Nancy Parker Brummett

Author Writer Speaker

Simple Instructions

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A friend recently encouraged me to subscribe to an online newsletter titled The Writer’s Almanac (newsletter@americanpublicmedia.org) featuring a daily dose of poetry, quotes, and other musings posted by none other than Garrison Keillor. At the end of all his posts the ever affable Keillor signs off with, “Be well, do good work, and keep in touch ®.” Yes, it seems he registered that line, and I agree it “has legs” as they say! Today I saw it as a better than average set of simple instructions for Baby Boomers with parents in assisted living or nursing home facilities.

Be well. After dealing with runny noses, middle of the night flu bugs and a hodgepodge of other illnesses and wounds over the years, it’s hard for seniors to stop hoping their kids are well, even if the “kids” are in their fifties or sixties. My mom would always notice if it sounded like I had a cold when we talked long distance, and a couple of days later I would be treated to another call just to see if I was feeling better. I knew she was concerned because she never made long distance phone calls capriciously. They cost money, you know! Take your vitamins, eat healthy food, and get some exercise. Be well.

Do good work. One of the things I’ve missed most now that my mom is with Jesus is that she was my most loyal reader, my most enthusiastic audience member, my biggest fan. She would carry the latest copies of my newspaper column crumpled up in her purse to share with anyone who would sit still long enough to look at them. And although she found a couple of the books I wrote to be much too transparent by the standards of Southern propriety, she was thrilled to receive the first copies and would sit down and read them as soon as she could. Then I would get the congratulatory call. The parents who drove us to school all those years and paid for our lessons and college tuitions did so to invest in our futures. They are interested in our work and want to hear about it, and will help us keep a healthy perspective on the definition of success. Do good work.

Keep in touch. My husband and I were both blessed in that neither of our mothers was a guilt inducer. No matter how long it was between phone calls, they were just happy to hear our voices on the other end of the line and never said, “Well, it’s about time you called. I thought you were dead,” as I understand some parents are wont to do! Yet because they didn’t complain, we may not have called and visited as much as we could have. Now we’d love to be able to do both, but they are gone. How long does it really take to make a phone call, write a note, send a photo, or drop by for a hug? Keep in touch.

So with apologies to Mr. Keillor, I’ll close as he does. Be well, do good work, keep in touch®.

Lessons Learned Late

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You’d think a woman in her seventh decade of life (yikes, that’s scary!) would have learned about all there is to learn. But evidently not. I know there are some weighty lessons that are so important we need to learn them repeatedly. Trust in God. Pray first. Let go. Those lessons are important enough to relearn whenever necessary.

But those aren’t the lessons that have been on my mind lately. What bugs me are the common sense things that I feel I should have learned long ago. Why is it that a woman in her sixties hasn’t learned:

Never kiss a long-haired cat after generously applying lip balm.

Get your keys out of your purse before putting on a coat of fingernail polish.

Don’t turn the praise music on the radio up so loud that you won’t know you’re scraping the side of the garage with your car as you come in.

Remember that bleach splatters (yes, even splashless bleach), and it will ruin whatever it splashes on.

A watched pot never boils, but a pot left on the stove will boil over if you’re in the other room checking Facebook and someone posted a lot of funny cat photos.

The reusable bags you finally remembered to bring into the grocery store should be handed to the clerk at the beginning of the checkout process, not at the end.

Envelopes mailed without postage will show up in your own mailbox weeks later.

Curling irons are hot enough to burn skin. Thus the name, IRON.

What about you? Any lessons learned late, or that you seemingly never learn, that you’d like to share? Please. I know I’m not the only one…am I?

 

Aspen Gaspin’

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(A classic column becomes a blog post.)

Fall is the time of year when trees dress in their best and demand our undivided attention. Two magnificent maple trees are rooted in my memory. One stands outside my childhood bedroom window in Tennessee. I call it my “thinking tree,” because I spent hours draped in its limbs pondering life. The other was dubbed “Mom’s Tree,” because for four years I sought it out on my son’s Midwestern college campus and took its picture. I’m sure it’s still there, watching over the backpacked students shuffling by with their minds on anything but leaves.

Those of us with such trees, such multi-colored falls, in our memories are fortunate. Yet those of us in Colorado try not to let those memories diminish our enjoyment of our fantastic Colorado falls. After all, other people have to motor for miles to marvel at the contrast of an expanse of golden aspen against the deep evergreen of the pines. We live here and can be gaspin’ at the sight of a stand of aspen in minutes.

Certainly these trees deserve our respect. When aspen gaspin’ season arrives, they have to put up with a great deal of abuse. Imagine the conversation two aspen trees might have when they first see the line of cars and RVs snaking its way up the mountain pass:

“Oh, boy. Here they come again. Start quaking.”

“I’m quaking…I’m quaking. There’s that couple with the yippy dog climbing out of their RV. Didn’t we see them last year?”

“Yeah. Gee, they’ve put on some weight. Maybe they should climb up here to see us instead of standing by the road with their binoculars.”

“Not with that dog! Hey, what’s a peak? According to these people we’re always before it, at it, or past it.”

“Who cares. I’m just glad they all leave before we’re standing here stark naked with them gawking at us. That would really be embarrassing.”

This year I intend to fully enjoy our Colorado fall, to get out of the car and hike through the trees. Whatever day I arrive will be the peak day for me. I’ll keep those magnificent maple trees in my memory where they belong, but our glorious Colorado aspen deserve nothing less than my full, unmitigated admiration. This year, they’ll get it.

Where’s the Bear?

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It seems that everyone on my street has seen the neighborhood bear except me. “Didn’t you see him yesterday between those two houses?” the neighbors asked. Or, “I just saw him in the bushes in your back yard,” someone else said. So I look and I look, but I don’t see him.

By now I am feeling like my granddaughter Sophia, who when she was about four years old and squeezed between her two older sisters in the back seat of my car, was dismayed that she didn’t get to see a dead skunk in the road. I didn’t know why she started crying just after I announced, “Phew! There’s a dead skunk in the road!” but when I asked her she said, “I didn’t get to see the dead skunk. Everybody gets to see the dead skunk in the road except me.” My husband and I often repeat her statement whenever we have any kind of disappointment that leaves us feeling left out.

But I didn’t want to be disappointed this time. I was determined to see the bear. I heard from one neighbor that the bear began his rounds just before dawn, so I programmed my coffeemaker to brew a pot of coffee at 5:00 AM last Sunday morning.  Up by 5:30 AM, I turned a chair toward the window in my living room. I sipped coffee and I waited. Surely he would appear to munch on the wild plums by our driveway. We had seen the scat that proved he enjoyed those quite a bit! So I stared at those bushes, but I saw nothing.

My cat Molly settled in to watch with me although she didn’t know what we were watching for. Filling the morning quiet with her gentle purr, she seemed clearly pleased that I had gotten up so early just to sit with her. Or so she thought.

I’m guessing that if you’ve read this far you are ready to hear, “At last, there he was—the bear!” But nope. No bear. Yet sitting silently as the sun cast a pink light on the mountains, I realized there was so much more to observe. Molly and I heard a couple of squirrels chattering quietly to one another about their plans for the day. We saw a hummingbird silhouetted at the feeder, his feathers all ruffled up with morning dew.

Although I hadn’t opened my Bible yet, I knew it was replete with verses to speak into our morning watch. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24) I whispered to Molly. I didn’t see the bear, but I did see wonderful reminders of the glory in each new day—and of how we should honor God by watching vigilantly as He unfolds it.

I’m glad I didn’t miss that early morning watch, but I’d still love to see the neighborhood bear before he goes into hibernation, his belly full of our wild plums. If you happen to see him, please tell me. Oh, and if you see a dead skunk in the road, please tell Sophia.

Garage Sale Mania

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Labor Day has come and gone but garage sale signs are still popping up like dandelions in most neighborhoods. With each one I see, I get that familiar itch to go check out the sale—but then I stop and tell myself, “I already have a garage.” If my own bad joke doesn’t dissuade me, then I may drive by slowly, but I rarely ever stop.

And after the last garage sale I held, I doubt if I’ll ever have another one. It had been ten years since my last one. I suppose my memory of the pain had been erased, leaving just the tantalizing pleasure. For whatever reason, I gave in to temptation. I had a garage sale.

I knew it was going to be a one-woman show when my husband and I agreed he should go ahead and go on a weekend men’s retreat, but that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

The sale was on a Saturday, so on Friday evening I was in our garage surrounded by all the priceless items I had collected. Where to begin? Soon I was setting up “store” and having fun merchandising the treasures into departments. By this time it was about 11:00 p.m. and I hadn’t even begun to price the items. But that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

The curtains in the garage caught my eye and I reasoned they should be washed if my store was going to impress a bunch of strangers, so I took them down and put them in the washer. Re-hanging the curtains about 1:30 a.m., I fell inside the big silver garbage can I was standing on. But that’s not when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

By 2:30 a.m. I was making real progress getting the color-coordinated stickers on all the items. The garage door was down and the door to the house was open, so my two cats came out to see what I was doing up so late.

Suddenly I heard a scuffle in the corner of the garage. I looked up to see my big black and white cat, Al, with a mouse in his mouth—its little tail and legs sticking out. I convinced Al to drop the mouse, who promptly scurried away, and got both cats shut up in the house. Then I realized I still had another hour’s work to do in the garage—only now I’d be doing it with a mouse who was hurt, angry, or both. That’s when I decided the garage sale was a bad idea.

After three hours of sleep, I was up at the crack of dawn to greet the shoppers. They literally ran up my driveway and into the garage as soon as I opened for business. Many of the early birds left after canvassing the garage briefly. Those were the shoppers expecting to find the Hope diamond carelessly displayed alongside the old bedroom slippers.

By day’s end I was practically giving away anything someone even glanced at sideways, still I had a garage full of valuable stuff. It was another week before a charity picked up the remainder of my treasures and we had our garage back. Of course it could have been worse. At least none of the shoppers lifted the lid to a pot only to discover a dead mouse inside!

I applaud your frugality if you shop garage sales, and if you have the fortitude to have them, I wish you the best. As for me, I’m going to avoid the mania…unless one of those signs really entices me of course!

Within the Sound of Silence

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It was eerily quiet yesterday at the neighborhood pool where I swim laps. The only sound was that of the water with each stroke I took. Gone was the cute little girl in the pink suit who accidentally kicked me in the nose when she crossed my lane to join her friends. Gone were the two little dark-haired boys who reminded me so much of my own two at their ages. They spent most of the summer mastering spitting water between their front teeth, and I could still imagine their giggles echoing off the walls. But yesterday I was the only person in the entire pool area. Even the teen-aged lifeguard was missing, replaced by a sign that read, “Warning: No lifeguard on duty.”

Where were they all? They all went back to school. As I swam I wondered how their day was going. Was the little girl dressed in her new fall clothes, her hair pulled back in a curly ponytail with a pink scrunchie? Were the boys wearing their stiff new jeans and already counting the minutes till recess? Had the lifeguard traded his terminally bored expression for a grin when he saw familiar faces again?

Of course my mind also lingered on images of our own twelve grandchildren as I made my way down and back, down and back, in the cool water. Each time my smart phone chirped to tell me I had a text this week it was another back-to-school photo sent by a proud and thoughtful mom.  These images and more flooded my mind as I swam and prayed, swam and prayed.

Back-to-school time means so much more than new backpacks, cool outfits and sharp pencils, doesn’t it? More than anything it’s a time of hope—a time when everything feels new and all things seem possible.

It’s the year for milestones in our family.  We waved two granddaughters off to college, one for the first time, after they stopped by our house on their way. I let the images of them leaving our driveway, their cars packed to the hilt, linger in my mind for a lap or two. Three more granddaughters started high school this year. How grown up they looked in their first-day photos. But I knew the butterflies we couldn’t see were there, too, so I prayed they would feel confident and connect with at least one good friend.

Two grandsons and a granddaughter started middle school, heading into those years when they want to be cool and accepted so badly it’s painful. I prayed they would allow themselves to lighten up and have some fun. Being a teenager can wait.

So that leaves four more, all boys: two headed to first grade, one to kindergarten, and one to preschool! All these milestones deserve to be celebrated and prayed over, but none more so than that of our grandson Josh who is challenged by brain damage but leaving his home and parents for the first time to go to first grade! I don’t know who is showing more bravery, he or his parents.

Lord, be with all the children we know and those we don’t as they go to school this year. Whether in our country or in third world countries where just one sharp pencil might be a treasure beyond belief, they are precious in your sight. Bless them, Lord, and keep them safe as they grow and learn under your watchful eye. In You we always have a lifeguard on duty.

Expecting the Unexpected

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Two categories of folks in our society need a bit of extra nurturing and attention: the very young and the very old. If, like me, you are blessed to be in between these two groups on life’s journey, you probably spend time caring for one or both. And as an “in betweener” you soon learn to expect the unexpected.

Certainly children aren’t predictable, and words you wish they wouldn’t repeat can come out of their mouths in public any time, any place! I was sure I had learned all there was to know about expecting the unexpected the year I was a Cub Scout den mother. But even those darling, unpredictable eight-year-old boys, who were calm and attentive one minute and pinging off the walls the next, did little to prepare me for the volunteer work I do with older adults now.

One day I was setting up the room for the devotional hour I facilitate at an assisted living residence when a dear resident who had been coming to the group for weeks came into the room. She walked directly up to me, took both my hands in hers and said, “I will give you any amount of money to take me home.” My heart was breaking as I explained to her that I really couldn’t do that. Over her shoulder I saw the tears in the eyes of the caregiver assigned to her.

The next week I came braced for a similar difficult situation, but none occurred. In fact, one class attendee gave me a big hug as she was leaving and said, “I love you and I always have.” Now whether she means she’s loved me for the two years she’s been attending the class, or whether she momentarily thought I was her daughter or granddaughter, I’ll never know. But does it really matter? That day I left with a much lighter heart and a bounce in my step.

At the end of each class session we always sing a familiar hymn and I hand out a copy of the words to each person. One day we sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” after a lesson on “Walking in Truth.” Later, as we were in the middle of gathering prayer requests, one of the ladies happened to notice the words to the hymn on the handout in front of her. “Hey, we should sing this!” she said loudly. By the grace of the Holy Spirit I took a deep breath and said, “Sure, let’s sing it!” Not only did we sing “His truth is marching on…” more enthusiastically than we did the first time, but this time, at her suggestion, we also marched around the room—canes and walkers tapping out the rhythm! Would I have wanted to miss that by telling her we’d already sung our hymn for the day? Not on your life.

So whether you are caring for the very young or the very old, go ahead and make a “to do” list for the day but consider putting “be flexible” at the top of it. In the number two position I suggest adding “don’t miss the blessings,” because there are sure to be many of them. Bathing your efforts in prayer is always a good idea, then move forward confidently as you expect the unexpected.

 

Hummingbird Joy

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After a summer marred by wildfires and the violent shooting incident in Colorado, it’s especially healing to have the hummingbirds return to bring us some unmitigated joy in the face of so much loss and grief. Few things in this earthly life can be considered pure joy. To the obvious list of kittens, puppies, and newborn babies, I always add hummingbirds—and I’m so glad they have returned.

By this time each summer we usually have six or eight at our feeder all the time and have to refill the nectar daily to keep them happy. But it’s worth it for the entertainment they bring!

One year I was on the phone when the first hummingbird of summer arrived. There I was, tilted back in the chair in my office at home having a long overdue chat with a friend, when I heard his frantic racket. I looked through the blinds to see him hovering at just the spot where I usually hang a feeder each year.

In the three seconds we made eye contact, the hummingbird seemed to clearly say to me, “Well, fine. I fly here all the way from Mexico, and you can’t even bother to get off the phone and put out the feeder!”

As much delight as they bring, and as much effort as they put into the trip, we really should greet these summer visitors with a bit more pomp and circumstance. Even if you aren’t much of a bird watcher, these birds will get your attention. They might suddenly appear just behind a paperback you’re reading out on the back deck only to dart off sideways as soon as you look up. Such antics are hard to ignore!

It’s also hard to ignore their gorgeous coloring. As with other birds, the males are the showiest. Interestingly, some of the most brilliant colors are not created by pigment in the feathers, but rather are iridescent reflections from the feathers themselves. One more sign of God’s amazing creativity.

There are 338 varieties of hummingbirds, 16 in the United States, and all of them are attracted to the color red. They prefer tubular red flowers and need to consume half their weight in sugar daily just to stay in the air!

If you succeed in attracting these interesting little hummers to your yard, remember they have incredible memories and high expectations. They will come back to the same feeders year after year, so once you become a destination point, be sure to keep the feeders up…and filled…well into the fall.

As difficult as this summer has been for those of us in Colorado, there’s still joy to be found. Given all that has happened, I’m keenly aware of the comforts of home, husband, and hummingbirds—and more determined than ever not to take any of them for granted.


Our Flag Still Waves

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I’m not sure if I’m ready to write about the Waldo Canyon Fire in Colorado Springs just yet, but this photo in today’s Gazette (by photographer Jerilee Bennett) inspires me to try.

Let there be no mistake, this was a disastrous, devastating blow to our community. Over 2,000 people remain out of their homes, and most of those residents returned recently to find a pile of rubble on the very spot where they used to fix supper, tuck kids into bed, water pots and feed hummingbirds. Complete rubble.

And yet, as the flag in the photo so clearly demonstrates, there is already beauty and hope coming from the ashes. The optimistic reactions of many of those who lost so much help the rest of us dry our eyes and jump in to do whatever we can to help. Their faith speaks to us. Our firefighters, police officers, and city officials have masterfully led our community through the worst disaster we have ever known, and their dedication will continue into our extended period of recovery. Above all, our flag still waves, saying as it has for over two centuries: Freedom will prevail. Good will overcome evil. Hope will outshine disaster. We will rise again!

I inherited my love for the flag from my dad, although I’m not sure I remembered to tell him I had finally caught his passion while he was still alive. It used to irritate me that he loved flags so much. Whenever our family visited a new city or national park, my dad would want us to pose for pictures at the base of a flagpole. To get the flag into the picture, he’d have to move to the other side of the street with the camera, so we have lots of vacation shots with my sisters and me barely discernible as we rallied ‘round the flagpole for dear old dad.

In the 8-millimeter home movies, we’re trying madly to out-wave the flag, along with occasionally pinching or shoving one another, but you have to look closely to see who’s who—because the flag is still the star.

The flag I put out on national holidays year after year, home after home, was a gift from my dad. Like old friends, old flags are best. But years ago, when it began to show signs of so much time in the Colorado wind, I retired it to a corner of the hall closet and got a brand new one.

This 4th of July I plan on displaying both flags. I do so with a grateful heart. Grateful for all the service men and women who sacrifice so much to guarantee our freedom as a nation. Grateful for the public servants who protect and serve us. And grateful for God who was with us in the fire, and who can and will bring beauty from ashes (Isaiah 61:3). God bless us all.


On Holy Ground

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You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.—Psalm 32:7

On a recent trip to New York City with my granddaughter Amanda, we left the very moving 9-11 Memorial and took the short walk across the street to St. Paul’s Chapel. It was my third visit to Ground Zero since September 11, 2001, and each time it was this small chapel, even more than the tragic site of the World Trade Center, that brought me to tears. I said to Amanda, ‘It’s as if God placed his hand over this little church to protect it when all around it was being destroyed. He seemed to be saying to all those who suffered so much, ‘I will be with you in this. This is My house, and it will not be destroyed’.”

Walking through the quaint cemetery in front of St. Paul’s Chapel one feels a sense of peace. All the frantic noise and activity of the city seems distant as you enter the doors of the little church that  immediately served as a sanctuary for survivors and rescue workers on Sept. 11. For nine months it provided a resting place for the weary and comfort for the distraught. Meals, hugs and prayers were the sustenance offered.

St. Paul’s had an impressive history even before Sept. 11, 2001. Completed in 1766, it is where George Washington worshiped on his Inauguration Day in 1789, and where he often attended services during the two years New York was our nation’s capital. Part of the parish of Trinity Episcopal Church in lower Manhattan, it is Manhattan’s oldest public building in continuous use and its remaining colonial church.

Yet each time I stand in that sanctuary that the Lord miraculously protected so it could be a solace to those who grieved, I know it is so much more than a wonderful old building. The postings of photographs of those lost or comforted remind me that the church does not consist of stone and mortar regardless of how beautiful its architecture might be. The church consists of us, the people who believe in the one true God and turn to Him for sanctuary in good times—and in bad. The Living God indwells us. We are the church as we go about ministering to the needs of people and welcoming others into the presence of the Lord. We are the church, and where we stand is holy ground.