that first Easter morning, but twice! Yet I’m sure that once she hears the greatest news of all, she doesn’t just saunter into town to tell the others. She runs—her sandals pounding the dirt path as she holds onto her head covering with one hand and wipes away tears with the other.

This Easter, may you also have an intimate encounter with Jesus. May you see Him for who He truly is—then run as fast as you can to tell someone the good news! Have a blessed, joyful Easter.

Be Prepared

March 26, 2013 by Nancy 16 Comments

Some mottoes are solid enough to sustain us our whole life. How well I remember learning the Girl Scout motto, “Be prepared.” You could still wake me up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night and I would be able to recite the oath, too: “On my honor, I will try to do my duty to God and my country…” Those things we learn at such an early age are forever imprinted.

So what does it mean to be prepared at 65? Obviously it’s not just having spare batteries for your flashlight, matches in a waterproof tin, and dry kindling for a campfire, although those are still excellent practices. It’s not even stocking up gallons of purified water and canned goods in the basement in case of natural disaster, although I followed that advice prior to Y2K (remember that non event?). More recently we’ve thought seriously about what we would want to take with us should we have to evacuate our home due to wildfires. It could easily happen, and we want to be ready. But what else calls us to be prepared?

After a certain age it’s important to “have your affairs in order” as they say: to have all the legal end-of-life documents in place to make life much easier for your children and grandchildren when you go. That kind of advice can be found in any number of resources, and it’s important, but I’ve also picked up tips about being prepared merely by observation.

I’ve been blessed by friendships with several women much older than I who taught me pragmatic approaches to being prepared on a daily basis. For example, my friend Myrtle gave up driving at night, so she reluctantly but graciously accepted offers for a ride to book groups or organizational meetings. Myrtle made fabulous, unforgettable peanut brittle. One thing she did to be prepared was to always have small baggies of fresh peanut brittle to slip into the handbag of anyone chauffeuring her as a personal thank you. Much to my husband’s delight, more than a few of those bags ended up in my purse! She was prepared.

Planning ahead is a coping skill all my older friends cultivate. When we would arrive at an event, I would be digging in my purse for a pen and checkbook in order to pay the pre-arranged fee for lunch, while my older friend Denise simply handed over the check she had filled out in the comfort of her own home before leaving. She was prepared.

Now being prepared spiritually is what matters most to me. We’ve been to far too many funerals this year; most for people our age or younger. Like all who have accepted Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior, I have the blessed assurance of knowing where I am going when I die. I truly believe Jesus has gone to prepare a place for me (John 14:2). Yet I want to be prepared for whatever comes my way before I go to heaven by having the Word of God buried deep in my heart.

I’m beginning to wonder if I will live to see the day when all Christians, even in this country, are persecuted for our faith. If I’m ever incarcerated without a hymnal or a Bible, I want to have a wide selection of hymns and Bible verses memorized to sustain me! I guess the little girl in me who memorized the Girl Scout motto and oath, and earned all those badges on the sash in the photo, still wants to be prepared.

Molly, the “Quiet Time” Cat

February 28, 2013 by Nancy 22 Comments

Our cat, Molly, has what the local humane society calls the “personal assistant” purr-sonality. This means that whatever you are doing, Molly will be nearby just in case you need some help. Wrapping packages? She’ll gladly chew on the curling ribbon for you. Working on taxes? She’ll happily sprawl out over the paperwork on your desk or push ballpoint pens and paper clips onto the floor to keep you entertained. Just whatever she can do to help.

Unlike her boisterous brother Beau (also a cat), she doesn’t burst into a room demanding attention. Rather, she usually curls up just outside the door—an eavesdropper with whiskers. Whenever we have a group of people over, she’s likely to claim a spot under the coffee table as if she were an invited guest. She rarely gets close enough to anyone to be petted. She just wants to listen in on the conversation and stay nearby to help with any hospitality requirements.

Given all that, you won’t be surprised to hear that for years she has consistently joined me early in the morning during my quiet time. As I sit and read, work on a Bible study, or turn to the Lord in prayer, she just sits on the hassock in front of me purring softly. She’s rarely in the chair with me or on my lap, just right in front of me where she can be ready to help if needed, and where I can give her an occasional pat on the head or a rub behind the ears.

What is surprising is that recently she has come to expect that this shared time with me will happen on schedule—and to be quite demanding if it doesn’t! The coffee is set to perk at 6:30 AM, so if she hears it perking, and sees the sunrise, she knows I need to be in my chair in the living room. If I’m not moving in that direction, she now meows persistently outside the door of our bedroom to get my attention. After I roll out of bed, find my robe and slippers, and open the door, she takes off down the hall to keep our appointment with the Almighty.

Now wouldn’t you think that knowing the Lord of the Universe was willing to spend some time with me would be enough to get me out of bed? Shouldn’t it be enough that He who hung the stars and gives life to everything that has life may have something important to tell me? The answer to both questions is yes. Yet it helps to have a feline alarm clock.

And I don’t mind sharing my quiet time with Molly. After all, Psalm 150:6 says, Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. In this season of my life God is using this sweet little grayish cat to bolster my spiritual discipline. Her faithfulness keeps me faithful, and I’m ever so grateful.