A Day of Prayer

Before 911

In my little corner of the world today, it's a sunny seventy degrees; a fitting day to bow our heads in prayerful silence and recall what happened on this day eleven years ago – 9-11-01. It was a beautiful sunny morning, but we will remember only the sheer horror and disbelief we felt as we watched the news media play the shocking scenes over and over again. The memory of it will be passed on to children and grandchildren who weren’t yet born or were too young to remember. Like the memory of Pearl Harbor, it will be passed on and on and on. It shall never be forgotten!

The Changing Of The Guard

As days turn into weeks; weeks, months; and months, years, most of us marvel at how fast time passes. We go from carefree children, to teen-agers, young adults, parents, and middle-aged grandparents so quickly that one day, we find ourselves wondering how we came to be in the autumn of our years so soon. Suddenly, younger folks are opening doors for us and calling us Ma’am or Sir. I often think, I didn’t even see it coming!

This quote expresses my feelings best: I was wrong to grow older. Pity. I was so happy as a child. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I was talking to a friend this morning whose dog, a faithful companion for twelve years, had just been taken from her. We were bemoaning the fact that loss is so painful, when she said, “That’s the worst thing about getting old; you have to see so many things and people die!”

A profound statement, but true.

Everyone seems fond of saying, “I’m a work in progress.” It’s true. We all are.
Actually, we're in training. Everything we do, everything that occurs in our lives, happens for a reason. We cannot move to a higher level in life without taking a test. The things we go through from childhood to adulthood – the mishaps, hurts, disappointments, successes and failures – all of them prepare us for a test. If we learn anything at all during these training years, then we will handle the later years more gracefully and hopefully, without as much pain. And each test will become easier to bear.

Not only that, but having come through several tests ourselves and moved up a few levels, we will be able to help others cram for their tests. Our experience is invaluable to younger ones who are still struggling with the heartaches and disappointments that life throws at them.

It’s so interesting – watching the changing of the guard, so to speak – the old generation moving on and the next one taking over where they left off.

On this sunny September day, growing older doesn’t seem so bad when you put it into perspective, does it?

It’s still about living one day at a time; savoring every season of your life and helping others do the same.

A Big Smile And A Firm Handshake

My husband and I went to a funeral home visitation this evening. I, as always, dreaded going. These occasions are never pleasant, but unfortunately, they are a part of all our lives and we must, from time to time, deal with them. I go with clenched teeth, feeling uncomfortable, and leave as soon as I can manage it without appearing unsympathetic.

But this time was different. Aside from the fact that none of us likes to see others suffer the loss of a loved one; there was nothing about this gathering to make anyone feel uncomfortable. You see, the deceased was an Alzheimer’s victim. Many of us have gone to church with him and his wife for years. We knew him before his brain and body were assaulted by this devastating disease.

Ralph didn’t talk much, but he always had a big smile and a firm handshake for everyone. His wife, Drema, is grace and charm personified. They were a perfect match. The question in everyone’s mind is, “Why?” Why do lovely people like these have to be beset by such a hideous illness?

In fact, why does anyone?

From Sunday to Sunday, we watched the gradual decline in Ralph. As it worsened, one couldn’t help but think he’d be much better off if God, in His mercy, would rescue him. But our ways are not His ways, so we had to wait and watch as this sweet man suffered, first, the humiliation, and then, the pain that this disease inflicts upon its victims – and watch his family suffer right along with him.

As the illness progressed, they had to stop coming to church. We missed them, but knew they were going through a rough time. Ralph had falls that resulted in visits to the hospital and subsequent home health care. We all knew it wouldn’t be long.

The mood at the funeral home visitation almost seemed like one of relief: relief that Ralph’s suffering is finally over and that his loved ones can stop worrying about him complicating matters even more by falling and breaking a bone or worse.

Drema, looking beautiful, stood near the coffin greeting guests. Her brother stood beside her. To their right, their 90-something year-old mother sat in a comfortable chair, also greeting guests. She was as delightful as always and very pretty, too – wearing a royal blue blouse that emphasized her sky-blue eyes.

Lovely flowers surrounded the casket. The entire scene was moving and inspiring.

What a distressing ordeal Ralph, Drema and their family have been through! But it's finished now. Tonight, Ralph is in his Heavenly home, whole and well – smiling and shaking hands again. The pain and suffering are over.

God has indeed rescued him.

Are Good Manners a Thing of the Past?

When was the last time you heard a young child or teen-ager say, “Yes, Ma’am,” or “Yes, Sir,” to an adult? It’s almost unheard of these days, isn’t it?

My husband and I were both brought up saying, “Yes, Sir,” and “No, Sir.” And we raised our five children to do the same. Once they could talk, these words were part of their vocabulary. No questions asked.

When I was old enough to go out on dates, every young man who came to my house spoke to my parents in this respectful way. If one of them hadn’t, my father would have educated him.

I’m told that, today, we’re fortunate if they speak at all... or if they come inside. The majority of them, I understand, drive up to the house, honk the horn, your daughter yells, “see ya’ later,” runs out to the car and they drive away, only to return in the same manner a few hours later – if you’re lucky.

How often do you see a man open a door for a woman? A car door? My husband still opens doors for me after many, many years of marriage. I appreciate it very much! I’d like to see all men do it, but don’t see many.

Oh, how I miss good manners! The bad thing is, just like good grammar, if it isn’t learned early, it may never be.

What’s the answer?

I wish I knew. As far as I can tell, these things aren’t being taught in schools, and with both parents working in many families, it’s difficult to find the time to teach children extras like this at home.

There must still be a few left though – here and there. Mr. H. and I went shopping today and just as we started in the door of a store, a little boy, about five, on the other side, opened the door for me before Mr. H. had a chance. I smiled and thanked him. He beamed, looking quite proud of himself. His mother, father – or both – are doing a good job with the young child. That’s unusual these days. Let’s hope it takes – and lasts throughout his life.

One thing is certain; the only way to receive respect ourselves is to show it to others.


 

The Art Gallery

I’ve written much about spending time with my maternal grandparents during the summers of my childhood, but almost never have I mentioned that I used to visit my father’s parents also.

It wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy it, but rather, because of Aunt Betty, my mother’s sister. We were so close in age that it was almost like having a sister, which I didn’t. Betty and I had wonderful times – but I also have some great memories of the time I spent with my Toney grandparents.

Grandpa Toney was a coal miner. A foreman. A Company man. Right away that put him at odds with my maternal grandfather, who was a union man! They didn’t like each other much; a fact I didn’t know until I was grown.

As a foreman, Grandpa had things just one notch better than union men – a little more money, a larger house in a better location and the respect that comes with being “boss.” My grandmother was able to have help with her housework, cooking and laundry, which made her seem a trifle proud. Also brusque and a little scary to a child like me. Truthfully, I was afraid of her. She let nothing pass. She’d yell at me for the slightest infringement. I wasn’t used to being yelled at, and didn’t take it very well. She hurt my tender feelings almost daily.

But I had a satisfying way of salving my wounds.

In one corner of the dining room, there stood a coat rack. An unusual place for one, to be sure; nevertheless, that’s where it was. Many coats hung there year around; it occupied the entire corner. A small child, say... about 3ft. tall could easily position herself behind the coats and hide there for long periods if she chose to – and that’s exactly what I did. Always accompanying me was a nice soft-lead pencil that made very nice pictures on the walls behind the coats. There were drawings of cats, dogs, trees, rivers, the sun, the moon and the ocean. The corner was a virtual art gallery! And it was my secret.

Then one sunny April morning, my grandmother announced to the help, “It’s time for spring cleaning!” Everything was moved so the walls could be painted and my beautiful art collection was discovered! Luckily, I wasn’t there. But my grandmother had no doubt who the artist was.

At our next visit, the story was told in the presence of my parents. My mother took me to the bathroom and lectured me about how bad it was to mar my grandmother’s walls like that. “I’m sorry.” I said meekly. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Go apologize to your grandmother." Opening the door, she gave me a little shove, and then closed the door, remaining there herself.

I’m sure I imagined it, but, as I walked slowly toward the living room, dreading what I had to do, I could have sworn I heard laughter coming from the bathroom.

 

What About Sue?

We lost another relative. Our family is getting smaller. John was not a “blood” relative, but he’s been in the family for many years.

After a while, you forget. That “blood thing” becomes less important.

His wife, Sue, is my cousin. We played together as children.

We’re told we should celebrate when someone passes—that he is in a better place. I find it hard to celebrate when my heart is aching. I know John is in a better place, but what about Sue? John has been by her side for more than half a century?

Death is cruel!

It breaks hearts.

And leaves hurting people alone.

What will Sue do... without John?











         

Freedom From What?

Yesterday, while standing in line at the grocery store, I overheard two young women talking.

“It's only a few weeks until the kids’ll be back in school,” one said.

“Whoo-hoo!,” said the other. “I can’t wait! Free at last!”

“I know what you mean," said the first. "This hot, rainy summer we’ve had made it worse than usual. My kids sit around in the house all day doing nothing but watching TV, surfing the net, eating and making messes.”

“Same here. I'll be glad to get them out of the house.”

Driving home, I thought about the conversation and the glee with which those two women were looking forward to getting their children back in school.

From that quiet corner of my mind where beautiful memories dwell – I recalled the happy times when my children were young. I enjoyed summer vacation as much as they did. I loved Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks. Spring break. And snow days. Any reason for my kids to stay at home with me was a good thing!

Other mothers thought I was crazy. Most of them were like the young women I heard talking yesterday. Eager for freedom. Freedom to go shopping, bowling, play bridge, or just lounge around watching soap operas.

I was the only mother I knew who cried on the first day of school.

We had such wonderful summers together – my kids and I. During the day while I cleaned, did laundry, and cooked, they were outside with friends. There were no computers or I-pads to occupy their time in those days. And TV was for early morning kids’ shows like Captain Kangaroo or something special in the evening – certainly not for wasting away their days!

Kids were always active then. That’s why childhood obesity was almost nonexistent. Their days were spent riding bicycles, playing basketball, or climbing mountains. Even after dinner, they hurried back outside to get in the final remnants of the day’s play before porch lights started dotting the neighborhood. That was their signal to go home.

For my kids, it was time for a bath, a snack and a little fun before bedtime. And it was the best time of the day for me. I cherished those evenings with my children.

Sometimes we engaged in a lengthy Monopoly game that kept us up way too late, but it didn’t matter because we could sleep as late as we wanted. Other times, Yahtzee was the game of choice and occasionally, the older ones and I played Scrabble. When there was a good movie on, or some other favorite show, I popped a huge bowl of popcorn and we settled down in the family room to watch TV. No matter how we chose to spend the evenings, there was always a lot of fun and laughter.

But all good things must end and much too soon, it was the first day of school. After they had breakfast and were ready to go, I stood at the door and hugged each of them as they left. When I closed the door behind the last one, I rushed to the window with the farthest view and watched them until they were out of sight.

And then I dried my tears, poured a cup of coffee and watched Captain Kangaroo.