The following will illustrate just how uneventful my life has been lately. Otherwise, why on earth would I write about such a ridiculous subject?......
I had discovered it was plugged (or just not working properly) several hours before going to bed for the night. Had stayed in that little room (well, really it was off-and-on) for hours after making this terrible discovery.
You see, for several days I had been (as the TV commercials so tactfully say) "irregular." Due to this and my growing discomfort, I had been taking not one, but several, "remedies" for my malaise. Always at bedtime, in hopes that there would be very satisfying results the next morning. Each morning, after swallowing my remedy-of-choice the night before, I would rise, expecting, hoping for results. And now, after several days, still no results. So I increased the dosage of yet another remedy-of-choice. Surely this would work. I was really getting worried about the whole thing.
Before retiring I went into my chamber one last time, and discovered, after pulling the handle, that it just would not flush. Hence, the several hours of plunging and waiting, plunging and waiting. No flush. Yegads! What should I do? It was too late to call the apartment offices. So I just went to bed, hoping it would fix itself as I slept.....but remembering the heavy dose of the night before.
Morning came and I went directly to check the situation....still no flush. It was too early to call the office, so I waited nervously, plunging into the stubborn water many times. What is wrong? I took the top off the tank....nothing wrong here, everything's connected and should work perfectly. The tank would empty and fill just the way it was supposed to. But no flushing was happening in the bowl. How embarrassing. But it was about to become moreso.
Finally I was able to get an answer in the office. "This is an emergency!" I nearly shrieked into the phone to the startled 20-year-old on the other end. "This is Roberta Meyers in 107, and my toilet won't flush." She began to carefully ask me routine questions....Did you try this? Did you try that?
By that time I could feel overwhelming surges in my abdomen. Twisting, insistent pressure building and building. "I need for someone to fix this, and in the meantime I need to come to the office to use your bathroom." I tried very hard to sound nonchalant, as if it hardly mattered. But I'm sure I must have sounded as desperate as I actually was. "Of course," she said sweetly. "You are welcome to use our facilities, then I'll send someone to your apartment to fix your plumbing problem."
No time to get dressed. This was, indeed, an emergency. Put a coat on over my pajamas (which really look more like sweats), and put on some slip-on shoes, and carefully ran out to my car, not even locking up my apartment as I left. Raced up to the office, the car slamming each time I drove - too fast - over the berms placed strategically to prevent speeding. I was sure I wouldn't make it.
I roared into a parking place in front of the doorway, yanked my keys out of the ignition and ran into the office to the restroom. The door was locked. Of course. Tears were threatening, in my despair. "Use your pool key" yelled the 20-year-old, helpfully.
At last. Relief, so welcome, just narrowly escaping utter disaster. It is amazing how common, ordinary things can take on such huge importance, and then disappear once again into insignificance once the urgency has passed.
I calmly strolled by the receptionist, pulling at the back of my bed-hair, which had been tangled and smashed into a matted swirl, perfectly resembling a storm one might view on the weather channel. But I didn't care. The critical problem of the morning was resolved.
Minutes after getting back home, getting dressed, making my bed and trying to coif my hair more acceptably, the knock came at my door. It was Pedro, my favorite handyman. I opened the door. "Good morning. I'm here to fix your toilet." Wonderful. Just after the knick of time. But I was happy to have him here, confident that he would work his magic as he had many times before in my little apartment.
...and he did. It now works perfectly. And I am feeling great....Just like in the ACTIVIA commercials. Suddenly I'm graceful, mobile, elegantly skipping around my little haven, nearly delerious with relief.
...as I said, not much has been happening here....I hope I have not offended the faint-hearted. I'll write something way more serious the next time. I promise.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Vicks Vapo-Rub for Chickens
Found this, an excerpt from a letter to my mother, written April 6, 1982.....
As you know, Mother, we have chickens. At the moment there are 21 of them occupying the chicken house on our farm. You've seen pictures of them. Well, I have been learning a lot about these incredibly dirty creatures since taking charge of them. (Wow, was I green! But I'm learning.)
Chickens are not one of your more elegant birds. (How do you like that "your" in there?) Some of them may look fairly impressive with their bright red combs and beautiful feathers, strutting about the chicken yard. But they are really nasty, and quite low-class (for birds). Perhaps you're wondering why my low view of chickens...Well, let me tell you.
ALL chickens enjoy simultaneous eating and defecation, and many of them will engage in those combined activities while standing IN the chicken feed, which all are eating. Nice, huh? And they do both of these things CONTINUOUSLY during waking hours. Naturally, they are completely unaware of the filth into which they thrust their beaks. (...at least I hope they are unaware of it.)
What I have just described are the ATTRACTIVE qualities of chickens. Now, on to the unattractive: Chickens are canibals. Forgive me. I could think of no softer way to put it. When our chickens first came here from Oberlin, Kansas, there were 26 of them; all beautiful Rhode Island Reds, the kind that produce those great brown eggs we love. Well, Mother, we now have 5 less. Our dog Luke killed 2 before Jerry figured out a way to prevent them from digging their way out of the chicken yard. The other three have expired under mysterious circumstances, while locked inside the chicken house - at night. I began noticing that several of them had grossly-molested bottoms. (An UNmolested chicken bottom is not much to shout about.) Then I saw that they were pecking at each other in a frenzied manner. Yes. They were pecking at each other's bottoms. According to Chicken Veterans around here, they (the chickens, not the C.V.s) will gang up on any one of them which is bleeding, then peck it to death. Horrible! Disgusting! But listen while I tell you why this behavior occurs...
A VITAMIN DEFICIENCY. My, how grateful I am that HUMANS don't respond that way. Just imagine how busy all the proctologists and gynechologists would be if everyone with a vitamin deficiency began gouging away at the nearest derriere. Appalling!
Well, you can imagine how eager I was to find a solution to this atrocious behavior. I won't list all the suggestions that came my way, only the two which were within my ability to perform. The first has to do with Vicks Vapo-Rub. One of the much-esteemed C.V.s told me that if I would rub (excuse me, RUB??!!!) Vicks Vapo-Rub onto their violated parts, it would discourage the others from further assaults. Well, Mother, as YOUR daughter, you will surely know what my first reaction to that idea was. I couldn't even THINK of it without becoming faint! But all the other suggestions involved expensive vitamin supplements, and various other things which were, for us, totally out of the question. So for 2 more days of horror, I watched, as my beloved chickens attacked one another....each day with more lust, more excitement. I couldn't stand it. So, a few weeks ago I took the jar of Vicks from its place in our medicine cabinet and walked out to the arena where my precious feathered charges were gorging themselves on each others' wounded behinds. It was awful beyond words.
Have you ever chased a chicken? Well, they're even more difficult to catch when you're threatening them with a Vicks rub. I chased, I panted, I swore (silently, of course), but one at a time I captured them, holding them upside down with my left hand while smearing this odorous cream on their featherless bottoms. I winced with each stroke, imagining how it must sting. (NO ONE, not even brainless chickens, wants that camphorous cream there!) Some of them squawked and squirmed quite a bit, others just gave me a dirty look and muttered things under their breath.............but I treated each one. It took a long time, and the chicken house reeked of camphor by the time I finished. But this bizarre treatment did work! ....for that afternoon. The next day they were at it again.
I'm happy to say that my chickens are now getting their feathers back and are treating one another with admirable civility. You see, we found a less-arduous way to prevent the murderous pecking: We have added green alfalfa to their daily diet. (Had I only known..........)
If anyone had EVER told me that one day, as I neared the age of 40, I would find myself willingly in a filthy chicken house, tenderly rubbing Vicks Vapo-Rub onto the wildly-protesting, oozing, bleeding chicken crotches, I would certainly not have believed it!
Write soon. I love you and miss you soooooooooo much, my sweet Mother.
Roberta
As you know, Mother, we have chickens. At the moment there are 21 of them occupying the chicken house on our farm. You've seen pictures of them. Well, I have been learning a lot about these incredibly dirty creatures since taking charge of them. (Wow, was I green! But I'm learning.)
Chickens are not one of your more elegant birds. (How do you like that "your" in there?) Some of them may look fairly impressive with their bright red combs and beautiful feathers, strutting about the chicken yard. But they are really nasty, and quite low-class (for birds). Perhaps you're wondering why my low view of chickens...Well, let me tell you.
ALL chickens enjoy simultaneous eating and defecation, and many of them will engage in those combined activities while standing IN the chicken feed, which all are eating. Nice, huh? And they do both of these things CONTINUOUSLY during waking hours. Naturally, they are completely unaware of the filth into which they thrust their beaks. (...at least I hope they are unaware of it.)
What I have just described are the ATTRACTIVE qualities of chickens. Now, on to the unattractive: Chickens are canibals. Forgive me. I could think of no softer way to put it. When our chickens first came here from Oberlin, Kansas, there were 26 of them; all beautiful Rhode Island Reds, the kind that produce those great brown eggs we love. Well, Mother, we now have 5 less. Our dog Luke killed 2 before Jerry figured out a way to prevent them from digging their way out of the chicken yard. The other three have expired under mysterious circumstances, while locked inside the chicken house - at night. I began noticing that several of them had grossly-molested bottoms. (An UNmolested chicken bottom is not much to shout about.) Then I saw that they were pecking at each other in a frenzied manner. Yes. They were pecking at each other's bottoms. According to Chicken Veterans around here, they (the chickens, not the C.V.s) will gang up on any one of them which is bleeding, then peck it to death. Horrible! Disgusting! But listen while I tell you why this behavior occurs...
A VITAMIN DEFICIENCY. My, how grateful I am that HUMANS don't respond that way. Just imagine how busy all the proctologists and gynechologists would be if everyone with a vitamin deficiency began gouging away at the nearest derriere. Appalling!
Well, you can imagine how eager I was to find a solution to this atrocious behavior. I won't list all the suggestions that came my way, only the two which were within my ability to perform. The first has to do with Vicks Vapo-Rub. One of the much-esteemed C.V.s told me that if I would rub (excuse me, RUB??!!!) Vicks Vapo-Rub onto their violated parts, it would discourage the others from further assaults. Well, Mother, as YOUR daughter, you will surely know what my first reaction to that idea was. I couldn't even THINK of it without becoming faint! But all the other suggestions involved expensive vitamin supplements, and various other things which were, for us, totally out of the question. So for 2 more days of horror, I watched, as my beloved chickens attacked one another....each day with more lust, more excitement. I couldn't stand it. So, a few weeks ago I took the jar of Vicks from its place in our medicine cabinet and walked out to the arena where my precious feathered charges were gorging themselves on each others' wounded behinds. It was awful beyond words.
Have you ever chased a chicken? Well, they're even more difficult to catch when you're threatening them with a Vicks rub. I chased, I panted, I swore (silently, of course), but one at a time I captured them, holding them upside down with my left hand while smearing this odorous cream on their featherless bottoms. I winced with each stroke, imagining how it must sting. (NO ONE, not even brainless chickens, wants that camphorous cream there!) Some of them squawked and squirmed quite a bit, others just gave me a dirty look and muttered things under their breath.............but I treated each one. It took a long time, and the chicken house reeked of camphor by the time I finished. But this bizarre treatment did work! ....for that afternoon. The next day they were at it again.
I'm happy to say that my chickens are now getting their feathers back and are treating one another with admirable civility. You see, we found a less-arduous way to prevent the murderous pecking: We have added green alfalfa to their daily diet. (Had I only known..........)
If anyone had EVER told me that one day, as I neared the age of 40, I would find myself willingly in a filthy chicken house, tenderly rubbing Vicks Vapo-Rub onto the wildly-protesting, oozing, bleeding chicken crotches, I would certainly not have believed it!
Write soon. I love you and miss you soooooooooo much, my sweet Mother.
Roberta
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Short Leash
I used to have a dog. I have some great pictures of her, but don't know how to get photos into my blog, so use your imagination. (Sorry, I'm just helpless when it comes to things technical.)
Her name was Sage and she was an unusually beautiful chocolate lab. Beautiul, sweet face, long-legged, with a perfect shape; big chest and tiny waist. She never lost her enviable figure and continued to be beautiful until the day she died. I had her for 13 years.
When my husband died (close to 9 years ago), I was desolate. We had been a very close couple and I was suddenly without my other half. How does half of anything work?
I lived alone, which I had not done for over 30 years. It was very lonely, but sharing this lonely time with me was my dog. She followed me always from room to room, just content to be near me.
Although she had been a special gift for my husband, I was the one with whom she truly bonded. I bought her for my husband, but God meant her for me. He knew that in 5 years I would be alone, so he, in his tender, fatherly love, provided me with a warm, sweet creature to share my solitude and comfort me. In the early days of my widowhood, when I wept nearly to the point of physical dehydration, tears streaming down my face for hours at a time, in my aloneness, she sat, pressed against me, looking at me with her sad eyes, licking the tears from my face.
I still miss her. I held her as she was put to sleep last year, because of rapidly increasing problems of aging - arthritis, back problems, terrible balance, and encroaching blindness. She died, never having had a sad day. That was better, I thought, than waiting to see how long she could live...
I actually learned some important things from Sage. She was a living, breathing object lesson in motion.
A few years ago we were out for an afternoon walk. It was a beautiful, bright blue day! The wild blackberries were bursting out all along the path we walked together by a stream. Oak trees made a thick, green canopy over the walkway, so the sun shone through in some places, but there was a lot of shade. Even on a hot day, this was a lovely place to walk - and it was just a half a block from where I lived, in a tiny apartment up over the kitchen of a very old church.
[I always used a telescoping leash - one that would give her about 16 feet of room, but I could crank her back in whenever I decided to. It was fun for both of us, if she would have a little freedom during our walks together. She was a big dog and needed room to explore.]
On this particular day, she had been even more eager than usual to explore, run for short bursts, and poke her nose into things that interested her. There was a very negative side to this freedom thing...
Lovely as she was, even so, she seemed most attracted to things that I didn't want her to get into. Sometimes she would eat things that were really disgusting. I won't list them. She went places that were strewn with various types of vile smelling "organic matter," which she would step in, and the odors would linger on her, even after she was no longer walking in them. On this day she got tangled in the blackberry vines way down the embankment. (She loved blackberries, and would eat them right off the vines as we walked). It was difficult to get her untangled. Hiking down the slope that led to the creek, I stumbled my way down to her, to help her get loose from the thorny trap. Quite a production! Stepping in organic matter which I could not, and would not want to, identify, fervently wishing I hadn't decided to wear sandals, I began the task of getting her free of this sweet-tasting snare that had captured her. We were both a smelly, scratched mess by the time I got her back up on the path, this time ON A SHORT LEASH.
Walking back home, with her pulled closely to my side, I pondered the metaphoric qualities of our experience. I'm really a lot like my dog, I thought to myself. I need to be kept very close to Jesus, or I become ensnared by the attractions of the world, and must be rescued.
Throughout the book of Judges, this same scene is played over and over again. We know we need to be in God's Word daily. We know we need to stay close to God. But we are continuously attracted to ideas, attitudes, experiences, and all manner of "stuff" that pulls us away from the God we know we need to love and obey. We "do what is evil in the sight of the Lord." So, we are just like my dog, and just like those nasty Israelites, needing to be rescued from ourselves.
I know that I need to be on a short leash with God. But sometimes I become distracted and tug at that leash, pulling away from that which is my only safety. It's my "human nature," (such a grand-sounding euphymism for my flesh). And so, God gives me some "room" and I never use that room to read my Bible more, or pray more, or meditate wholeheartedly on the perfection of God. No, I will use valuable time, instead, to check out what's on sale at Kohl's, or spend hours (How can that be?) on Facebook, or watch worthless things on TV. Filling my mind with things that don't matter. Idols.
The one I really do love is God. And yet, how unfaithful I am to him, over and over again....yanking against the loving leash of his Word, so I can engage in easier, less challenging thought. The older I get, the lazier I seem to be!
Echoing the Apostle Paul's rant: "So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil llies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging WAR against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members." -Rom. 7:21-23.
Oh, help me, my God. Rescue me from the snares "that so easily entangle" me. Help me to love you and obey you and serve you in holiness of motive and worship! I don't want to continue to step in things, stinking from the lingering smell of wickedness. Deliver me from things that would pull me from your side.
Oh, the greatness of our God, for reconciling us to Himself through the death of his Son! (Rom. 5:10) He did this "while we were yet sinners." WHILE, not after we were all cleaned-up. Amazing grace indeed.
So, nasty as I still am, you continue to pull me close to your side, and continue sanctifying me through my failures, my idolatries, my pain. The contrast between us is ridiculous. Your total perfection, beauty, holiness, faithfulness, gracious redemption. My depravity, my stiff-necked rebellion, arrogant pride, worldly affections and laziness, preferring things that are easy, not holy....Quite a contrast. It illustrates just how totally in need of grace I am. I cannot behave my way to righteousness. (though I seem to think that I need to do that.) But, you, my generous and loving God, have imputed the righteousness of your perfect son, Jesus....to Me! Me, the vile one; Me, the arrogant one; Me, the lazy one; Me, the idolatrous one. Such grace is too wonderful for words.
"I love you, O LORD, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies." Ps 18:1-3
Please, dear God, keep me on a short leash..........
Her name was Sage and she was an unusually beautiful chocolate lab. Beautiul, sweet face, long-legged, with a perfect shape; big chest and tiny waist. She never lost her enviable figure and continued to be beautiful until the day she died. I had her for 13 years.
When my husband died (close to 9 years ago), I was desolate. We had been a very close couple and I was suddenly without my other half. How does half of anything work?
I lived alone, which I had not done for over 30 years. It was very lonely, but sharing this lonely time with me was my dog. She followed me always from room to room, just content to be near me.
Although she had been a special gift for my husband, I was the one with whom she truly bonded. I bought her for my husband, but God meant her for me. He knew that in 5 years I would be alone, so he, in his tender, fatherly love, provided me with a warm, sweet creature to share my solitude and comfort me. In the early days of my widowhood, when I wept nearly to the point of physical dehydration, tears streaming down my face for hours at a time, in my aloneness, she sat, pressed against me, looking at me with her sad eyes, licking the tears from my face.
I still miss her. I held her as she was put to sleep last year, because of rapidly increasing problems of aging - arthritis, back problems, terrible balance, and encroaching blindness. She died, never having had a sad day. That was better, I thought, than waiting to see how long she could live...
I actually learned some important things from Sage. She was a living, breathing object lesson in motion.
A few years ago we were out for an afternoon walk. It was a beautiful, bright blue day! The wild blackberries were bursting out all along the path we walked together by a stream. Oak trees made a thick, green canopy over the walkway, so the sun shone through in some places, but there was a lot of shade. Even on a hot day, this was a lovely place to walk - and it was just a half a block from where I lived, in a tiny apartment up over the kitchen of a very old church.
[I always used a telescoping leash - one that would give her about 16 feet of room, but I could crank her back in whenever I decided to. It was fun for both of us, if she would have a little freedom during our walks together. She was a big dog and needed room to explore.]
On this particular day, she had been even more eager than usual to explore, run for short bursts, and poke her nose into things that interested her. There was a very negative side to this freedom thing...
Lovely as she was, even so, she seemed most attracted to things that I didn't want her to get into. Sometimes she would eat things that were really disgusting. I won't list them. She went places that were strewn with various types of vile smelling "organic matter," which she would step in, and the odors would linger on her, even after she was no longer walking in them. On this day she got tangled in the blackberry vines way down the embankment. (She loved blackberries, and would eat them right off the vines as we walked). It was difficult to get her untangled. Hiking down the slope that led to the creek, I stumbled my way down to her, to help her get loose from the thorny trap. Quite a production! Stepping in organic matter which I could not, and would not want to, identify, fervently wishing I hadn't decided to wear sandals, I began the task of getting her free of this sweet-tasting snare that had captured her. We were both a smelly, scratched mess by the time I got her back up on the path, this time ON A SHORT LEASH.
Walking back home, with her pulled closely to my side, I pondered the metaphoric qualities of our experience. I'm really a lot like my dog, I thought to myself. I need to be kept very close to Jesus, or I become ensnared by the attractions of the world, and must be rescued.
Throughout the book of Judges, this same scene is played over and over again. We know we need to be in God's Word daily. We know we need to stay close to God. But we are continuously attracted to ideas, attitudes, experiences, and all manner of "stuff" that pulls us away from the God we know we need to love and obey. We "do what is evil in the sight of the Lord." So, we are just like my dog, and just like those nasty Israelites, needing to be rescued from ourselves.
I know that I need to be on a short leash with God. But sometimes I become distracted and tug at that leash, pulling away from that which is my only safety. It's my "human nature," (such a grand-sounding euphymism for my flesh). And so, God gives me some "room" and I never use that room to read my Bible more, or pray more, or meditate wholeheartedly on the perfection of God. No, I will use valuable time, instead, to check out what's on sale at Kohl's, or spend hours (How can that be?) on Facebook, or watch worthless things on TV. Filling my mind with things that don't matter. Idols.
The one I really do love is God. And yet, how unfaithful I am to him, over and over again....yanking against the loving leash of his Word, so I can engage in easier, less challenging thought. The older I get, the lazier I seem to be!
Echoing the Apostle Paul's rant: "So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil llies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging WAR against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members." -Rom. 7:21-23.
Oh, help me, my God. Rescue me from the snares "that so easily entangle" me. Help me to love you and obey you and serve you in holiness of motive and worship! I don't want to continue to step in things, stinking from the lingering smell of wickedness. Deliver me from things that would pull me from your side.
Oh, the greatness of our God, for reconciling us to Himself through the death of his Son! (Rom. 5:10) He did this "while we were yet sinners." WHILE, not after we were all cleaned-up. Amazing grace indeed.
So, nasty as I still am, you continue to pull me close to your side, and continue sanctifying me through my failures, my idolatries, my pain. The contrast between us is ridiculous. Your total perfection, beauty, holiness, faithfulness, gracious redemption. My depravity, my stiff-necked rebellion, arrogant pride, worldly affections and laziness, preferring things that are easy, not holy....Quite a contrast. It illustrates just how totally in need of grace I am. I cannot behave my way to righteousness. (though I seem to think that I need to do that.) But, you, my generous and loving God, have imputed the righteousness of your perfect son, Jesus....to Me! Me, the vile one; Me, the arrogant one; Me, the lazy one; Me, the idolatrous one. Such grace is too wonderful for words.
"I love you, O LORD, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold. I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised, and I am saved from my enemies." Ps 18:1-3
Please, dear God, keep me on a short leash..........
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
JUST ANOTHER DAY
I just found this. It was written, I think, in 1995.............
The familiar sound of the front door slamming shut jarred me awake today. Had just fallen asleep after working a night shift at the state hospital.
"Bye, Dad," said the young man who was hurrying to his car, late as usual, for school. Just another day.
But, for me, it was unlike any other day, because it was the last day he would attend high school.
I got out of bed and watched numbly through the curtains as he drove off, not looking back, because it was, after all, just another day.
Tears stung my eyes and my throat ached as I returned to the comfort of my bed. Pulling the covers up over my head, I shed quiet bitter-sweet tears for a few minutes, not trying to stop them.
Where have all the years gone? I could still so clearly see him as a wiry, very active 5-year-old, trying to look nonchalant as he made the short walk from the back door to the big, noisy, yellow school bus, arriving in our farmyard to pick him up for school..........it was his first day of school. We lived 11 miles from town, 3 miles on a dirt road, in Nebraska. It was August, 1982.
In those days I was the center of his world -- a position which I took completely for granted. He told me everything then. I was the one he confided in. I was the one he laughed the most with, cried the most with, talked-to incessantly, filling my days and my heart with treasures that would increase in their value with the passing of time.
The scared-to-death-but-not-about-to-show-it little guy looked so vulnerable. So little. I knew, without a doubt that he was the handsomest, smartest, funniest, most loving boy who ever set-off, for the very first time, to school. He was so proud of his new clothes -- a red and blue baseball cap advertising one of the local granaries, a striped polo shirt, a blue windbreaker, brand-new, still-stiff jeans, and the coolest brown hiking boots ever! Wow!! All new (such a rarity), purchased 60 miles away at the nearest town which featured a large discount store. I was excited at the check-out, telling the salesgirl that my little boy would be wearing them to start kindergarten in a few days. She was sweet and patient with me.
I loved him so much I thought my heart would break, as I watched him climb on that bus for the first time. He didn't look back that day, either.
I guess the not looking back is a thing of youth, because, after all, it's so much more fun and interesting to look forward when you're young. As we grow older and continue making deposits in our memory bank of treasures, (sprinkled always with varying portions of sorrows, as well), we find ourselves looking back more and more often.
As I sit at this typewriter, writing something for the first time in many years. I find a warmth spreading through me. The warmth of a mother's love, a mother's pride, the warmth of accomplishment. He has finished high school! ALREADY!! This really terrific, still-handsome, still-smart, still-funny, still most-loving BOY is graduating from high school. Incredible....
There are some things that get better as we grow older. We appreciate the moment so much more than we did as younger mothers. We recognize the importance of simple days. We can look back and remember, down to the tiniest detail, how utterly precious and dear certain days were, special moments spent molding our children (whether we knew it at the time, or not) into who they are today.
My son's "gonna be a preacher," he says. [like his dad] Probably a youth minister first, then go into a preaching ministry. He's going away to a fine Bible college soon -- it's very far away, and I shall miss him terribly. But I'm so thankful that God allowed him to be in our midst these 18 years, which, today, seem but a moment.
This is as it should be. It's God's design. And I want for him to get on with his life, which will, I realize with some pain, include me less and less as he matures. It's a sweet melancholy that grips me when I realize how enormous my love is for him, and that it is NEARLY balanced with a kind of ambivalent happiness at watching him fly away.
On a wall somewhere in my mother's home is a scarred, rugged piece of wood with an inscription. I feel the impact of the words it bears, as I have never felt them before. My mother knew! I don't know who the author is, but the old, wise saying is this: "There are just two things we can give our children: one is roots, the other is wings."
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