Things I like now...

... that I unconditionally did not like as a kid, in no particular order:

V8. Two servings of vegetables per day in a pop-top can is somehow a delightful proposition at my current phase of life. I've also discovered that I genuinely like the taste -- Grey Goose and Tobasco notwithstanding.

Nap time. Enough said. Really.

Jalepeños. I especially find delight in pepper jack cheese, anything chipotle, and -- as a very recent discovery -- jalepeño bologna. As is likely obvious, my palate is not refined or picky, and, apparently, neither is my digestive track.

Brown. Since my truly formative years were basically the 1970s, I must admit that I used to be quite bitter and a bit nauseous about the color brown. As I was growing up, the world was bathed in brown and/or harvest gold -- from cars, polyester pant suits, and wood paneling to kitchen appliances, shag carpeting, and couches with brown and gold floral patterns. Bleee-eck. These memories conjur up horrible notions -- the likes of which jalepeño bologna never could.

So relieved was I to leave the oppressive darkness of '70s that I entirely embraced the cooler teals and peaches of the '80s; the southwestern trend of my pubescent years was a refreshing shift. Today, of course, 1980s design is about as appealing as cheap, motel art, and our current decade's design authorities  -- aka HGTV -- are morphing the old chocolate brown into warm, cozy cappuccino colors. They are matching brown with hot pink and even torquoise, and, suddenly, I'm loving brown. Loving. It.

Just, please... No harvest gold. Please.

A Mom's Thoughts

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary of Magdala. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Dear woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home. (John 19:25-27)

During the two years Son #2 was in preschool, his front lip and teeth took regular beatings; concrete floors, playscapes, and other kids’ heads were quite regularly bashed against the lower front of his face. We wondered for a long time if his top baby teeth would be allowed to survive their natural life expectancy.

Eventually, the teeth did survive, and the “busted” lips all healed well. But, when I think about that time, one specific example of his poor face’s trials stands out. It was a beautiful, spring afternoon, and the boys and I were in the parking lot at Sam’s Club. We were getting out of the car when Son #2 fell out of the backseat onto the asphalt; he landed on his face. His front teeth badly cut his inner lip, his outer lip was also cut, his knees were abraded, and I wasn’t so sure about the future of one particular front tooth. Blood was everywhere. We cut short our trip and hurried home to ice packs, the comfort of cartoons, and his beloved friend, Bear-Bear.

Hours later, after all was calmer and Son #2 was munching ice like a trooper, I noticed my big toe. It had a huge blob of dried blood on it. I hadn’t even noticed it. Much later, when I knew Son #2 would be okay and when we had decided that stitches were not required, did I slow down enough to notice this reminder of the afternoon’s events. The first thought that came to me when I saw that dried blood was of Mary – THE Mary. Our trauma had been a small one, and I suddenly wondered what Mary had looked like at the end of that horrible day so many springs ago. I wondered how many dried blood spots she had on her body that she did not even notice because she was more concerned about the suffering of HER son. I thought of those agonizing hours along the Via Dolorosa as she followed her son as he carried his cross – as he carried the cross for all of us – and I could not imagine the terror in her heart that day. In the end, she stayed with her son, and she followed him and his pain until its final end as he hung on that cross. She stayed because, as his mother, she had no choice but to stay; she knew that the human son in him needed her to.

Ultimately and perhaps ironically, Mary teaches what parenthood is about: being selfless, giving to the needy, and seeing “it” through. As a result, she not only teaches about being a parent, but about being a Christian as well. As with her, we all are given the wonderful grace of knowing that, regardless of what we suffer along the way, we, too, will ultimately be taken care of – just as Jesus, even in his final moments, took care of her.

Dear Lord, help me today in bearing this huge responsibility of parenthood, and help me to walk with my children through their pains and trials. Give me the grace you gave Mary, as I work to put the focus where it belongs. Thank you for caring for me while I care for others. In your Son’s name I pray, Amen.

Proverbs 31

Thinking about my grandma today. No reason. Just am. Read what follows here at her funeral in February, 2008. Had totally forgotten some of these things. Good to remember.

Every comedy team has two roles: First, there is the comic who tells all the jokes and makes everyone laugh. This first comic is often the one that the audience remembers, the one who seems funnier and more entertaining. The other half of comedy team is made up of the one who is responsible for laughing at all the funny guy’s jokes. Much like George Burns had Gracie Allen and Lucy had Ricky, every comedy duo strikes a careful balance; these acts desperately need both players since one without the other entirely weakens the comedy.

Initially, it would seem that my grandmother had little to do with comedy teams. Initially, it really does seem that way, but, in truth, most of us had relationships with Grandma that were very much like the relationships of these comedy teams. Grandma rarely told a joke herself, but she always laughed at the jokes the rest of us told. And, when she laughed, she had a great laugh – a big laugh, a laugh that made her nose crinkle and her eyes all but disappear as her faced stretched into a smile. She was the very essence of the word “jolly.” Her entire self shook when she laughed, and you couldn’t help but like her when she was so jolly – and when she was, after all, laughing at your joke.

One of my most vivid childhood memories involves Grandma and Grandpa. It is likely such a vivid memory because it very probably happened more than once. In this memory, we were at Grandma’s table in her condominium in Fort Stockton – a table that had been largely extended with leaves and card tables; it was a table filled with wonderful things to eat and surrounded by family. It was a holiday meal, though I don’t remember which one, and Grandma was bustling around making sure that everyone had everything that they wanted or needed. Grandpa was seated at the head of the table watching the entire proceedings. At one point, he said something in German very clearly and loudly to Grandma. None of us had a clue what he said, but Grandma looked at him with a mischievous smile, and said to him, “Oh, Herbie.”  As usual, with this simple endearment and a big grin, she showed her jolly disposition and did only what she knew to do: She appreciated the humor in whatever Grandpa had said.

Another time, our entire family had traveled to Ruidoso. The first afternoon that we were there, Grandma decided that my cousin, Holly, and I needed to rest, so she made us lie down with her. We, however, were not excited about a nap; we were too thrilled about the winter wonderland outside. As soon as we thought Grandma was asleep, we snuck out of the bedroom; Holly even had to gingerly remove Grandma’s hand to get away. We thought we had really fooled her as she napped… that is, until later when Grandma told us she had been awake the entire time. She didn’t laugh at us out loud, but the amusement she found in our trying to sneak out was totally apparent.

 

Last August, when Grandma was in the hospital, I had the blessing of spending some time with her – just she and I. Ironically, she felt really good during this time, and she didn’t really understand why she was in the hospital. She was also totally coherent; she knew me, and she remembered things I imagine she hadn’t remembered in years. She and I talked a lot, which is something we hadn’t done in a good while. She talked of her years in Otis, Kansas, when her girls were about the ages that my boys are now and how they had lived in the garage of their new house while the house itself was being finished. We talked about her years in McCamey, and she shared some memories from living in Fort Stockton. But the thing that sticks out more during this period isn’t her memories, though I did enjoy them immensely. What does seem so evident now as I think about our time together then is that she laughed; she laughed that big, jolly laugh she had when she knew she could do nothing but appreciate the humor. This time was really the last time I remember her laughing such a genuine laugh.

I don’t mean to suggest that all my grandmother did was smile and laugh. In truth, she was so much more: She was the hardest worker I have ever known; she was a devoted mother and grandmother; she was an attentive wife and a loving sister; she was a good friend; and she was a faithful servant to her church and the Lord. At different times, she was also a small business owner and a Sunday school teacher. She was indeed the very essence of the noble woman.

Out of all of these roles that Grandma had, though, her part in having relationships with each of us and being the one whose job it was to laugh was obvious. She laughed with us when she didn’t know what else to say, and she laughed for us when we needed someone to validate us, to support us. Her nearly 92 years comprised a life filled with genuine care for other people; her laughter was only one of the amazing ways that she showed that care. 

During the last few months, Grandma seemed so happy. As any of you who saw her knew, her smile was constant, and she was so contented. She had no worries, no cares; she seemed glad to just BE. In truth, such a state seems an entirely fitting way for her to spend her final months, and, as we gather today to say, “good-bye,” to Grandma, more than anything else, I imagine her exactly that way…smiling and laughing.

Would it -- Could it -- be as sweet?

We call him all sorts of things... Dix. Deedles. Fred. Dee Dee. Dixer. One very sweet man at church even calls him, "Dick."

When he was four, I started calling him, "Fred," because he refused to let me call him by any endearment. I tried them all, from "honey" to "sweetie" to "baby cakes" to so many others. He flatly refused each one, so, when I jokingly suggested, "Fred," I never thought he would be okay with it. But he was. So I still call him, "Fred." He still seems to like it. Or at least he answers.

As for the rest of the names, I don't know for sure where they came from, except that, when he was very small, he couldn't say his given name, so he said, "Dee Dee," instead. We learned that one from him.

I also know that, when babies are tiny and when mommies stay home and have no other interaction but with these tiny babies, strange names and conversations can result. I'm sure that's how "Deedles" came about; I must have been making up names for him out of sheer silliness and a lack of intellectual stimulation. The rest is family history.

This is Dix at 7 months old. See those two bottom teeth? They are long gone now. The Tooth Fairy doesn't have them; Metro has them in a baggy in his junk drawer. Dee didn't want to part with his teeth -- didn't like the idea of someone in his room while he was sleeping -- so we're keeping 'em instead.

Now back to the names... The one name for him that makes me smile the most these days is when his brother calls him. The name is usually several syllables long and jam-packed with frustration: "Diiiiii-ix!" I never considered when we were shopping for baby names how each of those names might sound screeched, growled, or otherwise blasphemed from a sibling's mouth.

When baby booties and all things soft and cuddly are dancing in a parent's head, he or she never considers -- not totally anyway -- how that name will morph into the person that the child is. Now -- seven years later with all my baby-naming behind me -- it is so clear that the name never really owns the child, regardless of a parent's grand plans and hopes; it is the child who owns the name, tweaking and editing to make the monniker his own.

That's what our Dixer has done; he has grown the name we lovingly chose for him into something varied and diverse, something that is just as unique and amazing as he is. And something that doesn't sound half bad when his brother screams it.

Here's one more shot of Dix; this one is on the last day of 1st grade with a stuffed wolf a friend gave him.