Home Alone.... almost!

Paul is stirring down in the basement guest bedroom. We've pretty much dismantled his upstairs room- this may have been a good transition for a young man who doesn't like any change.  He leaves for his adventure to Seattle in a few hours and I will be without a biological child under my roof for the first time in 30 years. Wow- just writing that makes me feel old but the time has sped by.  And God has provided Kate and Stephanie to share the house this year so I'm really not Home Alone.

But as I sit here and contemplate 30 years of hands-on mothering -  I remember jaundice, colic, sleepless nights, lots of diapers-starting with cloth ones!  I remember sweet baby smells, sippy cups, walking a toddler up and down the aisles of a 747  flying across the Pacific.  I remember seeing my baby become a "big boy" as the next baby arrived and soon two little boys wrestling with their dad. I remember the dream of holding a baby wrapped in pink and the arrival of a precious daughter. I remember the complete confusion of an emergency cesarean and the bliss of yet another sweet baby on my chest.

I remember finger painting and lots of play dough. Play dates in the park and walks around the block pulling a little red wagon.  And books-  reading out loud for hours. Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, the Chronicles of Narnia, the Redwall series with mole speech. And a hundred books I thought I'd never forget and now can't recall the titles. But I remember the press of a small body against me in the chair, of big eyes watching me during the suspense. I remember reading with such joy and gratitude.

I remember juggling life and overseas moves, teaching, standardized tests and curriculum fairs.  A small boy who refused to do school but stood in the school room table and built Lego creations and answered his brother's math questions.  Taking dictation for stories on an Apple that printed on a dot matrix printer with perforated paper. Dissecting anything we could find.  Going to the beach and calling it marine biology. Struggling with one who couldn't read and rejoicing when we had successs. Wondering if I was doing anything right and knowing that I wouldn't really know the results of my efforts for years .

I remember driving toddlers across the United States in a VW Vanagon and years later, taking teens in a conversion van.  I remember driving up the East Coast in a VW hippie bus and crossing the Alps and wandering through Europe in a Dodge Caravan.  I remember teaching teens to drive stick in a small sports car and park an enormous conversion van.

I remember the well baby check ups and shots, the boo boos of toddlers, bamboo spears and ER visits.  I remember frightening hours of asthma episodes and breathing treatments, surgeries and stitches.  The wails of babies, the whines of toddlers, the shouts of the rowdy preteen years, the tears of teens.

I remember, piano recitals, art lessons, and field trips. Ah, the field trips- Japanese WWII sites and beaches, the Santa Fe trail and wagon ruts in the Missouri River, Roman ruins and Pompei.  Factory tours for olive oil, pasta,  cheese and wine.  More churches than necessary and fewer art museums than I wanted. The Smithsonian and opera at the Kennedy Center.

I remember soccer practice and mandarin oranges for snacks. I remember basketball, ballet, gymnastics and archery. I remember rabbit shows and long drives with books on tape.  I remember cross country seasons and buying really expensive shoes, often. I remember watching them run by, breathless and determined,  and aching to give them my strength.  I remember graduations and the search for the perfect college. The first trip to college and driving home without them.

But mostly I remember the words, the conversations.  The snuggling in bunkbeds to end the day and the profound questions late at night. The funny sayings that the baby contributed to lunch and the deep discussions around a big round oak table. The thank yous and the hugs.  The prayers and the "I'm sorry"s.  The long conversations in the car where you don't have to make eye contact, you just share from your heart.  I remember conversations late at night where I had to rely more on the Holy Spirit than my own wits because my wits were too sleepy.

So.... the last child leaves. Paul's off on his grand adventure.  His room is almost empty. His desk is almost clean. His presence may have left the house but he and Scott and Drew and Abby will always have a place in my heart where they are still my little people and I can safely tuck them into bed each night and kiss away any boo boos.  Now our family has joyfully expanded to include Lindsay and Steve as part of "the kids".  And my heart is comforted to know that the same God who loves me and has been so amazing in His care will keep and guide and watch over and provide for the little peeps as they leave my nest.   The world with all it's joys and sorrows awaits them and a new season awaits me. Let the adventure begin.

Floyd, Virginia- an opportunity of a lifetime

Floyd, Virginia

It’s Labor Day weekend- a holiday set aside to recognize the great contribution of the American worker; the farmer, the plumber, the factory worker.  In my world it’s become a weekend where the white-collar workers who don’t actually produce anything escape the rat race one last time before school starts.

For my family, it’s one last time together before Paul leaves for Seattle.  We’re at a small family run resort in southern Virginia, on the edge of Appalachia.   Everyone seems to know each other. The family patriarch had a very successful church in North Carolina and it feels a bit like we’ve crashed old home week.  It doesn’t bother me- or at least, I don’t feel the need to vent about it but I hear it from Drew and I see it in Paul.  To retreat into our own family vacation seems rude but what’s the motivation to break into a church reunion of people we may never see again?  Tubing today will be fun and may even break the ice a bit.

But last night was an interesting event.  This place is about ten minutes from Floyd, Virginia.  Just another small southern town except this one has been hosting bluegrass jam sessions every Friday night since 1910. A hundred years of the American laborers coming down from the hills to the town and having impromptu pickup sessions.  I’m not a blue grass officiado – heck, I can hardly identify the instruments- so it was harder for me to truly appreciate what was happening around me.  But the town has prospered from the crowds that come to hum, tap and sometimes, play along. They’ve built brick seating areas along a main street  (not  THE Main St., that’s a side street) and groups form and play and the crowds mingle around them in a fluid dance between performer and audience.

Some groups are obviously regulars- they have their kids sitting on pillows at their feet and grandma with her walker on the side. They ignore the people gawking and taking pictures and bend over instruments that could be generations old.  Other groups just form up- older musicians including the newcomers and playing to the crowd that form around them.  I assume from the size of the crowd that builds across the street that that’s a superior sound.  I can appreciate the skills but not really the sound.

The place that started it all is the Floyd Country Store.  What was probably a typical country general store has morphed into a home grown version of Cracker Barrel- only the prices reflect what tourist pay, not town folk.  It cost $5 to come to the front of the store and dance. My sister in law and I wandered through the shopping and ended up right near the front and of course, stopped to listen.  A dapper gentleman was coming through the crowd to the front and asked Terry to dance. When she declined, he asked me.  I said I didn’t dance in public and he laughed and moved on. As Terry and I turned to go, the woman behind us said, “You just missed the opportunity of a lifetime.”  Before I could get the whole story, the stout “dance police” bustled up and informed Terry and I we needed to leave and get a ticket. Turns out it costs $5 to watch as well.

So… what did I miss? Was he a local dancer extraordinaire? Was he a old time movie star or blue grass  champion? Was she pulling my leg? I don’t think so and the more I think about it, the more I regret not dancing- $5 or not!  Who cares what I dance like- it was jitterbug and I have been known to be able to follow a competent dancer. Why didn’t I throw caution to the wind- heavens, it’s highly unlikely I will ever see any of these people again!  Next time- I’m gonna dance!

And my other question- what other chances of a lifetime have I passed up? Will someone always be there to tell me or will I just pass by life without fully experiencing the “opportunities of a lifetime”?  Those take your breath away moments that don’t come everyday.  I want to be aware and sensitive to the Lord who wants to show me fullness of life right here, right now.  I want to see in each person I encounter the opportunity that will never return for this particular moment – to be kind, to be available, to be Jesus with skin on. 

 I want to live life ready to dance. 

South Dakota - a home and a future?

I returned from a week in South Dakota over a week ago and just now have a quiet time to post my writing. What a season. 

Finally a quiet time to reflect. This certainly wasn’t the calm retreat I expected. I need to keep my expectations low…. Less frustrations that way.  I was productive- paperwork signed, boxes unpacked,  fences walked and neighbors met.  I guess I just wanted to sit in my own house and be …. Alone.

There is that never-ending conflict. I want to be in community, I want to have a lively relationships with my family. And I want to be left alone to do my own thing and have my time to write and create and be the me that I feel straining to emerge.  I was introduced as Kathy over and over and it felt pretentious to correct my own mother and say, “I’m Kathryn”.  What a trivial reflection. It was a wonderful week.

I sat in the golden womb of this log home and thought,  “I can’t believe this is my house.”  I was able to stay there one night and was up with the dawn. I wandered in the swirling grasses and gazed at the soft golden light as it lit up the barn, my barn. Beyond the barn, the pasture land along the creek bottom had been mowed and bundled into great round bales, leaving the creek to meander through the its borders of tall, lush grass.  In the distance, horses grazed in quiet contentment and further off, the dark outlines of the Black Hills.    I turned around at the far end of my fence and there was my house- sturdily planted on the gentle hill by its stone foundations. 

What does God have in mind for those bedrooms? What meals will be cooked in that kitchen and eaten on those decks?  That loft with its wonderful attic hiding places.  That stupid Jacuzzi bathtub, practically in the great room, and taking precious space up in the master bedroom/ loft.  I intend to cover it with plywood and add a ton of pillows, maybe a spare mattress. I can see that as a reading nook, not a pretend pool, a pool with no heater!  But maybe it will be filled with giggling grandchildren one day. So I’ll resist ripping it out.

My brother is helpful with ideas for adding more lofts, tearing out walls and changing in steep stairways. Add a closet here, add a kitchen there.  This deck would be so much better with a porch. They say to live in a space for a year before you make changes so you know how the space will work for you. That’ll be easy- all those plans are going to cost someone a bit of cash and it won’t be my brother!  But it is exciting to think of making the house a hone.

That’s my heart cry.  I want this place to become a home.  Not merely a house that people visit or a yard that demands so much work that it isn't a place of relaxation.  I want a home that invites friends and friends of friends to stop and rest, to pause and remember His provision, to enjoy good food and good conversations.  A little taste of heaven here on earth to remind any of us that God always provides a respite.

I looked at places to write on the walls of my house- but most of them are logs!  That’s ok- I have some ideas for shelves and maybe that’s where I can copy Scripture and proclaim the wonders of the God who has so generously given.

"I know the plans I have for you. Plans to give you a Hope and a Future". Jeremiah 29:11.  

So this is my HOME and my FUTURE. 

Out of death comes Life.  The seed that falls to the ground is the beginning of all fruit. God, you are always good. You are always about redemption.  You're giving me a hope and a future out of the season of grief and pain.  Thank you.