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Coincidently, while I was shopping in Hobby Lobby yesterday, I recognized a lady pushing a cart through the aisle in which I was browsing . I couldn't remember her name, but the face was familiar. I bravely said, "That is a Recker (my maiden name) face if I ever saw one". Her face lit up and she smiled broadly and said, "Yes, I have Recker blood in me". It was one of my father's cousins, her mother being a sister to my father's father. I recognized her face as one that I had seen in family reunions from the past. Because I am the first of my generation, most of my dad's gazillion cousins know my face when they see it. She said, I know you are Gayle but I don't remember your last name. I confessed that I didn't remember either her first or last name. She was Barb Smits Lanninga. Amazingly, it is easy for me to converse with someone I know is kin. We chatted for probably fifteen minutes among the goods in the clearance aisle. I told her that I found it interesting that I had just written about our common ancestry in my blog.
Just last Sunday evening, a young gal from our church approached me following the service and said, "Guess who I work with." I had no clue. She said she worked with Amy Turner. Amy is a gal who is very dear to us. When she was about four or five, I began to baby sit for her and her disabled sister. Her sister had a brain disease and was troubled with seizures. Amy and I grew very close over the few years in which we spent nearly a day to day relationship. While Amy's sister's condition and needs sucked the energy out of their mother, it seemed that Amy was left without much attention. I suppose I tried to fill that void. I began to love her as a familiy member. Amy is twenty three now and working as a CNA and will return to school for nursing (her mother's profession) in August. My church friend told me that Amy was wonderful at her job and that she was very much appreciated. Those words were sweet music to my ears. As we parted, I asked my friend to give Amy a big hug for me and to remind her that I love her. I hadn't seen Amy in several years and had lost track of her so just knowing she was well was balm to my soul.
On Monday morning, my husband and I went to the hardware store in town. We were admiring something on display outside the door. My husband had his hand on the exit door and I could vaguely see a body standing on the other side waiting to open the door until he moved . I drew his attention to the person's need for him to move. As he stepped aside, the door opened and it was Amy. What a thrill and surprise! As I began to tell her about my church friend's message to me she said, "Oh yes, Beth told me and she gave me a big hug from you." We embraced in a person to person hug and enjoyed a few moments of "catching up". I wish my dear Amy the best of God's richest blessings in life. One of my best memories with Amy was when I read, "The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" to her. She caught the sprirital analogies as quick as a wink. What a thrill to hear that little girl relate to the Biblical messages that C.S. Lewis was trying to get across.
So two surprises in one week. What fun. The thought crossed my mind that God gave me those people sightings as a gift. Both people were spoken of the day before I met them and came out of the blue. It was if God wanted me to renew those relationships. I thank him for those two special moments.
Psalm 5:11
Friday, June 29, 2007
Father's Side
My father’s family came from Holland, however, my grandfather’s family had a bit of French Huguenot woven into it somewhere and a bit of German as well. I believe my father had an exceptional amount of the French ingredients. Even though he was blonde as he could be while a young child, his hair darkened to a very dark black during his adult years. My grandfather, William Recker, was a very adventuresome man. His adventurous spirit rubbed off on my dad and eventually to my siblings and me. He came to America at the age of five and grew up in Highland, Indiana. He was a truck farmer and taxidermist. After a failed attempt to homestead in Montana during the nineteen twenties, he returned to Highland and worked for Pullman Standard as a supervisor of their finishing crew. The crew varnished wood and put a finishing touch on their train cars. He told his family he felt God tell him to move to De Motte, Indiana to get his family into the country. The day they arrived in De Motte, the banks failed and the great depression began. His move to the country was a safe place for the Recker family as they raised their own food. They struggled through the depression like everyone else, but God brought them to the other side. In De Motte, he practiced his taxidermy and truck farmed his small acreage. Eventually, he set up a small sale stand on the highway in front of his home each summer to sell his wares. His peers often came to the stand to “chew the fat”, meaning to talk together and solve the world’s problems.
My great grandpa on my dad’s side was Ahlrich Recker. He was a very tall man. He made wagon wheels in Holland and became a carpenter when he arrived in America. My father recalls him remodeling the barn on my grandfather’s home place in De Motte. He remembers his grandfather tearing the existing barn up to do the remodeling and hearing him say, “The Vurst ist yet to come”. He meant that before the barn would be put back to gether, more had to be torn apart. Dad told me that when something would go wrong for his grandpa that Grandpa would say, “defal” which meant a pan lid. My father chuckled at recalling his grandfather’s curse word, which was not a curse word. Great Grandpa Recker played the pump organ like a whiz according to his grandson, Jim Recker, (my father). His grandfather would walk to the organ and invite those present to come around to sing together. They would belt out the words of the Psalms in song and encourage each other in that way.
My father’s mother’s family was from Freisland in the Netherlands and immigrated to the states with three children in l892. They lived in the Roseland area of Chicago.
Grandma was one of fourteen children. Her name was Jesse (Tjitche) Staal. While in Holland, her father, Anne Sipkes Staal was a barge captain on a canal. He was born while Benjamin Harrison was President on Febuary 5th, l865. Grandma Recker’s mother was Sijske Dirks Kalma born March 1866 in Wanswerd, Friesland and died on May 5 l941 in Montana. Once in the states he worked for Pullman Standard as a Car builder until 1894 when there was a huge labor strike. He relocated to Lansing, Illinois, then to Griffith, Indiana and then to Montana.. He also tried his hand at homesteading. He died at the age of 79 on September 2, l944 when I was two years old. Anne and Sijske had fourteen children and 71 grandchildren. The Staal family was one of a kind. There was nothing they were fearful of and seemed to have been blessed with an excessive amount of confidence. That confidence has also made its way into the lives of the descendents. Obviously, not all in the family tree have these traits but they become recognizable in some from time to time.
Both my paternal grandparents’ families swallowed the urging of land sales agents during the twenties and moved west to homestead in the grasses of Montana. The agents were full up of promises and spoke word visions of grandeur and lives of ease. Like all other sales pitches, most were spoken only to make a dollar. The work was difficult and the weather was not conducive to growing field crops that needed time to mature before harvest. Hail got it nearly every time.
Both my paternal grandparents died at the young age of fifty-nine. I was ten and eleven at the times of their death. I feel cheated that I lost them so young. I was their eldest grandchild of whom they were proud. I remember doing more with my grandfather than my grandmother. My grandfather was a pipe and cigar smoker and paid the price. He was born on February 14 1894 and died on May 24, l953. Grandma was born on October 16, 1892 and died May 9, l952. My remembrances are small things. I recall the smell of bacon and eggs as my father and I walked in the door each morning during the summers. Grandpa would offer me a Smith Brothers cough drop. It was candy in those days. Grandma loved moss roses. There were heads of mounted animals all over the living and dining room. I recall wonderful Thanksgiving Day dinners with the warmth of uncles and aunts and cousins. I wish I could have gotten to know them better. Much of what I know of them, I learned through the stories of my dad and his siblings. I think I have mentioned before that my dad and his siblings are such an example of how siblings should love one another. I NEVER hear my father’s family talk negatively about one of the others. Even though miles and circumstances have put distance between some of them over the years, they always found a way to stay connected. When my uncle was in Africa for fifteen years, my father got out his Remington typewriter every Sunday afternoon as soon as dinner was done. He slipped one of those blue aerograms in and typed away. He would fill every inch of that paper even turning the paper on its side and writing in long hand on the spaces he couldn’t reach with the typewriter. There is a significant amount of loyalty among those dear folks, all of whom are getting up in their eighties at this point. One of my uncles, Ahlrich, died in l989 but the rest, including his wife are all alive and functioning. It is a tremendous blessing to see them and be able to share life with them.
I could write for days about my grandparents and great grandparents. Both sets had significant influence on my life. Both sets were dedicated and godly people. Both had good marriages and good families. I owe God a great big thank you for those dear people in my life.
My great grandpa on my dad’s side was Ahlrich Recker. He was a very tall man. He made wagon wheels in Holland and became a carpenter when he arrived in America. My father recalls him remodeling the barn on my grandfather’s home place in De Motte. He remembers his grandfather tearing the existing barn up to do the remodeling and hearing him say, “The Vurst ist yet to come”. He meant that before the barn would be put back to gether, more had to be torn apart. Dad told me that when something would go wrong for his grandpa that Grandpa would say, “defal” which meant a pan lid. My father chuckled at recalling his grandfather’s curse word, which was not a curse word. Great Grandpa Recker played the pump organ like a whiz according to his grandson, Jim Recker, (my father). His grandfather would walk to the organ and invite those present to come around to sing together. They would belt out the words of the Psalms in song and encourage each other in that way.
My father’s mother’s family was from Freisland in the Netherlands and immigrated to the states with three children in l892. They lived in the Roseland area of Chicago.
Grandma was one of fourteen children. Her name was Jesse (Tjitche) Staal. While in Holland, her father, Anne Sipkes Staal was a barge captain on a canal. He was born while Benjamin Harrison was President on Febuary 5th, l865. Grandma Recker’s mother was Sijske Dirks Kalma born March 1866 in Wanswerd, Friesland and died on May 5 l941 in Montana. Once in the states he worked for Pullman Standard as a Car builder until 1894 when there was a huge labor strike. He relocated to Lansing, Illinois, then to Griffith, Indiana and then to Montana.. He also tried his hand at homesteading. He died at the age of 79 on September 2, l944 when I was two years old. Anne and Sijske had fourteen children and 71 grandchildren. The Staal family was one of a kind. There was nothing they were fearful of and seemed to have been blessed with an excessive amount of confidence. That confidence has also made its way into the lives of the descendents. Obviously, not all in the family tree have these traits but they become recognizable in some from time to time.
Both my paternal grandparents’ families swallowed the urging of land sales agents during the twenties and moved west to homestead in the grasses of Montana. The agents were full up of promises and spoke word visions of grandeur and lives of ease. Like all other sales pitches, most were spoken only to make a dollar. The work was difficult and the weather was not conducive to growing field crops that needed time to mature before harvest. Hail got it nearly every time.
Both my paternal grandparents died at the young age of fifty-nine. I was ten and eleven at the times of their death. I feel cheated that I lost them so young. I was their eldest grandchild of whom they were proud. I remember doing more with my grandfather than my grandmother. My grandfather was a pipe and cigar smoker and paid the price. He was born on February 14 1894 and died on May 24, l953. Grandma was born on October 16, 1892 and died May 9, l952. My remembrances are small things. I recall the smell of bacon and eggs as my father and I walked in the door each morning during the summers. Grandpa would offer me a Smith Brothers cough drop. It was candy in those days. Grandma loved moss roses. There were heads of mounted animals all over the living and dining room. I recall wonderful Thanksgiving Day dinners with the warmth of uncles and aunts and cousins. I wish I could have gotten to know them better. Much of what I know of them, I learned through the stories of my dad and his siblings. I think I have mentioned before that my dad and his siblings are such an example of how siblings should love one another. I NEVER hear my father’s family talk negatively about one of the others. Even though miles and circumstances have put distance between some of them over the years, they always found a way to stay connected. When my uncle was in Africa for fifteen years, my father got out his Remington typewriter every Sunday afternoon as soon as dinner was done. He slipped one of those blue aerograms in and typed away. He would fill every inch of that paper even turning the paper on its side and writing in long hand on the spaces he couldn’t reach with the typewriter. There is a significant amount of loyalty among those dear folks, all of whom are getting up in their eighties at this point. One of my uncles, Ahlrich, died in l989 but the rest, including his wife are all alive and functioning. It is a tremendous blessing to see them and be able to share life with them.
I could write for days about my grandparents and great grandparents. Both sets had significant influence on my life. Both sets were dedicated and godly people. Both had good marriages and good families. I owe God a great big thank you for those dear people in my life.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Who Am I?
One’s heritage explains much of whom they come to be. I am a product of two people of mainly Dutch decent. My mother was a pure bred, born and raised in De Motte, Indiana. Her father, Frank (Foppe)De Haan, was born April 18, 1888 and came to the States when he was seven years old. His family settled in the Fair Oaks area around De Motte, Indiana. He spent his life as a farmer, was a very humble man, and served as an elder in his church for many terms during my growing up years. Her mother, Grace Bierma was born in De Motte across the street from Eenigenburg’s blueberry farm on Road #1400. Later her father built the home where my paternal grandparents raised their children. Grace’s parents came to the States from Holland. Her father died when she was eleven and then she became an orphan at the early age of fourteen when her mother died in childbirth. She and her five siblings were split up to different family members. Both my grandparents spoke Dutch and would use it frequently when we children were around and they wished to speak in private among the public. I always knew when there was something I wasn’t supposed to understand because they would fall into their mother tongue like falling off a log. I loved them so dearly. When my dad was gone during WWII, I nearly lived with them. My mother and I slept in our home next door (the distance of about a city block in the country) but I spent all my waking time in their home and in their laps as my mom supported our family by teaching school. My mother would carry me in their home on those cold winter mornings and my Grandpa would receive me with open arms. He would reach under my pajamas at my waist and pinch my skin with a smile and say, “ I got your bare skin”. I recall feeling as home there as anywhere in the world. Even after my father came home the day after Thanksgiving of l945, the convenience of having those loving people so near sent me walking down the country road nearly everyday to spend some time with Grandpa and Grandma. I almost always went home with them after church for Sunday dinner. One time when I was about seven or eight, our pastor, who evidently wasn’t very bright about child psychology, walked out of the church door as I was making my way to my grandparent’s car hand in hand with one of them. The pastor looked at me and said, “Gayle, whom do you love the most, your parents or your grandparents?” I recall squirming inside. Just how should I answer that question? The truth was that it was neither. I loved them all with all my heart. I don’t remember how I answered but it was something close to the truth. That pastor’s insensitivity has stayed with me all those years. One doesn’t ask open-ended questions like that of children.
The De Haan grandparents moved to De Motte early in their years in the States. They lived a quiet life of farming, surviving by supplementing with farm animals of various kinds. Grandma canned every vegetable known to the area and there was a larder ever ready and ever full. She also canned meat, beef and chicken so she could put a hot meal on the table in the time it took to cook potatoes. They lived a humble but happy life. Their home was about a hundred years old but was kept painted and coiffed. It was important to Grandma that even though she didn’t have much, what she did have would be well cared for and well presented. Grandma’s time was spent in service to her husband and her grandkids. She always had time to explain the meaning of things or to take me on rides where she would explained the owner’s of the homes we past along vast country roads and tell me stories of their ancestry or significant things about the history of those folks. I learned so much at the knee of my Grandma De Haan. Grandpa died when I was in college but Grandma lived until she was ninety-one. She was as special to my older children as she was to me. She was never too busy for us and was always willing to stay with my first three little ones or ride with me when I had to take a child to the doctor. She had us for dinner occasionally and brought over pots of food that she made. Most of those were Dutch dishes that she knew I enjoyed so much. What a Gram she was.
Because my mother died before my grandmother and they have both been gone for over twenty years, I have heard less frequently the stories of Gram's parents; Great Grandpa and Grandma Bierma. I did write down as many facts as my Gram gave me and have kept them in a file for all these years. My Great Grandmother Bierma, was born Suzanna Achteen. She came to the states when she was seventeen years old and settled in Roseland, a south suburb of Chicago. She died in childbirth at the age of twenty-eight and is buried in the Forest Home Cemetery in Chicago. One Memorial Day many years ago, my husband and I took my Gram there to look for the gravesite of her mother and a sister that also died in childbirth at a premature age. The sister’s name was Teresa. We successfully found the graves which seemed to give Gram a peaceful satisfaction. Though Cornelius, my great grandfather, died at the age of 43, he had lived a productive life. His obituary states, “He was a Hollander by birth and had lived in Keener Township perhaps 13-15 years and previous to that time lived in or near Chicago. He was a man of fine character and education and was probably at the time of his death the most influential man of Holland birth in Jasper County. He was trustee of Keener Township for four years. He was a Republican in politics and always took an active part in political matters.” The obituary adds that my great grandfather died of consumption and had been bed ridden for only two weeks.
Great grandfather on my mother’s paternal side was Stephen De Haan. His wife was Anje Sipkema. I know little of them other than that they, too, were farmers. I know that Stephen’s first wife died young. She was my grandfather’s mother. His step mother's name was Hilda Zandstra. Both Stephen and his second wife are buried in the Dutch cemetery in De Motte near the graves of Gram and Grandpa De Haan.
Psalm 100:5
Tomorrow will be about the grandparents on my father's side.
The De Haan grandparents moved to De Motte early in their years in the States. They lived a quiet life of farming, surviving by supplementing with farm animals of various kinds. Grandma canned every vegetable known to the area and there was a larder ever ready and ever full. She also canned meat, beef and chicken so she could put a hot meal on the table in the time it took to cook potatoes. They lived a humble but happy life. Their home was about a hundred years old but was kept painted and coiffed. It was important to Grandma that even though she didn’t have much, what she did have would be well cared for and well presented. Grandma’s time was spent in service to her husband and her grandkids. She always had time to explain the meaning of things or to take me on rides where she would explained the owner’s of the homes we past along vast country roads and tell me stories of their ancestry or significant things about the history of those folks. I learned so much at the knee of my Grandma De Haan. Grandpa died when I was in college but Grandma lived until she was ninety-one. She was as special to my older children as she was to me. She was never too busy for us and was always willing to stay with my first three little ones or ride with me when I had to take a child to the doctor. She had us for dinner occasionally and brought over pots of food that she made. Most of those were Dutch dishes that she knew I enjoyed so much. What a Gram she was.
Because my mother died before my grandmother and they have both been gone for over twenty years, I have heard less frequently the stories of Gram's parents; Great Grandpa and Grandma Bierma. I did write down as many facts as my Gram gave me and have kept them in a file for all these years. My Great Grandmother Bierma, was born Suzanna Achteen. She came to the states when she was seventeen years old and settled in Roseland, a south suburb of Chicago. She died in childbirth at the age of twenty-eight and is buried in the Forest Home Cemetery in Chicago. One Memorial Day many years ago, my husband and I took my Gram there to look for the gravesite of her mother and a sister that also died in childbirth at a premature age. The sister’s name was Teresa. We successfully found the graves which seemed to give Gram a peaceful satisfaction. Though Cornelius, my great grandfather, died at the age of 43, he had lived a productive life. His obituary states, “He was a Hollander by birth and had lived in Keener Township perhaps 13-15 years and previous to that time lived in or near Chicago. He was a man of fine character and education and was probably at the time of his death the most influential man of Holland birth in Jasper County. He was trustee of Keener Township for four years. He was a Republican in politics and always took an active part in political matters.” The obituary adds that my great grandfather died of consumption and had been bed ridden for only two weeks.
Great grandfather on my mother’s paternal side was Stephen De Haan. His wife was Anje Sipkema. I know little of them other than that they, too, were farmers. I know that Stephen’s first wife died young. She was my grandfather’s mother. His step mother's name was Hilda Zandstra. Both Stephen and his second wife are buried in the Dutch cemetery in De Motte near the graves of Gram and Grandpa De Haan.
Psalm 100:5
Tomorrow will be about the grandparents on my father's side.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Souvenirs
It seems each time my daughter goes away without her children, she brings each of the four of them a "souvenir" when she returns. They have come to expect the little pleasantries and come to stand at the door when she returns just full of anticipation of the special thing that will fill their heart with joy. As I observe this, I notice that it is my daughter's giving heart in motion. She has looked for just the right trinket for each child. It is her parental love in action.
I remember being the child with anticipation, also. When my parents went on trips without us, which was seldom, but it did happen, it excited me with each thought of their return because I knew they would have something to warm my heart. Whatever it was would say that thought of me while they were gone and that I was special to them. I can't say I remember any of those trinkets, only the love that was connected to them.
I do remember some souvenirs, however. The ones I remember are the ones I chose myself in my travels. On one of my first trips west with my parents, they purchased for me two fiction books I chose as my take home remembrance. They were about the bears in Yellowstone Park. I remember the specialness they were to me and how I protected those prizes. I remember the feel of their covers and their familiar book smell. I kept them for many years, probably thirty or forty years. I think I stupidly put them on a garage sale one time.
My uncle and aunt served on the mission field in Nigeria for many years during the time I was growing up. Every two and a half years, they came home for six months of forlough. How we longed for those times when we could see those precious people. One time they brought me a souvenir of a black wooden mask. It was so typically African and I treasured it. It hung on a wall in my home for many years until one day when it fell to the floor and broke in two.
On another occasion, they brought me a silver bracelet with several squares of silver tied together. In each square was a beautiful blue stone that shimmers with irredicent colors. I was so touched by such a special gift. I have it today and still enjoy wearing it from time to time. My aunt and uncle have been in the states now for years and years. Just the last time I visited their home a few months ago, Uncle Bob reached somewhere into his desk and pulled out a letter opener made of the same wood of which the mask had been made. His question to me was, "Did I ever give you a souvenir of Africa?" I confessed the broken mask as he put the letter opener in my hand. That letter opener is right next to me on the computer desk.
When we first became members of the church we attend, we enjoyed the ministry of a special minister and his wife. They have traveled extensively. Since the Netherlands is the place of his birth, they have made many trips there. On their return from one of those trips, they brought me two decorative tiles with Dutch words on them. They are words of the truth of God. I treasure those sovenirs. They are on display in my home.
On a trip to Korea in the late seventies, I found all kinds of goodies to take home. A beautiful satiny looking comforter that I had to buy another bag in which to carry it home. Brass bells were everywhere so I took some of those home. They still lie in a drawer. I also brought home a tradional Korean costume for our Korean son. That hangs in one of our closets. A small house carved of wood fashioned after a traditional thatched roofed home also found its way to this address. Our young son had shared with us that he had lived in a house with a straw roof so I couldn't leave that in Korea. Souvenirs were abundant in Korea.
I recall that on one trip my husband and I took to the southwest, we came upon an outdoor market in the middle of some mountains. Indians had set up little roofs over posts to shade themselves from the sun. There they set out their wares. I fell in love with a wonderful Navajo blanket at one women's shanty. It was in shades of browns, black and white. Those are my favorite colors. I paced for several minutes to determine if spending one hundred dollars on such a thing was good stewardship. In the end, I took the plunge. It was my souvenir from the southwest and became one of my prize possesions for many years until a dog (those darn dogs, not one has done us any good) chewed off all its fringe. Discouraged, I discarded it.
Very soon, God-willing, we will leave on our trip to the northwest. I have been there several times before and know already the souvenir temptations that will be out there. I anticipate looking into glass cases filled with Black Hills gold jewelry. It always looks better there than it does when I look at it in my drawer. I know there will be wonderful things in the gift stores of the national parks. They have the most unique books and I'm tempted each time. I have determined in a non conclusive way that I will not take souvenirs home with me this time. I have so much "stuff". I have seen all those things that will be presented to me. I know that I can live without them so I am already planning to enjoy an eye feast and leave them there. We will see how successful I will be.
Getting back to my daughter and her desire to please her children, I see God in her when she wants to be generous with her children. God never goes away from his children so the analogy ends quickly. However, even in His constant abiding with us, He wants to please and give to us the joys that are His. Each day He stands with something in His hand for us. On a foundational basis, it is faithfulness and truth. In addition to those wonderful gifts, He gives us this beautiful creation to enjoy each day. He also gives us material trinkets to enjoy. Just as my grandchildren are thrilled at the moment and two days later have forgotten what the trinket was, we forget very quickly, the material gifts God bestows on us. Look around you today. Ask God to help you take notice of His goodness to you. Just as my grandchildren feel the love of their mother in her giving, you and I can feel the love of our heavenly Father as we enjoy the little surprises He gives us each day.
I remember being the child with anticipation, also. When my parents went on trips without us, which was seldom, but it did happen, it excited me with each thought of their return because I knew they would have something to warm my heart. Whatever it was would say that thought of me while they were gone and that I was special to them. I can't say I remember any of those trinkets, only the love that was connected to them.
I do remember some souvenirs, however. The ones I remember are the ones I chose myself in my travels. On one of my first trips west with my parents, they purchased for me two fiction books I chose as my take home remembrance. They were about the bears in Yellowstone Park. I remember the specialness they were to me and how I protected those prizes. I remember the feel of their covers and their familiar book smell. I kept them for many years, probably thirty or forty years. I think I stupidly put them on a garage sale one time.
My uncle and aunt served on the mission field in Nigeria for many years during the time I was growing up. Every two and a half years, they came home for six months of forlough. How we longed for those times when we could see those precious people. One time they brought me a souvenir of a black wooden mask. It was so typically African and I treasured it. It hung on a wall in my home for many years until one day when it fell to the floor and broke in two.
On another occasion, they brought me a silver bracelet with several squares of silver tied together. In each square was a beautiful blue stone that shimmers with irredicent colors. I was so touched by such a special gift. I have it today and still enjoy wearing it from time to time. My aunt and uncle have been in the states now for years and years. Just the last time I visited their home a few months ago, Uncle Bob reached somewhere into his desk and pulled out a letter opener made of the same wood of which the mask had been made. His question to me was, "Did I ever give you a souvenir of Africa?" I confessed the broken mask as he put the letter opener in my hand. That letter opener is right next to me on the computer desk.
When we first became members of the church we attend, we enjoyed the ministry of a special minister and his wife. They have traveled extensively. Since the Netherlands is the place of his birth, they have made many trips there. On their return from one of those trips, they brought me two decorative tiles with Dutch words on them. They are words of the truth of God. I treasure those sovenirs. They are on display in my home.
On a trip to Korea in the late seventies, I found all kinds of goodies to take home. A beautiful satiny looking comforter that I had to buy another bag in which to carry it home. Brass bells were everywhere so I took some of those home. They still lie in a drawer. I also brought home a tradional Korean costume for our Korean son. That hangs in one of our closets. A small house carved of wood fashioned after a traditional thatched roofed home also found its way to this address. Our young son had shared with us that he had lived in a house with a straw roof so I couldn't leave that in Korea. Souvenirs were abundant in Korea.
I recall that on one trip my husband and I took to the southwest, we came upon an outdoor market in the middle of some mountains. Indians had set up little roofs over posts to shade themselves from the sun. There they set out their wares. I fell in love with a wonderful Navajo blanket at one women's shanty. It was in shades of browns, black and white. Those are my favorite colors. I paced for several minutes to determine if spending one hundred dollars on such a thing was good stewardship. In the end, I took the plunge. It was my souvenir from the southwest and became one of my prize possesions for many years until a dog (those darn dogs, not one has done us any good) chewed off all its fringe. Discouraged, I discarded it.
Very soon, God-willing, we will leave on our trip to the northwest. I have been there several times before and know already the souvenir temptations that will be out there. I anticipate looking into glass cases filled with Black Hills gold jewelry. It always looks better there than it does when I look at it in my drawer. I know there will be wonderful things in the gift stores of the national parks. They have the most unique books and I'm tempted each time. I have determined in a non conclusive way that I will not take souvenirs home with me this time. I have so much "stuff". I have seen all those things that will be presented to me. I know that I can live without them so I am already planning to enjoy an eye feast and leave them there. We will see how successful I will be.
Getting back to my daughter and her desire to please her children, I see God in her when she wants to be generous with her children. God never goes away from his children so the analogy ends quickly. However, even in His constant abiding with us, He wants to please and give to us the joys that are His. Each day He stands with something in His hand for us. On a foundational basis, it is faithfulness and truth. In addition to those wonderful gifts, He gives us this beautiful creation to enjoy each day. He also gives us material trinkets to enjoy. Just as my grandchildren are thrilled at the moment and two days later have forgotten what the trinket was, we forget very quickly, the material gifts God bestows on us. Look around you today. Ask God to help you take notice of His goodness to you. Just as my grandchildren feel the love of their mother in her giving, you and I can feel the love of our heavenly Father as we enjoy the little surprises He gives us each day.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The Prize in My Backyard
A few days ago while sitting in my little screen tent in my backyard, I looked again at my favorite tree. It is an oak tree and bears all an oak’s characteristics. It has scaly bark, and lots of huge green leaves that turn brown in the fall and then requires us to rake them all into a fire in our back forty. (Feet that is) It has the rugged look, huge in all ways and appears very strong. One of its greatest virtues is that it affords at least a third of our back yard with wonderful shade.
Its gigantic size is enough to make one stare in awe. I began to eyeball the size of the lowest of its branches. With my naked and untrained eye, I estimated the length of the branch as about thirty feet, most of which is fairly straight. I didn’t trust my raw calculation so today I went out with a 30 foot measuring tape and found that my tape had extended its full self and there was at least ten feet of branch beyond. I shook my head in disbelief. Forty feet of extended branch is a tremendous weight for that tree to uphold.
I walked to the front of the house and found my husband sitting in a chair drinking a Coke. I told him about my discovery. He was in awe, too. He informed me that oak trees roots extend underground to the tip of its branches. Evidently there are a whole lot of roots under that ground. The measured branch is only the biggest of one of dozens of branches attached to the huge trunk. My husband asked if I had measured the trunk’s circumference and I replied that I hadn’t thought of that. So, together, we went back to the tree. It took both of us to wrap the tape around the belly of the trunk. It measured 125 inches around. That is over ten feet around. I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised of its girth since we had discovered how much weight the trunk has to bear.
There are scars on the tree where branches have broken off and some have been sawed off. Those scars tell me that the tree has sustained some damage from storms that come in the form of wind, snow and rain. I have often thought of how I am like that oak tree. The storms in my life have left their mark. There are scars on me that may be invisible from the outside but they are very real on the inside.
While I can have the strength of an oak through the power of God, there is evidence in me that as a branch of God’s family, I am totally weak without roots. My tendency is to reach out pretty far from my Source and take on stuff that requires me to make sure my roots are deep enough to support the weight. Sometimes my roots shrink from lack of moisture. I’ve realized more than once in my life that if my roots aren’t deep into God’s Word, I can expect failure in the things I try to do. To grow roots equal to the plan God has for us to live out means soaking up as much moisture from God’s Word as we can. It is called “living water”. God promises to give us the kind of water that will solve our thirst issues forever. If we tap into that well, our roots will grow to reach the edge of God’s plan for each of us. Drink up.
Its gigantic size is enough to make one stare in awe. I began to eyeball the size of the lowest of its branches. With my naked and untrained eye, I estimated the length of the branch as about thirty feet, most of which is fairly straight. I didn’t trust my raw calculation so today I went out with a 30 foot measuring tape and found that my tape had extended its full self and there was at least ten feet of branch beyond. I shook my head in disbelief. Forty feet of extended branch is a tremendous weight for that tree to uphold.
I walked to the front of the house and found my husband sitting in a chair drinking a Coke. I told him about my discovery. He was in awe, too. He informed me that oak trees roots extend underground to the tip of its branches. Evidently there are a whole lot of roots under that ground. The measured branch is only the biggest of one of dozens of branches attached to the huge trunk. My husband asked if I had measured the trunk’s circumference and I replied that I hadn’t thought of that. So, together, we went back to the tree. It took both of us to wrap the tape around the belly of the trunk. It measured 125 inches around. That is over ten feet around. I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised of its girth since we had discovered how much weight the trunk has to bear.
There are scars on the tree where branches have broken off and some have been sawed off. Those scars tell me that the tree has sustained some damage from storms that come in the form of wind, snow and rain. I have often thought of how I am like that oak tree. The storms in my life have left their mark. There are scars on me that may be invisible from the outside but they are very real on the inside.
While I can have the strength of an oak through the power of God, there is evidence in me that as a branch of God’s family, I am totally weak without roots. My tendency is to reach out pretty far from my Source and take on stuff that requires me to make sure my roots are deep enough to support the weight. Sometimes my roots shrink from lack of moisture. I’ve realized more than once in my life that if my roots aren’t deep into God’s Word, I can expect failure in the things I try to do. To grow roots equal to the plan God has for us to live out means soaking up as much moisture from God’s Word as we can. It is called “living water”. God promises to give us the kind of water that will solve our thirst issues forever. If we tap into that well, our roots will grow to reach the edge of God’s plan for each of us. Drink up.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Not My Cup Of Tea
Yesterday was a full day, church morning and night and in between our daughter and her husband, Lauri and Elton came to visit. It was an unusual visit because they were alone. They left the kids home under the care of their eldest and we had some moments alone. While we love the kids company, there was a sweetness to being in complete adult company, too. The guys watched the Sox and Cubs play, (Cubs swept the series, just thought you should know.) and Lauri and I played Scrabble, one of our favorite games.
After church last evening Ken reminded me that Mark Harris, one of the members of the group 4Hymn was at a neighboring church. I thought it could be good so agreed that we should go. Once there, I knew I was in for an endurance test. My first impression was, "this guy has a beautiful voice". However, it wasn't long before the intensity of the loud music got to me. One heard guitar and drums but not the voice. Air conditioning was pouring out of the vents and both of us were freezing cold which added to our discomfort. None of the songs he sang were familiar to either of us. I decided that one must have to be a follower of this guy to know his music because he wrote it all himself and didn't sing other's stuff. I sat pondering over what would be the Christ like thing to do in this situation. The longer this went on the more I contemplated my escape. I invisioned walking in the door of our home and finding a warm throw, wrapping myself in it and sitting in my comfortable chair with a hot cup of tea. We were sitting close to the back of the church so I considered the possibility of getting up and nonchalantly slipping out. Two adults don't just nonchalantly slip out of anywhere. Okay, if I couldn't remove myself bodily, perhaps I should just zone off somewhere in my mind and pass the time in another mental place until we were dismissed? Well, actually, Mark was talking about Biblical truths and singing about them as well. I couldn't disrespect that. I concluded in my thoughts that God was being honored, just not in a way that I enjoyed or that spoke to me. I came to this conclusion, I would try to glean as much as I could from the concert.
One of the songs Mark wrote and sang was called, The Line Between The Two. In introducing the song, he said that if one visits a cemetery, one reads the birth and death dates on the headstones. Those dates tell very little about a person's life but it is the line between that tells the story. If only we could read those lines between, we may learn some very good lessons and hear some awesome stories.
The Line Between the Two
Lyrics:
A beginning and an ending, dates upon a stone
But the moment in the middle is how we will be known
Cause what defines us can be found within a line
Finding reason for our time
chorus:
And the years go by, how they seem to fly
They'll all be over soon
When our life is done, did we live and love
The way we wanted to
Cause everyday that we leave behind
Goes on to tell the truth
Of how we lived in the line between the two
The line between the two
Will I walk straight,
will I be true
Will I finish strong
Will I stand up for the moment
When I could right a wrong
Because the legacy we have will never change
It's how we spend our days
chorus
I could live a life for just myself
Or I could live a life for someone else
But I'll live and die just to hear You say
Well done my son come and be with Me
I found in that song a truth I wanted to take home. It isn't when one is born or one dies, it is how we live the time between. I'm not proud of the thoughts I had sitting there listening to what wasn't my cup of tea, but I am at least grateful that I came home with something of eternal value to practice in my daily life.
This experience made me aware of the struggle I experience when I am on the other side of things. Choosing songs for worship services is like walking onto a battleground. I am responsible for that once a month. Yesterday was that Sunday. There have been many times I have threatened to quit. Congregants all have their own opinions about what is meaningful or appropriate. As any church member knows, today people war over music. Should it be new or old, loud or soft, organ or other musical instruments. All of us seem more opinionated today than twenty years ago. Perhaps it is that we are more free to give our opinions. I think the way of the world has rubbed off too much on God's people. Ken's question to me after church was very telling. He asked, "Well, did you make any enemies today?" I laughed and told him, "I think maybe today, we hit the balance that is so tenuous".
May God grant to each of us a willingness to look for Him as we worship Him, be it at a concert that isn't our cup of tea or at a worship service where the song isn't our favorite. He'll be there.
After church last evening Ken reminded me that Mark Harris, one of the members of the group 4Hymn was at a neighboring church. I thought it could be good so agreed that we should go. Once there, I knew I was in for an endurance test. My first impression was, "this guy has a beautiful voice". However, it wasn't long before the intensity of the loud music got to me. One heard guitar and drums but not the voice. Air conditioning was pouring out of the vents and both of us were freezing cold which added to our discomfort. None of the songs he sang were familiar to either of us. I decided that one must have to be a follower of this guy to know his music because he wrote it all himself and didn't sing other's stuff. I sat pondering over what would be the Christ like thing to do in this situation. The longer this went on the more I contemplated my escape. I invisioned walking in the door of our home and finding a warm throw, wrapping myself in it and sitting in my comfortable chair with a hot cup of tea. We were sitting close to the back of the church so I considered the possibility of getting up and nonchalantly slipping out. Two adults don't just nonchalantly slip out of anywhere. Okay, if I couldn't remove myself bodily, perhaps I should just zone off somewhere in my mind and pass the time in another mental place until we were dismissed? Well, actually, Mark was talking about Biblical truths and singing about them as well. I couldn't disrespect that. I concluded in my thoughts that God was being honored, just not in a way that I enjoyed or that spoke to me. I came to this conclusion, I would try to glean as much as I could from the concert.
One of the songs Mark wrote and sang was called, The Line Between The Two. In introducing the song, he said that if one visits a cemetery, one reads the birth and death dates on the headstones. Those dates tell very little about a person's life but it is the line between that tells the story. If only we could read those lines between, we may learn some very good lessons and hear some awesome stories.
The Line Between the Two
Lyrics:
A beginning and an ending, dates upon a stone
But the moment in the middle is how we will be known
Cause what defines us can be found within a line
Finding reason for our time
chorus:
And the years go by, how they seem to fly
They'll all be over soon
When our life is done, did we live and love
The way we wanted to
Cause everyday that we leave behind
Goes on to tell the truth
Of how we lived in the line between the two
The line between the two
Will I walk straight,
will I be true
Will I finish strong
Will I stand up for the moment
When I could right a wrong
Because the legacy we have will never change
It's how we spend our days
chorus
I could live a life for just myself
Or I could live a life for someone else
But I'll live and die just to hear You say
Well done my son come and be with Me
I found in that song a truth I wanted to take home. It isn't when one is born or one dies, it is how we live the time between. I'm not proud of the thoughts I had sitting there listening to what wasn't my cup of tea, but I am at least grateful that I came home with something of eternal value to practice in my daily life.
This experience made me aware of the struggle I experience when I am on the other side of things. Choosing songs for worship services is like walking onto a battleground. I am responsible for that once a month. Yesterday was that Sunday. There have been many times I have threatened to quit. Congregants all have their own opinions about what is meaningful or appropriate. As any church member knows, today people war over music. Should it be new or old, loud or soft, organ or other musical instruments. All of us seem more opinionated today than twenty years ago. Perhaps it is that we are more free to give our opinions. I think the way of the world has rubbed off too much on God's people. Ken's question to me after church was very telling. He asked, "Well, did you make any enemies today?" I laughed and told him, "I think maybe today, we hit the balance that is so tenuous".
May God grant to each of us a willingness to look for Him as we worship Him, be it at a concert that isn't our cup of tea or at a worship service where the song isn't our favorite. He'll be there.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
A Little Down Time
Our immediate family now consists of four adults and one eleven-year-old boy. What I mean is that in addition to Ken and me, we have our daughter, her good friend, Lynette, and Isaiah living with us. Four adults in any one house can make for too many chiefs and not enough Indians.
The three of them left for the west on Wednesday evening. The last I heard was around noon yesterday when they were in the parking lot of Mt. Rushmore. Basically, they are taking the same trip we are planning, God willing, July 6th. When our daughter learned we were planning to take Isaiah out west, she decided to jump the gun on us. That was and is so fine with us. Of course, we would like her to see God’s wonders in our nation and share that with her son. I’m happy our intent caused her to take on this adventure. In our phone conversation, the kids shared with me that they loved the Badlands and saw wild bison, in fact, one walked in front of a car ahead of them. They sounded thrilled and oh so happy. It is our delight to hear of their happiness and thrill.
As I was writing this, the phone just rang and it was Scarlen with, “this is our daily check-in”. I am delighted to hear from her and I think she is happy with my delighting. They are forty miles from Yellowstone. When I asked how they liked Mt. Rushmore, she replied, “It was awesome”. I am so excited that they are having a wonderful time. Lord, continue to protect them, be on their right and left, in front and behind, above and beneath, in Jesus name.
Now this all leaves Ken and me at home alone. No, we aren’t lonely yet. We are enjoying this brief time of relief. While we love each of them with all our heart, we know that it is a heavy thing for all of us to live together. We do fairly well but do have our moments. At any rate, I’m doing things I don’t normally do when we are all together. Two days this week I did absolutely nothing. It was wonderful. I don’t feel the same kind of pressure and rush that I feel when we are all here.
I washed all the bedding from Isaiah’s bed so that everything will be clean and fresh when he returns. I just took his blankies out of the dryer. Yes, I said, “his blankies”. When Isaiah and Sydney (his twin cousin) were about seven, great grandma thought it inappropriate for those big kids to have blankets. I spoke with her about someone she and I both knew who was twenty plus that still had his blanket and seemed perfectly healthy emotionally. She wasn’t convinced. I think our attitudes about such things have changed dramatically since her and my children were young. I wouldn’t have thought of letting a child keep a blanket beyond toddler hood, either. I remember explaining to Great Grandma that if children can find solace and comfort in a rag in their bed in this crazy world, I would be in favor of it.
Isaiah has two blankets, both of which he has had since birth. They are identical except for the color. One is white and one mint green. His preference has always been the white one but when he was very little and we couldn’t find the white one, he would use the green one for a substitute. Nearly eight years ago, I had a heart virus that nearly did me in. I was hospitalized for eight days. During that time, Isaiah came to visit me and brought me his green blankie to hug and sleep with while I was there. It brings tears to my eyes as I tell it. It was a most sacrificial deed. I must confess that I found comfort in that green blanket. It was soft, smelled like Tide and Downy and more importantly, it smelled like home. It also reminded me that there was a little boy in that place I longed to go that was waiting for his grandma to come home.
Now it is we who wait for the three of them to come home. I imagine by next weekend, we will be again ready to welcome home those we love. In the in=between time, we will enjoy the lull and get as much accomplished as we can.
The three of them left for the west on Wednesday evening. The last I heard was around noon yesterday when they were in the parking lot of Mt. Rushmore. Basically, they are taking the same trip we are planning, God willing, July 6th. When our daughter learned we were planning to take Isaiah out west, she decided to jump the gun on us. That was and is so fine with us. Of course, we would like her to see God’s wonders in our nation and share that with her son. I’m happy our intent caused her to take on this adventure. In our phone conversation, the kids shared with me that they loved the Badlands and saw wild bison, in fact, one walked in front of a car ahead of them. They sounded thrilled and oh so happy. It is our delight to hear of their happiness and thrill.
As I was writing this, the phone just rang and it was Scarlen with, “this is our daily check-in”. I am delighted to hear from her and I think she is happy with my delighting. They are forty miles from Yellowstone. When I asked how they liked Mt. Rushmore, she replied, “It was awesome”. I am so excited that they are having a wonderful time. Lord, continue to protect them, be on their right and left, in front and behind, above and beneath, in Jesus name.
Now this all leaves Ken and me at home alone. No, we aren’t lonely yet. We are enjoying this brief time of relief. While we love each of them with all our heart, we know that it is a heavy thing for all of us to live together. We do fairly well but do have our moments. At any rate, I’m doing things I don’t normally do when we are all together. Two days this week I did absolutely nothing. It was wonderful. I don’t feel the same kind of pressure and rush that I feel when we are all here.
I washed all the bedding from Isaiah’s bed so that everything will be clean and fresh when he returns. I just took his blankies out of the dryer. Yes, I said, “his blankies”. When Isaiah and Sydney (his twin cousin) were about seven, great grandma thought it inappropriate for those big kids to have blankets. I spoke with her about someone she and I both knew who was twenty plus that still had his blanket and seemed perfectly healthy emotionally. She wasn’t convinced. I think our attitudes about such things have changed dramatically since her and my children were young. I wouldn’t have thought of letting a child keep a blanket beyond toddler hood, either. I remember explaining to Great Grandma that if children can find solace and comfort in a rag in their bed in this crazy world, I would be in favor of it.
Isaiah has two blankets, both of which he has had since birth. They are identical except for the color. One is white and one mint green. His preference has always been the white one but when he was very little and we couldn’t find the white one, he would use the green one for a substitute. Nearly eight years ago, I had a heart virus that nearly did me in. I was hospitalized for eight days. During that time, Isaiah came to visit me and brought me his green blankie to hug and sleep with while I was there. It brings tears to my eyes as I tell it. It was a most sacrificial deed. I must confess that I found comfort in that green blanket. It was soft, smelled like Tide and Downy and more importantly, it smelled like home. It also reminded me that there was a little boy in that place I longed to go that was waiting for his grandma to come home.
Now it is we who wait for the three of them to come home. I imagine by next weekend, we will be again ready to welcome home those we love. In the in=between time, we will enjoy the lull and get as much accomplished as we can.
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