Nancy Parker Brummett

Author Writer Speaker

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.


 

Graduations Galore

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We’ve had a lot of pomp in our family this graduation season—under all kinds of circumstances! Five of our twelve grandchildren celebrated graduation milestones recently, adding all their hopes and dreams to that cumulative pile formed by 2012 graduates everywhere.

Our granddaughter Amanda had the most significant graduation—she graduated from high school. It was wonderful to hear her give the invocation at her graduation ceremony, and so reassuring to know that in certain small towns in America it’s still acceptable to thank God and give Him the glory! She and I will celebrate by going to New York together, and I’m as excited as she is.

On the opposite end of the educational spectrum, our grandson Will graduated from kindergarten. Imagine, if you can, about 75 little five-and six-year olds proceeding into an auditorium with their faces framed by giant paper flowers! According to Will’s dad he wasn’t too keen on dressing up as a flower, but the effect on stage as they sang some precious songs like “Everything Grows” and “Each of Us is a Flower” was just darn cute.

Our other three graduates celebrated leaving eighth grade and moving on to high school, and that caught us more by surprise than the others. In 1998 I wrote a column titled “Baby, Baby, Baby” in which I mused about the excitement and preparation around welcoming three baby girls into our family within four months. That those three baby girls, Ellie, Riley and Morgan, are now young ladies who dressed up and did their hair for eighth-grade graduation dances and ceremonies absolutely blows our minds! Echoing the sentiment of every parent and grandparent of every graduate of the season, where did the time go?

We only got to attend two of these ceremonies, but we loved every minute. Even if you weren’t there, you’ve been there. Graduates grinning from ear to ear, cameras flashing, parents and grandparents beaming in that foolish way we do so well.  And why shouldn’t we? Graduations are great milestones on this journey of life we celebrate.

Honoring Our Soldiers

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To add to the Memorial Day tributes I am re-posting something I first wrote in October 2009, with a grateful heart for all the men and women who sacrifice so much for all of us.

The faces and stories on the news and in our local paper have appeared in a steady trickle over the last eight years. Another soldier lost, another family grieving. But the news this week that eight young men from the 4th Brigade Combat Team at Fort Carson, CO, had lost their lives in a bloody firefight in Afghanistan—where they were horribly outnumbered by attacking insurgents—has hit me extremely hard.

You see,  I can stand out on my deck and see part of Fort Carson. I drive by the Mountain Post often. At the shopping center just down the hill, I frequently encounter young GIs in their crisp, starched desert fatigues, going about all the ordinary activities of their lives that don’t put them in mortal danger.

As I watched the news accounts of the losses this week, I looked at each face intently. Is that the young man who held the door for me as I went into the cleaners carrying a pile of dirty clothes? Are those the guys who stood in line with me at Black Bear Coffee last summer, turning to say, “Have a good day, mam!” before they left?

One day my friend Pat and I were having lunch in the sushi restaurant down the hill in that same shopping center. We couldn’t help but notice a couple of young soldiers counting out their change to cover their lunch tab. “Never mind!” we called out to the waitperson. “We’ve got their lunch.”

“Oh, no mam,” one of them said, turning to look at me with his piercing blue eyes. “You shouldn’t do that. We’re here to serve you.”

“Well, you are serving us,” we said. “This is the least we can do.”

With a heavy heart one morning this week, I dug one of those rubber bracelets everyone wears to support their causes out of my jewelry box and stretched it over my hand. It’s camouflage green, and I got it when I gave blood in a drive for the soldiers a few years ago. I wanted to wear it as a reminder to pray for the eight families grieving.

As I went about the activities of my day—enjoying my protected, free life—I wanted to remember that we are still at war, that troops are still in danger, and that all of them need our prayers and deserve our deepest gratitude.

These were our boys who died this week—guys from our neighborhood. Remembering them with honor? Well, it’s the least I can do.

What I Learned from Two Old Women

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Occasionally you read a book that stays with you long after you close the cover for the last time and place the book on the shelf (or delete it from your reader!).  So it is with a small volume I read with my book group not too long ago, Two Old Women by Velma Wallis.

A poignant account of aging is found in this short but powerful book. Based on an Athabascan Indian legend passed along for many generations from mothers to daughters of the upper Yukon River Valley in Alaska, it’s the inspirational tale of two old women abandoned by their tribe during a brutal winter famine. The chief regrets having to leave the old women behind, as do the families of the elders, but the decision is made that they must be abandoned so the others can move on.

What happens next should encourage all of us who aren’t as young and capable as we once were. “We have learned much during our long lives,” said one of the women named Sa’. “Yet there we were in our old age, thinking that we had done our share in life. So we stopped, just like that. No more working like we used to, even though our bodies are still healthy enough to do a little more than we expect of ourselves.”

Her slightly older friend, Ch’idzigyaak, listened carefully to her friend’s revelation as to why they were left behind.

“Two old women,” Sa’ continued. “They complain, never satisfied. We talk of no food, and of how good it was in our days when it really was no better. We think that we are too old. Now, because we have spent so many years convincing the younger people that we are hopeless, they believe that we are no longer of use to this world.” And then she lays down a challenge for herself and her friend: “If we are going to die anyway, let us die trying!”

By the end of the book, the two old friends have done more than try—they have survived and survived beautifully. So successful are they in employing all the wisdom and skills they accumulated over their many decades that, when they are eventually reunited with the tribe, they have pelts and food enough to share with those who walked off and left them to die in the cold!

The lesson is one we can apply to helping our elders. Without unmercifully nagging them into doing everything they once could do, we need to gently encourage them to do that which they still can. How often we hear of elders dying shortly after retiring simply because they felt their life was over. Likewise, older adults can simply give up once they move into an assisted living facility if those around them treat them as if they can’t do anything for themselves anymore. Better to err on the side of encouragement than discouragement. Wait until you are sure help is needed before jumping in to button a blouse, tie a shoe, or make a bed.

And the lesson for those of us who aren’t quite there yet? Stop moaning about what we can’t do as well anymore and keep doing everything we can! Then, like the characters in the Alaskan legend, we’ll do far more than survive–we’ll survive beautifully!

Momilies to Remember

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My mom has been gone almost four years but this classic column from years ago reminds me fondly of her. The peonies are from my childhood home–lovingly gathered by my sister Mary to welcome me to Tennessee last month. Happy Mother’s Day, one and all!

I grew up in the South thinking everyone’s mother said, “Katie, bar the door” in times of trouble and “I’ll swan” when something truly amazing happened. On a really busy day, there would be “no flies on us,” and when something was perfectly ready it was “all saucered and blowed” (like you do to hot coffee before you drink it). Someone who talked all the time was described as having been “vaccinated with a phonograph needle” and a braggart was “too big for his britches.”

I call such phrases momilies: like homilies but a lot less preachy. They are the gentle bits of advice passed from moms to children and repeated with a frequency that insures their remembrance.

“Rise above it” my mom would say when she was encouraging me not to stoop to someone else’s level. Whether applied to junior high gossip or office politics, this simple three-word phrase always has helped me keep my focus.

“It’ll never show on a galloping horse” was my mom’s version of “don’t sweat the small stuff.” A pimple on the end of your nose the night before the prom? A greasy stain on one of the linen napkins you need for a dinner party? Not to worry. “It’ll never show on a galloping horse.”

In fact, horses were the subject of a lot of her wisdom. “Don’t put your cart before your horse” was trotted out whenever I impatiently scrambled the logical order of events, and “no sense closing the barn door after the horse gets out” reminded me to think about the consequences of what I was doing before it was too late.

There must have been chickens in the same barn, because I was frequently reminded not to count them before they hatched. (They may have been the same chickens who later ran around with their heads chopped off.)

Young girls coming to terms with their physical appearance need all the support they can get. My sisters and I remember our mom telling us “beauty knows no pain” as we squeezed into patent leather shoes a size too small or, later,  girdles with garters. But since she was a lot more concerned about our behavior than our beauty, we also daily heard “pretty is as pretty does” and “beauty comes from the inside out.” Little did we know it was her subtle way of teaching us the truth of 1 Peter 3:4 which describes beauty as a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.

Whenever we said we wanted something we didn’t need or couldn’t have, Mom would remind us that “people in jail want out.” It was years before I saw the connection between those people in jail and me. I just knew that whenever they came up, I wasn’t going to get what I wanted.

When it came to wanting all the food I saw in a cafeteria line, Mom would say, “don’t let your eyes be bigger than your stomach”—meaning take only what you can really eat.

That particular momily is one I passed on to my own kids. My son said it was years before he knew what it meant, but he sure thought about the possibility of having eyes that big! Since I also warned him not to “cut his nose off to spite his face,” he worried about his facial features a lot.

Although it was always strange to hear the same momilies my mom used coming out of my mouth, I’m glad I passed them on. After all, she wasn’t “just whistlin’ Dixie.”