A few weeks ago I wrote about a young woman I know with four children, for whom I pray, with whom I'd lost contact. I got a single comment on the blog post, reminding me to pray, reminding me that it's worth it to pray.
I had been praying for this young woman, and thinking enough about her to merit a blog post, but that comment spurned me on to pray more specifically. More specifically that I'd be able to get back in contact with this young woman. More specifically that I'd be able to be a part of their lives again, that the Word of God could once again have entrance into their home, perhaps by way of the Sunday School paper, or a calendar.
This past Saturday, I was busy. My grandma's doing poorly, I had a babysitting gig, things felt hectic, but I'd been away and decided it really was high time I visited around my Sunday School neighborhood. I arrived to my usual houses and the first person I saw, out playing on the lawn, was her little six-year-old boy. I got out of my car, at least 90% sure that I was seeing things, but he came running up to me. "Miss Joanne, Miss Joanne!" His older sister (but not the oldest, who was with her grandma) came up, a boundless ball of seven-year-old energy. "We miss you!"
Many hugs ensued. "I've missed you, too."
Here, right in front of me, was an answer to a prayer I'd been praying. I had been praying, but honestly, until I saw their happy little faces, right in front of me, it didn't cross my mind that I really hadn't exhibited a lot of faith in my prayers. Did I think I could get back in contact with them? Yeah, I mean, I guess so. Did I firmly believe it? No.
Their mom was in one of the apartments, getting water. When she came out I gave her a big hug. I'd really, really missed her. She had the baby with her--a beautiful little boy named Anton Jr. He's perfect. We didn't talk much, my friend and I, but I got her new number and she said I could stop by their new place sometime. I played tag with the two little ones for a few minutes, by which time she'd packed up the baby in the car and was ready to go.
I stood in the parking lot, waving them away. The wind was slightly biting, so as soon as they were gone I carried on, but you have to understand, my smile was brighter, my steps were lighter. The Lord showed me, in this small but incredible way, that of COURSE He's able. The fact that she and I overlapped by probably only ten minutes, on a day where I had enough going on that my schedule was so unpredictable, is such a little picture to me of how the Lord orchestrates everything.
So if you're praying for something, for someone, keep at it. If you're praying for a single mother of two who recently had a birthday, keep at it. If you have a broken heart, keep praying for grace. If you know someone who is still lost in their sins, keep praying for their salvation. If you know someone who's in over their heads, keep praying for them to seek out the Lord in their depths. If you know someone who daily is choosing to reject this world and choose Jesus, keep praying that they might continue to train their eyes on Him and Him alone. If you know a broken family, pray for healing. If you know of someone who has a big decision coming up, pray for wisdom.
The Lord our God is able. He is mighty to save, and His grace is sufficient for all of our needs. His mercies, which are new every morning, are available for us. May we daily seek Him, may we daily make our requests made known until God. He's got this.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Monday, February 8, 2016
Thursday, January 14, 2016
Intersections
I've known her for years. I met her daughter first. A beautiful little girl named India with huge hair and bright eyes. "Can I come to Sunday School, too?" I was out visiting and India had found me on my rounds.
"Sure! I'll have to talk to your mom first, though." So she brought me to her mom. Mom welcomed me in and talked to me about the Sunday School. She thought it was important if kids went to church, even if, like her, they one day realized they didn't need it any more. "We don't just outgrow Jesus," I told her. "No, no, of course not," she agreed, "I know God is important. I just don't really think it's for me."
But her daughter came to Sunday School anyhow. That wild hair and those bright eyes that were so intelligent. When India's two little siblings--a girl and a boy--got a little older she'd bring them too, though she wasn't that excited about it. "My mom said they have to come," she'd huff after taking forever to round herself and them up.
Not everything was smooth sailing in the home, of course. "Me and their dad? We never got married," mom told me, "there just wasn't a good time, and he's away now, of course."
Of course. He'd stolen a car (call me jaded, but at this point in my life stealing a car is hardly the worst offense, as far as I'm concerned) and been locked up for a while. The little boy hardly even knew his daddy, but that didn't stop him from talking about dad for weeks after their sporadic visits to the prison. Father's day came and went, more than once, but at least they had a dad. They were pretty stable, as far as families go. "And we'll be getting married when he gets out," I would hear.
And then one day it happened. I had gone to their house, just to see if the kids were coming to Sunday School the following morning. "Miss Joanne?" It wasn't surprising to hear a strange man know my name--this happens all the time, though "Miss Church Lady" is the common moniker. "Yes, that's me!" I brightly introduced myself to this strange man, only to have him introduce himself right back at me as the kids' dad. "I've heard a lot about you, and I'm so glad you take my kids to church. They really need it, you know?"
He'd heard about me from jail. I think that was a scrapbookable first in my life.
I was happy to meet him, though. I'd heard about him a lot, too.
He and she and the kids were so happy. He was still on parole and couldn't live with them--the projects are not a place you're allowed to live right away, apparently. They knew they'd have hiccups, of course, but they'd stayed together a long time and they'd be fine. Their little family of five finally had a chance at a life together.
But they weren't. They weren't really together, and they definitely weren't fine. There were rifts that I didn't see for a while, but she confided in me one day that they weren't sure they could make it work. "What if we can't do it? I wanted my kids to have us both. And he's out now. They should have us both. But we both changed so much when he was on the inside. Neither of us realized how different things were going to be."
After that, it was really just a matter of time, a matter of all the pieces finally falling down. His parole allowed him to move into a little place a little more towards the respectable side of town. Sometimes they would all go to stay with him. I'd go on a Saturday afternoon and she'd be alone in her little apartment. "I'm sorry, Miss Joanne. They're at they're dad's and I was going to go. But we fought, so I came home. I didn't want them to have to leave their dad's, though, so I let them stay over there. I hate for the kids to know we're having troubles. Try again next week."
She still had no use for God. She put herself into this unraveling mess, she told me. She'd take responsibility. This didn't have to do with God. This was just life.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place," she said, as if it might have fixed her issues. "But we were going to get married!"
Time passed and things formally ended. Now instead of working on the relationship, they worked on a schedule.
"You'll have the kids on weekends, and we'll do every other school holiday." That sort of thing.
"We'll start seeing other people." That sort of thing.
After all that time--and the beautiful, crazy-haired girl who'd wormed her way into my heart at age 6 was now a responsible young lady of 10--after all those years of promises to each other, things were changing. All the commitment they had felt was easily dissolved, because all those promises had been inked only in words, so easily spoken, so conveniently put aside.
She spent a lot of weekends away, after that. India and the two younger ones were at dad's, and she'd go to stay with her own mother, looking for stability and an understanding heart. But then the time came when I noticed that she was around more, and I kept hearing from others in the neighborhood "Did you hear that she's together with Anton?"
I knew Anton, of course. I know a lot of them. Spend lazy Saturday afternoons anywhere and you become as much of a fixture as the next person, even if they mostly think your name is "Miss Church Lady."
Anton was solid. He was kind. All the neighborhood kids loved him, and he (respectfully and in a trustworthy manner, because it's 2016 and you have to specify) loved them back. He was friendly and when the kids begged him to show off his standing backflip to me, he would. I was impressed by him, because he had a job, because of his standing backflip, because he knew how to keep his language clean, because of his way with kids, because everyone thought highly of him. We weren't friends, but we knew each other.
He's the one who told me. "You knew I was with her, yeah?"
"Yeah,"
"We're having a baby, did you hear?"
No. No, I hadn't heard.
She was in the process of moving. A different life, a different place. We'd talked about it before and she was trying hard to make things better for her little brood of three. I'd see the kids, they'd come to Sunday School from time to time still (India was finally old enough to be in my class, but missed so many Sundays because of her dad's schedule that she never felt like she was fully a part of the goings-on, so her enthusiasm waned considerably), or I'd run into them at the park. "Yeah, she's having a baby," they confirmed.
"I was so mad that I cried when she told me," the biggest-sister-to-be confided. "I liked Anton, but not as my mom's boyfriend."
But still, I never talked to her. I'd go to their place and ask to see her, but she'd be napping, or in the shower, or in the basement, or anywhere else but there at the front door. The first time I met her I'd been invited in. Not now, though. Now she was like a ghost.
And finally they moved, and I had no forwarding address.
Then one day, by chance (except that I'm a Christian and I know it wasn't chance), I met them at the library. The two younger (now middle-to-be) siblings came flying up to me, smothering me in hugs. She was turned toward the counter and didn't angle her body towards me. At all. "Congratulations," I told her sincerely, understanding at once that after all this time she thought I didn't know.
"New life is always exciting, and wonderful!" I went on to tell her that I knew she'd be such a great mom to this one, too.
"Oh, you've heard?" She now turned fully towards me. She was about seven months along, and there's no way I wouldn't have noticed, even if I hadn't been looking, even if she'd tried to use a counter and a stack of books to cover her belly.
"Of course! Anton told me, and the kids have talked to me about it, too."
At that point she opened up a little bit. "It's going to be a boy," she said. "India--who's at her dad's today, I'm sure she'll be sorry she missed you--was so upset when she heard it was a boy. She just thought I'd still be together with her dad, you know? And if she had to have another sibling, she wanted a girl to make up for it."
She kept squirming, like she wanted to tell me something. Something to make her feel better, or possibly make me feel better. Finally, it came out. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant, Miss Joanne, but I really think it's going to work. I can feel it. Did I tell you? It's not the right time for us now, but we're going to get married!"
One of my other Sunday School kids still goes to school with her daughter India. I heard that she delivered a healthy baby boy at the end of October, though nobody has been able to tell me his name. I don't tell this story for any reason--moral, social, spiritual, or otherwise. I was just praying for her today, and her little brood of four.
"Sure! I'll have to talk to your mom first, though." So she brought me to her mom. Mom welcomed me in and talked to me about the Sunday School. She thought it was important if kids went to church, even if, like her, they one day realized they didn't need it any more. "We don't just outgrow Jesus," I told her. "No, no, of course not," she agreed, "I know God is important. I just don't really think it's for me."
But her daughter came to Sunday School anyhow. That wild hair and those bright eyes that were so intelligent. When India's two little siblings--a girl and a boy--got a little older she'd bring them too, though she wasn't that excited about it. "My mom said they have to come," she'd huff after taking forever to round herself and them up.
Not everything was smooth sailing in the home, of course. "Me and their dad? We never got married," mom told me, "there just wasn't a good time, and he's away now, of course."
Of course. He'd stolen a car (call me jaded, but at this point in my life stealing a car is hardly the worst offense, as far as I'm concerned) and been locked up for a while. The little boy hardly even knew his daddy, but that didn't stop him from talking about dad for weeks after their sporadic visits to the prison. Father's day came and went, more than once, but at least they had a dad. They were pretty stable, as far as families go. "And we'll be getting married when he gets out," I would hear.
And then one day it happened. I had gone to their house, just to see if the kids were coming to Sunday School the following morning. "Miss Joanne?" It wasn't surprising to hear a strange man know my name--this happens all the time, though "Miss Church Lady" is the common moniker. "Yes, that's me!" I brightly introduced myself to this strange man, only to have him introduce himself right back at me as the kids' dad. "I've heard a lot about you, and I'm so glad you take my kids to church. They really need it, you know?"
He'd heard about me from jail. I think that was a scrapbookable first in my life.
I was happy to meet him, though. I'd heard about him a lot, too.
He and she and the kids were so happy. He was still on parole and couldn't live with them--the projects are not a place you're allowed to live right away, apparently. They knew they'd have hiccups, of course, but they'd stayed together a long time and they'd be fine. Their little family of five finally had a chance at a life together.
But they weren't. They weren't really together, and they definitely weren't fine. There were rifts that I didn't see for a while, but she confided in me one day that they weren't sure they could make it work. "What if we can't do it? I wanted my kids to have us both. And he's out now. They should have us both. But we both changed so much when he was on the inside. Neither of us realized how different things were going to be."
After that, it was really just a matter of time, a matter of all the pieces finally falling down. His parole allowed him to move into a little place a little more towards the respectable side of town. Sometimes they would all go to stay with him. I'd go on a Saturday afternoon and she'd be alone in her little apartment. "I'm sorry, Miss Joanne. They're at they're dad's and I was going to go. But we fought, so I came home. I didn't want them to have to leave their dad's, though, so I let them stay over there. I hate for the kids to know we're having troubles. Try again next week."
She still had no use for God. She put herself into this unraveling mess, she told me. She'd take responsibility. This didn't have to do with God. This was just life.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant in the first place," she said, as if it might have fixed her issues. "But we were going to get married!"
Time passed and things formally ended. Now instead of working on the relationship, they worked on a schedule.
"You'll have the kids on weekends, and we'll do every other school holiday." That sort of thing.
"We'll start seeing other people." That sort of thing.
After all that time--and the beautiful, crazy-haired girl who'd wormed her way into my heart at age 6 was now a responsible young lady of 10--after all those years of promises to each other, things were changing. All the commitment they had felt was easily dissolved, because all those promises had been inked only in words, so easily spoken, so conveniently put aside.
She spent a lot of weekends away, after that. India and the two younger ones were at dad's, and she'd go to stay with her own mother, looking for stability and an understanding heart. But then the time came when I noticed that she was around more, and I kept hearing from others in the neighborhood "Did you hear that she's together with Anton?"
I knew Anton, of course. I know a lot of them. Spend lazy Saturday afternoons anywhere and you become as much of a fixture as the next person, even if they mostly think your name is "Miss Church Lady."
Anton was solid. He was kind. All the neighborhood kids loved him, and he (respectfully and in a trustworthy manner, because it's 2016 and you have to specify) loved them back. He was friendly and when the kids begged him to show off his standing backflip to me, he would. I was impressed by him, because he had a job, because of his standing backflip, because he knew how to keep his language clean, because of his way with kids, because everyone thought highly of him. We weren't friends, but we knew each other.
He's the one who told me. "You knew I was with her, yeah?"
"Yeah,"
"We're having a baby, did you hear?"
No. No, I hadn't heard.
She was in the process of moving. A different life, a different place. We'd talked about it before and she was trying hard to make things better for her little brood of three. I'd see the kids, they'd come to Sunday School from time to time still (India was finally old enough to be in my class, but missed so many Sundays because of her dad's schedule that she never felt like she was fully a part of the goings-on, so her enthusiasm waned considerably), or I'd run into them at the park. "Yeah, she's having a baby," they confirmed.
"I was so mad that I cried when she told me," the biggest-sister-to-be confided. "I liked Anton, but not as my mom's boyfriend."
But still, I never talked to her. I'd go to their place and ask to see her, but she'd be napping, or in the shower, or in the basement, or anywhere else but there at the front door. The first time I met her I'd been invited in. Not now, though. Now she was like a ghost.
And finally they moved, and I had no forwarding address.
Then one day, by chance (except that I'm a Christian and I know it wasn't chance), I met them at the library. The two younger (now middle-to-be) siblings came flying up to me, smothering me in hugs. She was turned toward the counter and didn't angle her body towards me. At all. "Congratulations," I told her sincerely, understanding at once that after all this time she thought I didn't know.
"New life is always exciting, and wonderful!" I went on to tell her that I knew she'd be such a great mom to this one, too.
"Oh, you've heard?" She now turned fully towards me. She was about seven months along, and there's no way I wouldn't have noticed, even if I hadn't been looking, even if she'd tried to use a counter and a stack of books to cover her belly.
"Of course! Anton told me, and the kids have talked to me about it, too."
At that point she opened up a little bit. "It's going to be a boy," she said. "India--who's at her dad's today, I'm sure she'll be sorry she missed you--was so upset when she heard it was a boy. She just thought I'd still be together with her dad, you know? And if she had to have another sibling, she wanted a girl to make up for it."
She kept squirming, like she wanted to tell me something. Something to make her feel better, or possibly make me feel better. Finally, it came out. "Maybe I shouldn't have gotten pregnant, Miss Joanne, but I really think it's going to work. I can feel it. Did I tell you? It's not the right time for us now, but we're going to get married!"
One of my other Sunday School kids still goes to school with her daughter India. I heard that she delivered a healthy baby boy at the end of October, though nobody has been able to tell me his name. I don't tell this story for any reason--moral, social, spiritual, or otherwise. I was just praying for her today, and her little brood of four.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Waiting & Watching
The story goes that there was a dude with some kids. He would be at work, as dudes often are, but when it came time for him to come home from work, his kids would always be excited. They would be waiting for him to come home, mostly for supper-eating purposes, I imagine. Anyhow, one of his children, his little daughter, would stand at the front window. She wasn't just waiting for him, she was watching.
Cue the tears. I've heard this man tell this story enough times that I can't cue the tears, but it's a nice story and I hope you've been emotionally touched in a way I haven't been in the past ten years or so.
But the story brings to mind (obviously, as is the point) that we are not just to wait for the Lord's return, but also we ought to watch for Him. Any one of us could think of a number of verses that echo such a sentiment.
But I'd like to pose another story. It's about a girl, about my age, who works at a day care. And about how at that daycare there started a young child, 2ish years of age, who really loved his mom. Which is a good thing for a child to do, but it's rough when kids have never been away from their mom, and then their tossed into a daycare setting. So this young boy (we shall call him henceforth Jay), every single day he's at the daycare, spends from 7:30 in the morning till 12:30 in the afternoon waiting for his mom to come and get him. After all, she will be coming, he knows this for a fact. And indeed, at 12:30, she comes to fetch him. He was right all along--mommy loves him enough to remember to come and get him after lunch. Heartwarming, yes?
No. Not in the slightest. You see, Jay doesn't just wait for his mom, he watches for his mom. Every day, from 7:30 till 12:30, he stands with his face pressed against the window, looking for that first glimpse of her car.
Even more heartwarming? No. Not in the slightest. You see, from 7:30 am to 12:30 pm Jay doesn't just wait and watch for his mother. He SCREAMS HIS HEAD OFF because he's terrified that she's forgotten about him. He won't play, he won't color, he won't paint, and if it's ever warm enough to go outside to play he just presses himself up against the fence in lieu of the window and screams there while waiting for his mother.
WHAT KIND OF LIFE IS THAT.
Jay needs to cool his jets and realize that while he's waiting, he could be doing. Really, he does. And, frequently, between 7:30 and 12:30 I (being the featured girl in the story who works in sad earshot of this child) am reminded that you know what? While I'm waiting for the Lord to return (which had better be soon, that's all I'm saying) I need to be doing as well. Maybe it's just the Sunday School work, maybe it's reaching out to younger girls, maybe it's giving away copies of Get Lost (bless you, Dannah Gresh, for being the best), maybe it's just helping out around the house or with hobby class. Whatever the case, let it never be said of me that I was waiting and watching for the Lord's coming at the expense of doing for His glory.
Cue the tears. I've heard this man tell this story enough times that I can't cue the tears, but it's a nice story and I hope you've been emotionally touched in a way I haven't been in the past ten years or so.
But the story brings to mind (obviously, as is the point) that we are not just to wait for the Lord's return, but also we ought to watch for Him. Any one of us could think of a number of verses that echo such a sentiment.
But I'd like to pose another story. It's about a girl, about my age, who works at a day care. And about how at that daycare there started a young child, 2ish years of age, who really loved his mom. Which is a good thing for a child to do, but it's rough when kids have never been away from their mom, and then their tossed into a daycare setting. So this young boy (we shall call him henceforth Jay), every single day he's at the daycare, spends from 7:30 in the morning till 12:30 in the afternoon waiting for his mom to come and get him. After all, she will be coming, he knows this for a fact. And indeed, at 12:30, she comes to fetch him. He was right all along--mommy loves him enough to remember to come and get him after lunch. Heartwarming, yes?
No. Not in the slightest. You see, Jay doesn't just wait for his mom, he watches for his mom. Every day, from 7:30 till 12:30, he stands with his face pressed against the window, looking for that first glimpse of her car.
Even more heartwarming? No. Not in the slightest. You see, from 7:30 am to 12:30 pm Jay doesn't just wait and watch for his mother. He SCREAMS HIS HEAD OFF because he's terrified that she's forgotten about him. He won't play, he won't color, he won't paint, and if it's ever warm enough to go outside to play he just presses himself up against the fence in lieu of the window and screams there while waiting for his mother.
WHAT KIND OF LIFE IS THAT.
Jay needs to cool his jets and realize that while he's waiting, he could be doing. Really, he does. And, frequently, between 7:30 and 12:30 I (being the featured girl in the story who works in sad earshot of this child) am reminded that you know what? While I'm waiting for the Lord to return (which had better be soon, that's all I'm saying) I need to be doing as well. Maybe it's just the Sunday School work, maybe it's reaching out to younger girls, maybe it's giving away copies of Get Lost (bless you, Dannah Gresh, for being the best), maybe it's just helping out around the house or with hobby class. Whatever the case, let it never be said of me that I was waiting and watching for the Lord's coming at the expense of doing for His glory.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Forgiveness
I was in a Christian bookstore recently and noticed that there were a lot of books about forgiveness. A lot. Like, a stunning number. To prove my point I just went to Christianbook.com and searched the keyword "forgiveness." On my desktop it came up with a staggering 2,264 results, while on my mobile device it came up with but 2,113 results. (A screenshot for your benefit. Also, why did I get two different numbers for the mobile/desktop searches? I don't understand anything.)Then I searched for other things on CBD like joy and peace and came up with multiple thousands, but words like kindness only got 600+ hits, and it seems like if more books were on kindness, less books would have to be about forgiveness, you feel me?
(Now, I'm not saying that this is indicative of the human problem, this whole rash of books on forgiveness. Because you know what else you can find by the thousand at Christian bookstores? Books about Amish people. And I don't think that really means anything except that old ladies are the biggest consumer of fiction.)
But I didn't buy any of those billions of books on forgiveness. Why? (Well, I'm poor, probably.) Because the most beautiful thing I've read recently about forgiveness is contained in this blog post, which was written by a remarkable young lady I know who faced so much and yet forgave anyhow. I don't need those billions of books (okay, 2,113 books) to tell me the ins and outs of forgiveness. I see it in this young lady, every time I see her, because grace truly characterizes her. Because I see the fruits of the spirit in her and it's an example to me. Because she is an example to all believers, and I'm so thankful to have the chance to see that in her.
If you get a minute, check out her story. It's worth the read.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Humans of Everywhere
Have you guys seen those books, you know, Humans of New York, or maybe Humans of the Subways, or whatever? Full disclaimer, I don't think I've ever read one, but I'm familiar with the concept because I have a cousin who is purportedly the instigator of this project, which is similar by nature. Funny, I talk to dozens of people everywhere I go, but never have I talked to this particular cousin about this particular project. Of course, we live far away one from another. I saw on the website that the original People of Pictou County project was started in May of 2013. For all I know I haven't even seen her since then. Shameful, yes.
Anyhow, I have never started a project like that. I don't go around canvassing for cool stories or interesting vignettes from the people I meet. But... Sometimes I think I should. I could literally write a book about all the different cool stories I hear, the little glimpses into so many different lives. Sometimes they're non-consequential, like someone telling me that they had an arranged marriage, sometimes they make me cry (sir, I have never forgotten you), and sometimes they're just... cute.
(I have, in the spirit on irony, pretended to trademark the "LifeStory" phrase, even. I gave it up after about a day, though. It was tedious and not at all ironic, when it came down to it.)
The other day, for instance, I was in the store, trying to make a return. There was an older couple in line in front of me and they were likewise making a return, and, as is the manner of my whole life, somehow they started talking to me about, you know, their whole life.
Years ago she was on a blind date with a guy who ended up just being stupid. I mean, throwing popcorn at her in the movie theater kind of stupid. She was trying to make him stop ("He was embarrassing and rude!") when another theater patron came to her rescue. ("I told him to stop disturbing the rest of us and leave his gal alone!") As is the manner with all cute stories, there was a twist: patron B realized that he knew patron A, and felt embarrassed that his "friend" would treat a gal like this. When the girl realized that someone sided with her on the rudeness of her blind date ("I vowed never would I endure a blind date again! Of course," she added slyly, "I didn't have to!") she demanded that he (the friend of the blind date) take her home.
("Were you there with another person?"
"Yes, but we were there as friends, a group of us, and I sent them all home together.")
This didn't mean he was off the hook. No way, no friend of this rude boy was a friend of hers. So, when they got home, she had him drop her off a block away from her house. And pretended to go into some random house till her left.
So, when he came back the next day to find her ("She was smart, and she was sassy! A gal like that is hard to come by!") she wasn't at the house he expected. Undeterred, he went on to the next house. Also, the next. Also, the next. He went to every house on the block until he found her. And even so, she wasn't so sure about him. She did decide to give him a chance, though, because she admired his tenacity.
I'll spare you the details of their whole story, though I'm pretty sure I got the whole thing, but one notable detail was that on their first real date they went to this fancy restaurant and they were seated and then she started seeing other meals as they were coming out and looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't have money for this, and neither do you. We're not eating here." and they left. ("We had a burger instead," he said. "It's all I wanted anyhow.") "That was more than 55 years ago," she said proudly, "and I've been saving him money ever since!"
By this point we had two sales clerks and about half a dozen onlookers enjoying the hilarity of this couple's cuteness. We'd both finished our returns and were just standing to the side of the desks, talking like we were best friends.
"Sweetie," she told me, "we hear about all these kids who just quit on their marriages, and we just can't understand that. We've been married 55 years now, and we had some rough times, but I love him. And more importantly, I like him."
His arm was around her and drew her a little closer and beamed, "She's my gal. I wouldn't have it any other way."
We talked longer (of course), but when they left the store they were holding hands, happy to show the world (OK, me, two clerks, and half a dozen other strangers) that they were happy. That after 55 years it's possible that you can not just still love someone, but like them, too.
Anyhow, I have never started a project like that. I don't go around canvassing for cool stories or interesting vignettes from the people I meet. But... Sometimes I think I should. I could literally write a book about all the different cool stories I hear, the little glimpses into so many different lives. Sometimes they're non-consequential, like someone telling me that they had an arranged marriage, sometimes they make me cry (sir, I have never forgotten you), and sometimes they're just... cute.
(I have, in the spirit on irony, pretended to trademark the "LifeStory" phrase, even. I gave it up after about a day, though. It was tedious and not at all ironic, when it came down to it.)
The other day, for instance, I was in the store, trying to make a return. There was an older couple in line in front of me and they were likewise making a return, and, as is the manner of my whole life, somehow they started talking to me about, you know, their whole life.
Years ago she was on a blind date with a guy who ended up just being stupid. I mean, throwing popcorn at her in the movie theater kind of stupid. She was trying to make him stop ("He was embarrassing and rude!") when another theater patron came to her rescue. ("I told him to stop disturbing the rest of us and leave his gal alone!") As is the manner with all cute stories, there was a twist: patron B realized that he knew patron A, and felt embarrassed that his "friend" would treat a gal like this. When the girl realized that someone sided with her on the rudeness of her blind date ("I vowed never would I endure a blind date again! Of course," she added slyly, "I didn't have to!") she demanded that he (the friend of the blind date) take her home.
("Were you there with another person?"
"Yes, but we were there as friends, a group of us, and I sent them all home together.")
This didn't mean he was off the hook. No way, no friend of this rude boy was a friend of hers. So, when they got home, she had him drop her off a block away from her house. And pretended to go into some random house till her left.
So, when he came back the next day to find her ("She was smart, and she was sassy! A gal like that is hard to come by!") she wasn't at the house he expected. Undeterred, he went on to the next house. Also, the next. Also, the next. He went to every house on the block until he found her. And even so, she wasn't so sure about him. She did decide to give him a chance, though, because she admired his tenacity.
I'll spare you the details of their whole story, though I'm pretty sure I got the whole thing, but one notable detail was that on their first real date they went to this fancy restaurant and they were seated and then she started seeing other meals as they were coming out and looked him straight in the eye and said, "I don't have money for this, and neither do you. We're not eating here." and they left. ("We had a burger instead," he said. "It's all I wanted anyhow.") "That was more than 55 years ago," she said proudly, "and I've been saving him money ever since!"
By this point we had two sales clerks and about half a dozen onlookers enjoying the hilarity of this couple's cuteness. We'd both finished our returns and were just standing to the side of the desks, talking like we were best friends.
"Sweetie," she told me, "we hear about all these kids who just quit on their marriages, and we just can't understand that. We've been married 55 years now, and we had some rough times, but I love him. And more importantly, I like him."
His arm was around her and drew her a little closer and beamed, "She's my gal. I wouldn't have it any other way."
We talked longer (of course), but when they left the store they were holding hands, happy to show the world (OK, me, two clerks, and half a dozen other strangers) that they were happy. That after 55 years it's possible that you can not just still love someone, but like them, too.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Holy Nudges, part 2
I recently posted about holy nudges, a thing which I think is very real, and am sobered when I think of all the times I ignore said holy nudges.
For instance, right after I posted last time (okay, well, maybe not right after, but maybe within the next few weeks) a number of times I realized I was ignoring holy nudges. And who just reminded me about them? Me. In this very blog and with my own words. Guys, I have a lot to learn.
For instance, on a Christmas-related flight I took during the holidays there was a lady who was talking to me in an airport (a stranger? Talking to me? Say it isn't so) and I was tired and fine with talking, but when we got on the plane (me quite a ways in front of her, because of Southwest boarding procedure) and she came and found me and said she was glad the seat next to me was still free, I'll admit--I maybe resented my openness of face. Why do *I* have to be the one to talk to every stranger I've ever met. Why can't I just nap? So I leaned into the window and pretended to sleep. Because I was very, very tired (I don't pack until the night I go places--a horrible habit, and one that detracts from my sleep quite dreadfully) and because I was already people'd out for the day (having spoken to every traveler and TSA agent I'd smiled at that day already). So I really was trying to doze off and the Lord kept telling me to talk to this woman. That I really should. Come on, Joanne, get with the program.
It took a while. An embarrassing while, actually. I'm ashamed to tell the story but share because a) accountability and b) it is a good reminder that when the Lord asks us to do something, we really should.
So, when I finally worked up a right spirit, I sat up and started talking to the woman, who was indeed just sitting upright, eyes open, waiting for a listening ear. (This story won't make any sense unless I also tell you that she had a very heavy accent. We may begin.)
"Is this your final destination?" I asked. (Nothing like a little travel-flavored small talk to get things started, I've discovered.)
"No, no, once we land I have to take the bus for a few hours."
"Oh, are you visiting family, or going on a vacation?"
"My brother had birthday today."
"Are you two close?"
"Yes, very."
"Well, that's very exciting!"
She stared at me. And stared at me. And suddenly I thought, you know, planes are really loud places, and she has an accent. Maybe I heard her wrong?
So I tried again. "Your brother's birthday--it's today?"
"No. My brother died today."
Uhhhhhhhhh.
It was awful. She was trying desperately to get down to see him and in the airport got the call that he had passed away. He had no family with him when he died, she had already left her own family so she had nobody with her when she heard, and there she was, just alone in the airport, trying to be with her brother, discovering it was too late.
No wonder she wanted to talk.
That was the thing, though. We talked about it a little bit, I hugged her (albeit awkwardly, we were on a plane and all) and then she just breathed a deep sigh, leaned her head back, and slept.
She could have been sleeping that whole time, probably, if I'd spoken to her sooner. But I was being selfish and childish. But thankfully the Lord persevered with his holy nudge and I bit the proverbial bullet. And I need to, because she needed someone, and, for whatever reason that person was me.
"Take my lips," that song says, "and let them be filled with messages from Thee." I'm a Christian, so that ought always to be my prayer, and I'm someone who gets LifeStory'd ALL the time, so I need to be mindful that the Lord probably wants to use these multitudinous occasions as more than just a casual encounter--He has plans for my conversations.
"Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee."
For instance, right after I posted last time (okay, well, maybe not right after, but maybe within the next few weeks) a number of times I realized I was ignoring holy nudges. And who just reminded me about them? Me. In this very blog and with my own words. Guys, I have a lot to learn.
For instance, on a Christmas-related flight I took during the holidays there was a lady who was talking to me in an airport (a stranger? Talking to me? Say it isn't so) and I was tired and fine with talking, but when we got on the plane (me quite a ways in front of her, because of Southwest boarding procedure) and she came and found me and said she was glad the seat next to me was still free, I'll admit--I maybe resented my openness of face. Why do *I* have to be the one to talk to every stranger I've ever met. Why can't I just nap? So I leaned into the window and pretended to sleep. Because I was very, very tired (I don't pack until the night I go places--a horrible habit, and one that detracts from my sleep quite dreadfully) and because I was already people'd out for the day (having spoken to every traveler and TSA agent I'd smiled at that day already). So I really was trying to doze off and the Lord kept telling me to talk to this woman. That I really should. Come on, Joanne, get with the program.
It took a while. An embarrassing while, actually. I'm ashamed to tell the story but share because a) accountability and b) it is a good reminder that when the Lord asks us to do something, we really should.
So, when I finally worked up a right spirit, I sat up and started talking to the woman, who was indeed just sitting upright, eyes open, waiting for a listening ear. (This story won't make any sense unless I also tell you that she had a very heavy accent. We may begin.)
"Is this your final destination?" I asked. (Nothing like a little travel-flavored small talk to get things started, I've discovered.)
"No, no, once we land I have to take the bus for a few hours."
"Oh, are you visiting family, or going on a vacation?"
"My brother had birthday today."
"Are you two close?"
"Yes, very."
"Well, that's very exciting!"
She stared at me. And stared at me. And suddenly I thought, you know, planes are really loud places, and she has an accent. Maybe I heard her wrong?
So I tried again. "Your brother's birthday--it's today?"
"No. My brother died today."
Uhhhhhhhhh.
It was awful. She was trying desperately to get down to see him and in the airport got the call that he had passed away. He had no family with him when he died, she had already left her own family so she had nobody with her when she heard, and there she was, just alone in the airport, trying to be with her brother, discovering it was too late.
No wonder she wanted to talk.
That was the thing, though. We talked about it a little bit, I hugged her (albeit awkwardly, we were on a plane and all) and then she just breathed a deep sigh, leaned her head back, and slept.
She could have been sleeping that whole time, probably, if I'd spoken to her sooner. But I was being selfish and childish. But thankfully the Lord persevered with his holy nudge and I bit the proverbial bullet. And I need to, because she needed someone, and, for whatever reason that person was me.
"Take my lips," that song says, "and let them be filled with messages from Thee." I'm a Christian, so that ought always to be my prayer, and I'm someone who gets LifeStory'd ALL the time, so I need to be mindful that the Lord probably wants to use these multitudinous occasions as more than just a casual encounter--He has plans for my conversations.
"Take my life, and let it be consecrated, Lord, to Thee."
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
The unity of grief
Most people have gone through tough times in their lives. Be it deaths, broken relationships, illnesses, mistreatment, betrayal... I feel like grief leaves wounds that never completely close. Oh, they fade, and through the grace of God any heart can heal, but memories will always linger.
But the up side of grief, if I may speak simplistically, is that because it is so universal, it can be shared. No two stories are ever going to be the same. No two griefs will ever perfectly match. But two wounded hearts can share the pain and the peace that their stories have brought. (I remember the first time one of my friends lost a brother after I'd lost mine, thinking, "Finally, I can offer words of encouragement so they know they're not alone." But afterwards I realized--it was just as uncomfortable and sad and distinctly Not As Comforting As I'd Wished as the other times. Even if it feels like you have all things in common, another soul's grief can never be fully entered into. So words of hope and encouragement are always beneficial, not just from people who know.)
Remember after 9/11? People would gather to share their stories, their hurts, and to begin the healing by acknowledging that their pain was not theirs alone. In its individuality, it was universal. School shootings and natural disasters are like that too, but often when people endure sorrow on an individual scale, they don't share like they might if others were going through the same experience. Often we keep individual griefs closed in, as if our pain might inconvenience others.
I've been thinking about that recently. A woman I know recently had this to say about her journey through grief. (I would never just link someone's random post, but she wrote this to be shared, and to be a thread of comfort to others. Her journey from grief means giving up rights to her story, as it were, if it means someone could be helped by it.) I would recommend reading it, by the way. I'm not going to lie--I cried when I read it. I've never lost a child, but I'm a human, so I reacted to her suffering.
And that's the way it should be. At work, this sparked a lot of discussions. We all shared a little about the sad times we've gone through in our lives. I've worked there for more than a year and this was the first time I'd mentioned my brother to some of them. Everyone had a little piece of grief to offer, and in every offering, the burden was made just a little lighter to bear.
Of course... I really haven't gone through as many tough times as some. All things considered, I've gotten off pretty easy on the grief scale. But that's my point--people can share grief, even if it's not the same. Even if I haven't suffered as much as you, it doesn't mean that we can't be a comfort to each other. And, most particularly if we're both believers, we have so much comfort to give each other. I remember being much impacted by a story of grief told by a man I knew, who, instead of focusing on his own grief, reminded me that none of our suffering compares to the Lord's suffering. And it's not just that He suffered, He suffered for our sakes. So we can stand together, and with certainty that overshadows grief, say that My Redeemer Lives. It's not like that takes away the earthly pain we experience, but it causes our hearts to focus on the One Who can bear our pain in the toughest moments. Because sharing pain and grief with others will never compare to the lightness that comes with sharing our burdens with the Lord.
But the up side of grief, if I may speak simplistically, is that because it is so universal, it can be shared. No two stories are ever going to be the same. No two griefs will ever perfectly match. But two wounded hearts can share the pain and the peace that their stories have brought. (I remember the first time one of my friends lost a brother after I'd lost mine, thinking, "Finally, I can offer words of encouragement so they know they're not alone." But afterwards I realized--it was just as uncomfortable and sad and distinctly Not As Comforting As I'd Wished as the other times. Even if it feels like you have all things in common, another soul's grief can never be fully entered into. So words of hope and encouragement are always beneficial, not just from people who know.)
Remember after 9/11? People would gather to share their stories, their hurts, and to begin the healing by acknowledging that their pain was not theirs alone. In its individuality, it was universal. School shootings and natural disasters are like that too, but often when people endure sorrow on an individual scale, they don't share like they might if others were going through the same experience. Often we keep individual griefs closed in, as if our pain might inconvenience others.
 |
| This is a stock photo because obviously I don't actually take pictures when people are grieving. |
And that's the way it should be. At work, this sparked a lot of discussions. We all shared a little about the sad times we've gone through in our lives. I've worked there for more than a year and this was the first time I'd mentioned my brother to some of them. Everyone had a little piece of grief to offer, and in every offering, the burden was made just a little lighter to bear.
Of course... I really haven't gone through as many tough times as some. All things considered, I've gotten off pretty easy on the grief scale. But that's my point--people can share grief, even if it's not the same. Even if I haven't suffered as much as you, it doesn't mean that we can't be a comfort to each other. And, most particularly if we're both believers, we have so much comfort to give each other. I remember being much impacted by a story of grief told by a man I knew, who, instead of focusing on his own grief, reminded me that none of our suffering compares to the Lord's suffering. And it's not just that He suffered, He suffered for our sakes. So we can stand together, and with certainty that overshadows grief, say that My Redeemer Lives. It's not like that takes away the earthly pain we experience, but it causes our hearts to focus on the One Who can bear our pain in the toughest moments. Because sharing pain and grief with others will never compare to the lightness that comes with sharing our burdens with the Lord.
Friday, June 1, 2012
It's about time
I've sort of been procrastinating recently about getting caught up here. Not because I don't want to talk about Guyana and how wonderful it was, but because I've pretty much explained how wonderful it was to pretty much everyone I know. It's one of those things where after a while you dread hearing, "How was it?" I just picked random stories and would tell like one story to each person who asked, so people now know random little things about it.
Also, not only did I spend a lot of time telling everyone about it, but I also spent a long time captioning my facebook album so as to cut down on the explanations. So I wasted all of my residual Must-Tell-Everything! feelings on facebook.
Crazy social networking. (PS, I apologize to everyone I ever scoffed at for being addicted to Pinterest. You were right. It's addicting and awesome.)
Anyhow, so what happens to my blog readers? Basically you got the raw end of the deal. I'm not going to copiously go into details of everything. I'll say some things (still thinking of what stories I'm not tired of telling, give me a minute) and show you some pictures and then move on to my regularly scheduled rambles (well, as regularly scheduled as I know how to be).
So, we'll start with a family photo of, well, our family. We're standing on a savanna. Randomly. In Guyana. So... yeah.
Finally, some palm trees. We were technically (I think?) in the jungle or something, so there were a lot of palm trees. Also, coconuts. Also, pineapples. The pineapples (they call them "pines," though why they can't say the apple, I'm not sure) were literally the best I've ever had. We cry when we see pineapples in the States now, because they just aren't as good. Sob.
Also, not only did I spend a lot of time telling everyone about it, but I also spent a long time captioning my facebook album so as to cut down on the explanations. So I wasted all of my residual Must-Tell-Everything! feelings on facebook.
Crazy social networking. (PS, I apologize to everyone I ever scoffed at for being addicted to Pinterest. You were right. It's addicting and awesome.)
Anyhow, so what happens to my blog readers? Basically you got the raw end of the deal. I'm not going to copiously go into details of everything. I'll say some things (still thinking of what stories I'm not tired of telling, give me a minute) and show you some pictures and then move on to my regularly scheduled rambles (well, as regularly scheduled as I know how to be).
So, we'll start with a family photo of, well, our family. We're standing on a savanna. Randomly. In Guyana. So... yeah.
Next is a photo of me standing in front of St. George's Cathedral. It's a really tall wooden building. The only of it's kind, which being interpreted is to say, the tallest wooden freestanding structure. I'm not really sure what the significance of that is, but anyhow, it's white and wooden. That much I could see with my own two eyes.
Finally, some palm trees. We were technically (I think?) in the jungle or something, so there were a lot of palm trees. Also, coconuts. Also, pineapples. The pineapples (they call them "pines," though why they can't say the apple, I'm not sure) were literally the best I've ever had. We cry when we see pineapples in the States now, because they just aren't as good. Sob.
So you know how I said I was going to think of a story to tell? Still nothing. If anybody is interested in my facebook album (complete with rather lengthy captions) please let me know, and I can send it to you. If we're not already friends on facebook. Otherwise... I'll think of something more inspiring to say next time I deign to update this blog. Sigh.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Priorities
I know it's sort of lame to totally steal someone elses's story, but I got this in a forward yesterday and really liked it, so I'm doing that lame reshare thing. I guess I have no more ideas of my own. I'm just recycling ideas of others. It's a sad day in my world.
~~A Sunday school teacher walked into his classroom with a box filled with a variety of items. When the class began, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with orange golf balls. At the very top he placed a white one. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The teacher then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The teacher next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous, “yes”.
“Now,” said the teacher, “I want to tell you that this jar represents your life. The white golf ball at the top represents God, your first priority, who must be first in your life. The orange golf balls represent the other important things in life like your family, your children, your brothers and sisters in Christ, your friends; important things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your health, your education, your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else, the small stuff.”
“The secret to a happy and full life is having the right priorities. If you put the sand into the jar first there is little room for the pebbles or the golf balls. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the important things in life.”
“Jesus said…Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.” Matthew 22:37~~
See? That wasn't so bad. Now, if only I'd thought of this story myself. =)
~~A Sunday school teacher walked into his classroom with a box filled with a variety of items. When the class began, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with orange golf balls. At the very top he placed a white one. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.
The teacher then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.
The teacher next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous, “yes”.
“Now,” said the teacher, “I want to tell you that this jar represents your life. The white golf ball at the top represents God, your first priority, who must be first in your life. The orange golf balls represent the other important things in life like your family, your children, your brothers and sisters in Christ, your friends; important things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter like your health, your education, your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else, the small stuff.”
“The secret to a happy and full life is having the right priorities. If you put the sand into the jar first there is little room for the pebbles or the golf balls. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the important things in life.”
“Jesus said…Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.” Matthew 22:37~~
See? That wasn't so bad. Now, if only I'd thought of this story myself. =)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
All for the sake of posterity
Some people keep journals as a record of their life for the sake of posterity. Others, like me, keep a journal to keep from exploding from the excessive amounts of words inside of them. Honestly, I like my way better, because it seems more interesting, plus, I can write or not write whenever the Spirit so moves me without worrying that a grand-niece of mine might one day wonder what I did on that illusive missing Tuesday. Even better, once I burn my journals, they'll never be the wiser as to the fact that my Tuesday was missing in the first place.
But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!
But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.
But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.
For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?
I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.
But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.
Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.
I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.
But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!
But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.
But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.
For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?
I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.
But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.
Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.
I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.
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