. . . the father said to his servants,”Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fatted calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found. So they began to celebrate. –Luke 15:22-24
A girl I’ll call Sharon lived down the country road from our house, in a piece of rental property meant to be a hunters’ cabin. Drafty, leaky, and termite-infested, it at least provided some privacy for Sharon’s family: her unemployed parents and her 10-year-old baby sister.
When the church brought us meals after one of my children was born, and it was too much food for us, we shared it with Sharon and her family. I worried that they might not enjoy all those types of foods, but they assured us they loved all foods. Then they returned all those empty Cool-Whip cartons, carefully washed and dried. Only once did her mother ask for $25 for food, and when she had finished shopping, she brought me the change she had not needed.
Sharon was trying to finish high school and keep out of trouble, bless her. I enjoyed her calm and sure personality a lot. Although she was a teenager and I was near 30, she seemed bonded to me and would call me to chat, sometimes. Towards the end of each conversation she would mention some trouble she or a family member was having and we would discuss it for a few minutes. Only if I promised I would pray for her, would she end the conversation. That always touched me so.
Before long, she married and the young couple had their first child. She called me and asked me to come visit and see the house her teen husband had built for her. I was amazed at this building made of plywood, inside and outside, floors and ceilings, with the interior walls painted a pale blue. Sharon had actually used a feather duster dipped in paint to make fancy designs on the paint in the front room. A cast-iron wood stove in the center of the house cranked out more heat than I needed, but it was to keep the baby warm.
One day Sharon rang my doorbell and said she had a gift for me. She and her husband and baby were moving far away and it was her way of saying good-bye. There, on my porch stood a small table her husband had made. It was primitive, about on the order of a house made only of plywood, but it was sturdy and painted pale blue with feathery designs on it.
I could hardly believe that Sharon, in her poverty, would think to give anyone anything. It was so touching to me. I have cherished that little table for a long time, using it for a fern stand on the porch in summer and indoors in winter. It didn’t match a thing I had, but I wouldn’t think of parting with that incredible gift.
I used to live near a sweet and cheery lady named Joi. She and her husband were quite poor, he being a sacker in a grocery and both of them trying hard to earn college degrees, with four children in a two-bedroom house.Joi and I were friends and she was a constant amazement to me. She made every meal from scratch and did home canning. She crocheted doilies, sewed quilts, even ran soy beans through her blender to make soy milk. And then turned it into ice cream.
Somehow she had an abundance of cheer to compensate for all she did not have. Somehow, before the age of computers, she knew all about the health truth about oleo and butter. Before the age of herbal renaissance, she knew all about herbs. She played piano beautifully, taught piano lessons, and played for her church. I always felt somehow behind when I would visit her house.
Eventually she and her husband completed their degrees and moved to where the jobs were. I regret having lost touch with her, but in a way, I still feel the touch of Joi’s cheer in my life.
When it was my birthday, she visited me with a huge surprise. Humble and sweet, just like Joi, no gift could have made me happier that day. Wrapped in a towel was a huge loaf of warm, homemade bread. I had never seen any bread so big, and later learned she actually used the dough for two loaves and placed them into one bread pan. What a gift! Along with it, she brought a large bag of her own spinach, perfectly washed and grit-free.
We loved that sweet gift to pieces, literally. Every slice of the bread was a marvel of deliciousness and the spinach made a great addition to our supper that night. You may think it was an odd gift, but she knew what it means to think before you give something, and we recognized the rarity of it and the loving care that went into it. Imagine washing and washing all that spinach and then giving it away! Imagine the aromas of homemade bread floating through your house, but the bread going to someone else’s house.
These men are waiting. They may look like they are quite active, but I know them. One is 80 years old, and the other is not far behind him. They devote their days to making improvements they will never enjoy, such as planting trees on Arbor Day.
They do enjoy much of it, though. The ability to move about and act like men, still, free of huge medical problems, they enjoy. The camaraderie with other men who care about the future of our grandkids and great-grandkids, they enjoy. Rising early and dressing for work, like the good old days, they enjoy. They are real men, more so than some of their self-professed more virile co-males on this planet, who still lie abed at 10:30 a.m.
They gave up waiting for them.
The tree around which they just finished firming the soil is also waiting. The soil, the men discovered, was moist only down to about 8 inches. On this overcast morning, everyone is hoping for rain. It does fall, 1/2 inch that night and 4 inches the next couple of days. In tree-years, it did not have to wait long.
The tree also is waiting for spring, to show off its promised beauty and to grow into the new soil around its roots. It is waiting to increase enough in size to shade the walking trail just beyond it. And someday, it will have waited until, like the men who planted it, the end will be very near and it will be ready for a position on a truck similar to the one parked in the background.
That truck also is waiting for someone who lives nearby to get going on this mid-morning. Is he lazy? Does he have the day off? Is he bound by a schedule that will not allow him to deliver his load until later?
Or is the driver also waiting? Did his wife sleep in and forget to make breakfast? Is he waiting for an important phone call before he begins his day? Is he waiting for the dryer to stop tumbling so he can finish dressing?
How inter-connected we all are! How much one slow one can affect it all!
Today is the second story, the one that makes yesterday’s post complete in expression of the beauty of blessings. If you didn’t read yesterday’s, you kind of have to read it now. Today’s won’t make as much sense without it.
Fast forward one year. It is Thanksgiving Day, again. We are planning the 500 mile trek home again. Our arm is better. We are playing more carefully, now. We are so totally ready, again.
But a lot has happened in another family we know. The family that opened its home to us last year, when we were sort of stranded, in a medical way of speaking, had lost its only source of income. The dad–we’ll call him Clarence–had been jobless for weeks, had found new employment several hours away and had moved his entire family there to be with him. Things were looking rather good for them and we rejoiced that after such a long trial, these kind people had found some relief from their troubles.
Clarence also had medical insurance at this new job and needed elective surgery. He chose the weekend of Thanksgiving for it because he had days off and so did his parents; they could all be together.
We visited with them over the phone a time or two before the surgery. He felt a bit uneasy, as anyone would before surgery, and Clarence and my husband were pretty good friends. Clarence would call my husband his best friend, but my husband is shy of being called by superlatives.
I think it was the Wednesday. You know–THE Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We were readying to go, I know that for sure. Then the call came. Clarence’s wife wanted prayer for his surgery. I told her of course we were praying. She said that no, she meant really, really pray, that something was not going right. She began to cry. I listened. My horror grew as I realized the medical terms she was quoting from the doctors were the warm-up words they use to prepare the family for death of the patient. I think she wanted me to help her accept this might be happening. I don’t remember what I said, but I did not want to commit myself to anything quotable until I had spoken with my husband.
I called my husband and told him what I thought. It did not register with him. He came home as early as he thought appropriate, and by then I had spoken several more times with Clarence’s wife and when my husband walked in the door I told him, “I think Clarence is dead.”
The grief that washed over him made me sorry I had to tell him.
He called the wife and spoke with her a bit. When he hung up, he said he was going immediately. He took our older son, Clarence’s older son’s best friend. The two of them stayed up all night waiting for the doctors to admit the truth: Clarence had suffered from a fatal reaction to the anesthesia. He had gone out of this life saying to his wife, “Something’s not right. Something’s not right. Tell them! Something’s not right.” She heard these, his last words, I am sure, forever, although that was maybe 12 or 15 years ago and she is happily remarried now.
But my husband and my son were there. They were able to help Clarence’s family assimilate the truth and deal with the aftermath. This kind family who had opened their home to us during the previous Thanksgiving, now missing one member, were the needy ones. And although our plans were again foiled by the events around us, by troubles and tragedies around us, there was the blessing: We could be there for them.
And we realized: That Thanksgiving Dinner we had shared the year before was the last event, ever, that we shared with him before he moved his family and then died. If we had not had reason to stay home, we so would have missed that one last dinner.
And that was the 8th blessing.
And we know that in all things, God works for good with those who love Him . . . Romans 8:28
I recently mentioned resenting interrupted Thanksgiving Days, but today’s post begins the tale of two interrupted Thanksgivings and their attending blessings. Hope you enjoy them.
The first one was when my youngest two sons were about 8 and 6. We were about to leave for our annual “over the river and through the woods”.
Our children had laid out all their clothing according to the master list I provided years ago and stored in each suitcase. (Remember, I was a home-school mom.) Last minute details on cleaning the house before we left were panning out nicely. (I was a bit OCD about coming home to a dirty house.) (Okay, I was a bit OCD about “what if we had a wreck and someone had to come into our house . . . “)
Anyway, we were near completion on everything. The only thing remaining was supper, baths, and sleep, during which I would pack all that nicely laid-out clothing and then sleep during the trip.
I was on schedule and smiling at myself on the inside. In a carefree voice, I told my kids to go out and play, that all the biggest chores were done.
In a few moments they came back inside, the 8-year-old with his arm broken.
My husband had a late meeting that night, so it fell on me to drop all packing chores and take the poor babe to the doctor. It was so late, I called first, and our wonderful family practitioner said if I came straight there, they would stay open for me. That was blessing #1.
One x-ray told all: My son’s injury was the type of break that would require an orthopedist to finish breaking, which was a surgical procedure requiring an overnight stay in the hospital. So after a couple of calls to my husband and to our house, we traveled on to the next town and succumbed to the ministrations of ER. Once there, the inevitable questions came, about who and how this child could be so severely injured. It was a downer, but along came my husband’s close friend, who happened to be the ER physician on call that night, to vouch for me, and to give me his own phone number for “who to call in case of an emergency” when I could not remember my own mother’s phone number. Blessing #2.
(That poor ER nurse was certain I was a childbeater, but what could she say?) Blessing #3.
Anyway, our family doctor had called ahead to our preferred orthopedist, who dropped everything and came to our rescue. Literally, he arrived in the ER in a tux. When I apologized for calling him from such a special occasion, he said, “Are you kidding? I would have taken any excuse to get out of there!” I count that as blessing #4.
Sure, enough, our son had to remain in the hospital overnight, and our entire plans for Thanksgiving were canceled. Our families, 500 miles to the north, were totally disappointed, as we were, too, of course, but we all were more concerned about this little boy and his well-being. Hard to recognize blessing #5. Hey, not everyone has this kind of understanding in their families.
If you’ve read many of my posts, you know we take Thanksgiving Day quite seriously in our family. I immediately began thinking about the get-together our small Bible-study group had planned, for celebrating Thanksgiving, that we had thought we would miss because of going to be with family. I made a couple of calls and we soon had a very special celebration lined up with these other people we loved almost like family. Blessing #6.
The boys sign the cast (Photo credit: samwebster)
Our son was mending, but still woozy from pain killers, and even then, still in some pain, but we all went to celebrate with these friends in one of their homes. They took us in like the orphans we felt we were. All their children treated our injured son to amazing understanding and rare privileges children reserve only for those times when life pleads that we be kind. (Blessing #7)
We were glad to be there, to be thankful for blessings we knew of, never realizing that God was busy, preparing other blessings not so obvious, indeed, of which we could never have even dreamed . . .
She was incredibly poor.
But my husband and my son were there. They were able to help Clarence’s family assimilate the truth and deal with the aftermath. This kind family who had opened their home to us during the previous Thanksgiving, now missing one member, were the needy ones. And although our plans were again foiled by the events around us, by troubles and tragedies around us, there was the blessing: We could be there for them.
Home's Cool! 