I look out my ice-framed window at the wonderfully white winter wonderland that was simply my front yard the night before. The sun has finally come up to allow his rays to glisten on every ice cycle that envelops every bough of every tree within my vision. The blanket of newly fallen snow that the meteorologist will insist was only four inches looks to me to cover everything within sight. Its crystal surface shimmers in the new light of day. The mere brightness, or perhaps the mere beauty, makes my eyes begin to tear.
Where yesterday there was a messy mixture of mud and slush, hibernating brownish grass, and a driveway that has needed a new coat of blacktop for three years, today there is a faultless layer of sparkling perfection. At this moment, the moment before the first person dares to trod over the new fallen snow, before the dog runs out to do what dogs must do, this moment is the moment I am reminded of God’s grandeur. But even more, the purity, the clearness, the newness of the freshly fallen snow remind me of the grand gift of forgiveness. Only God can change the ugliness of sin –all our mud and slush and everything about us that is not at all attractive. Only He can cover our inequities and imperfections with the sanctifying Grace of exquisite forgiveness. We still know what lies underneath; we are acutely aware of what we’ve done, and the limits of who we are. But when we ask, when we are very still, God’s grace falls upon us like forgiving flakes, permitting us to be new again. And so I start the day by staring out my ice covered window, thanking God for the splendor of the seamless snow and the chance to glisten in the rising of the Son
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It’s not that I was surprised to be inspired. I was, after all, in church. It wasn’t so much the location of the inspiration as it was the source. We had all just stood up. The homily was over and we were getting ready to profess our faith. I know I should have been focusing on the stream of words coming out of my mouth, but as too often happens, I allowed my wavering attention span to wander around, taking my focus with it until landing on the family a couple of pews in front of me. And then I saw it. A young girl stood next to her father, leaning into him as if her own body could not support her light weight. He continued to recite his profession of faith. And that's when it happened. Somewhere before our petition of prayers, the little girl must have decided the support from the lean wasn't enough, as she instinctively held her arms up to her daddy who picked her up without a moment’s hesitation. The reason this caught my attention was that she appeared too old to be held. I wouldn’t have paid attention if she were three or under –but this little girl seemed years beyond the holding stage, and yet her father picked her up the moment she asked. Without any prodding or pleading, he picked up his daughter and held her for the rest of the standing portion of the service. Contented, she nuzzled her head on his shoulder with a look of peace that we adults just can’t mimic. It was that simple. She asked to be held and her daddy held her. And even though I was surprised by the request being made at her age, it somehow looked so right. And of course, it made me think. Why do we too often equate losing our ability to ask for help with losing our youth? Many times in life we might find ourselves growing weary, hoping for someone to lean on. But we’re too big, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we find a way to handle it all on our own? Life would be so much simpler if we could all remember no matter how old or self-sufficient we think we are, we are still God’s children. Like the daddy in church, God is always there for us to lean on. And when we need more than leaning for support, how happy it must make our Father if we could only remember to instinctively raise our arms to Him and ask to be held. For it is only in our Father’s arms that we might find the true peace of a contented child. The mound of luggage and laundry left at the door by my college freshman returning home for the upcoming holidays almost tripped me. As I stumbled to avoid a fall, something caught my eye. Right on top of one of the overflowing laundry baskets, was a very tattered, very loved stuffed animal named Simba.
Simba, the young cub from the Lion King movie, was a gift my daughter received when she was four years old. From that day on, Simba would be a part of her life. Through strep throat, chicken pox, various stomach aliments and even a tonsillectomy, clutching this cub was the best medicine for her. When she finally overcame her fear of spending the night away from home, it was only if Simba could go with her. So, it was not at all a surprise when I noticed the stuffed animal stuffed into the personal belongings she was taking with her to Miami University. And, now, standing by the door, I picked up this precious piece of my daughter’s childhood and I could not stop smiling. I smiled thinking of the messy young woman who left the pile by the door. Still so familiar in so many ways. She has the same way of talking like the rapid ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun; and the same way of laughing a laugh that leaves energy in the room long after she walks out. All that has not changed. But still, there is something different about this child who walked out the door four short months ago only to walk back through the door a young woman with a bit more of the world in her baggage. Yes, I know it’s called growing up, but to me it is more like growing into the person I knew she always was. Looking into your child’s face and seeing both the small child who clutches a stuffed animal for security, and the young adult who has been living away from you for awhile, is mystifying. And yet, somehow, so right. I understand she will go out that door more and more, and one day more time will pass before she walks through it again. And so I find myself clutching Simba, taking comfort in the fact that, like the raggedy stuffed animal, I know there is a part of me she always takes with her when she walks out that door, and whenever she returns. Dirty laundry and all. I received an email from a fellow teacher containing a poem recounting his return trip home from the war –the Vietnam War. He recalled buddies left behind, some he prayed might return one day, others whose flag-draped caskets were the only return they would ever get.
Reading his emotional account of his re-entry into the real-world following his service to his country – my country ---hit me hard on this week of Veteran’s Day. I was so young during the Vietnam War that I’m not sure what I remember about it and what has actually been planted in my mind from movies and old news footage. As I grew, I thought the Vietnam War was, like World Wars I and II, simply pages in a history book. Now, the war-pages of history are still being written. Daily, we hear of young men and women going off to serve their country. Last month, when one of my former students left for the Army, this living history became more real for me. I guess I always suspected the war was made up of sons, and daughters, and students, but as long as we can compartmentalize our world here and their world there, we don’t have to put faces on the soldiers. But of course, they all have faces. They all have positions of importance in someone’s life. And right now they are in a position of uncertainty, serving our country. Like the Vietnam War of years ago, so much is argued today about the rightness of the war that is currently going on. But at least one thing that has changed for the better, is perhaps we finally understand that no matter what someone thinks of the war, the soldiers---both young and old--- helping to fight it, deserve our thanks, prayers and praise. Throughout history, if we have managed to learn anything at all, it is that there would be no land of the free without this being the home of so many of the brave. A poet once observed:
“The sweetest sounds to mortals given Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.” I was thinking about this recently after attending the funeral of a woman who epitomizes for me what a mother should be: Loving, faithful, serving, ever-praising. Alice Willig, wife of Ed Willig, was the mother of 11 children, 36 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. I got to know her as the mother of my dear friend, Fr. Jim Willig. When we were brought together to write his book, Lessons from the School of Suffering, chronicling his journey with cancer, much of it had to be written from his parent’s house where he was recuperating from different cancer treatments. Alice’s love and care for her hurting son was actually palpable. You felt it the minute you walked into their home. As a mother, I understood. It doesn’t matter if our child is four or forty. When they are hurting, we are hurting. And Alice turned her hurt for her son into ways to help. From praying with him and cooking for him, to rubbing his feet after a weary cancer treatment, Alice served her son with a happy heart. Fr. Jim would often comment how doubly blessed he was to have a loving, heavenly mother in the Blessed Mother, and a loving, earthly mother to help him through his suffering. Alice’s role in his life made his devotion to Mary all the more natural. But Alice wasn’t just serving and loving her suffering son; she was able to serve and love all her children and grandchildren with this selfless, Christ-like love. And all the while she was serving, she was daily praying for them and their salvation. We can learn so much from mothers like this: Moms who truly live their lives to raise their children in this world with the sole purpose of getting them into the next world. We get so caught up in our ideas of the super-mom of today: the one who brings home the bacon and fries it up in the pan. But, if truth be told, there is no better supermom than one who spends her life showing her children Christ’s love through her love for them. Today, we can all learn so much from the life of supermom, Alice Willig. We can smile as we think of the poet’s words once again: “The sweetest sounds to mortals given Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.” And those words are even sweeter when they refer to a life well loved and lived, and a dear mother who finally makes it home to heaven. While chaperoning the homecoming dance at Colerain High School, I realized the most dramatic dance I was witnessing, was a dance of friendship.
The evening began with the arrival of the students wearing outfits that sparkled almost as much as their anticipation which bounced around the helium balloon-filled air. As a teacher, it is a treat to see the students in the strobe-light of a social function like this. Even the ones that may have given me a heavy dose of teenage attitude over a missing assignment’s penalty the day before, run over to me at the dance, seeking approval of their beautiful new dress. It’s also fun to see who is friends with whom. It’s easy to assume the student who sits in my class knows only the other students from that class. School-wide functions make it possible to see the chains of friendship that extend way past the block schedule of a typical school day. Taking my place in the back of the decorated gymnasium, I watched the interactions taking place amid the pulsating sound-track of their generation. I watched as individuals would arrive without their group, desperately hunting for where he or she belonged. I smiled as groups of students circled around each other mirroring one another, as if they were watching themselves in the reflection of their friends. And in so many ways they were. My gaze was caught by two sturdy teenage boys who began dancing a goofy fast dance across the back of the room, laughing as they mocked each others’ moves. I couldn’t help but to wonder how they found someone so like themselves in this great big world. Then, I looked over and saw two other teenaged young men who had obviously practiced the choreography of their dance for hours and were now debuting it for an appreciative audience of clapping young ladies. Again, I smiled and thought, how great that they, too found each other. And in the middle of the gym, swayed the others, all packed together, being as fun-loving and goofy as possible, having the time of their lives. At just the right time, they had found each other. That night reminded me how amazing it is that we find the people we find in our lives. Sometimes we forget how incredible it is that we have one very good friend, let alone others, who like what we like, laugh when we laugh, cry when we cry. And when we are truly blessed, we find people who not only don’t make us feel silly when we act that way, but they’re also more than willing to act silly right there beside us. Dancing to our own beat may be important. But finding people who can stay in step with us makes this big dance of life even better. Delmar Gethers loved his garden. For years he had a garden that would put other gardeners to shame. It would put others to shame except for that fact that even more than he loved gardening, Delmar loved sharing the fruits (and vegetables!) of his labors with everyone. And he shared and shared.
Sharing was a big part of Delmar’s life. After losing his wife, his “Babe,” of 59 years, many expected him to fade quickly thereafter. Their love was just one of those you hear of where when one goes and the other is soon to follow. But somehow Delmar carried on. He fondly spoke of his “Babe” and how he would be ready to meet her again whenever the good Lord decided it was his time. He continued on, keeping up his house, his garden, his life. He mowed the grass throughout his eighties and tended that garden in the spring and summer, even shoveling snow in the winter. When he was asked how he was, he would always cheerfully answer, “I can’t complain. No one wants to hear complaints, anyhow.” And he never did complain either. The closest he ever got to admitting aging wasn’t a walk in the park was when he once admitted, at the age of 93, “Compared to the eighties, these nineties are a whole new ballgame.” One might conclude that his gardening know-how taught him what he needed to know in order to age so gracefully. From his garden he learned, you have to plan ahead. If you are expecting something good today, you better have planted the necessary seeds early enough. From his garden he learned, it takes a lot of hard work. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it. From his garden he learned, things don’t always go the way you intended. Sometimes, no matter how well you planned and tended your garden, the other elements affect the outcome more than you wanted. From his garden he learned, patience. You really do reap what you sow. From his garden he learned, you need to enjoy what you have today. And Delmar Gethers did just that. This morning, the good Lord decided it was his time. So at the age of 94, he is once again united with his “Babe”. We couldn’t be happier for him. The tears we shed now are simply a gentle rain, and every gardener knows how beneficial rain can be. Yes, Delmar Gethers loved his garden. But he loved his family even more. And we’d have to say those seeds were the best seeds he ever planted.k here to edit. The sight of the horse and buggy on the country road awakened the interests of my kids that the ninety-minute car ride had deadened.
"What is that?" my (then) six-year-old was the first to notice and question. I smiled at the sight that I had seen many times before when visiting my grandparents in Belle Center, Ohio. "There are Amish people who live up here and that is the way they travel." "Cool!" came the response from the backseat. The closer we got to the slow moving mode of transportation, the more the questions arose about the Amish life style. To kids who had just been complaining about not having a cell phone, the idea of such a simple lack of modern day conveniences seemed not only unheard of, but downright antiquated. "Do they know what they're missing?" my son questioned as we slowly made our way past the buggy. The plainly dressed gentleman smiled as he nodded and waved while holding onto the reigns. We returned his courteousness and waved, continuing on our way to Grandma's house. I couldn't help but to think of that scene when I was awakened to the news of another school shooting last week. This time the shooting took place in the humble dwelling of a one room Amish school house in Pennsylvania . It breaks our hearts anytime we hear of a school shooting ---and there have been more times lately than we can wrap our broken hearts around. But there was something even more sinister in this choice of victims: a community that is known for such simple-God fearing ways; a people that remind us of a time so long ago. Hostage situations and multiple murders here seem even more of a deplorable violation to the rest of the world. But now the rest of the world is sitting back with a sense of awe in what happened next in the community. The afternoon of the murder, the families involved led a walk to the house of the murderer to show forgiveness to the family he left behind. When asked about this, an Amish gentleman answered, "It's just our way of life." Peace. Forgiveness. One mother who lost her daughter was overheard saying it was a horrible tragedy that should never happen. But if it had to happen, "...it was probably best that it happened in our community, where we are prepared to leave this world for the next." The simple people with the plain clothes have spoken so profoundly. We do tend to look at their way of life as being antiquated, almost backward in thought. It appears, though, they are better futuristic thinkers than most. To answer my son's question, they indeed, appear to know what it is they are missing in their chosen lifestyle. The better question, though, just might be: Do we? here to edit. The picture made me smile.
It was an old picture of my daughter, not even two years old giving me one of her “squeezy hugs” --the kind where she would obediently hold on so tightly, we would have to say from time to time, “Okay ---you can let go now”. She was holding on to me so sweetly in the picture, I had to smile. I had to smile to keep from crying. Because I see the new pictures of that not-so-little girl, are her in a white dress walking across a stage to receive her high school diploma. And the pictures after that will be of her walking out the door to attend Miami University and the rest of her life. My head knows it is supposed to be this way. All babies, even the ones that give big “squeezy-hugs” eventually do grow up. But my heart isn’t being that rational right now. My heart is feeling a “squeezy hug” like never before. You see, my heart remembers the first time I felt a hint of this feeling. My heart remembers this very same girl learning to ride a bike. In my over-zealousness I had her five year-old body wrapped in every protective gear available at that time. Helmet, shin guards, knee pads, elbow pads. It was a wonder she could even pedal. But she is my first born and that’s just part of the package with first borns. And even though I had her so overly protected, I still worried as I watched her learn to go forward on her own. Faster and faster. Further and further. And just like she’s supposed to, she’s beginning to move further away everyday ---sometimes merely by inches, sometimes by leaps and bounds. Only now I have no protective armor to cover her in as she rides off for this next incredible step of her life. Somehow she’s so ready. Somehow, I’m so not. So I smile at the 16 year old picture that seems like it was taken just yesterday. Remembering it all. Only now the roles have changed a bit. Now, the grown-up voice I hear is hers, as she begins to turn to me and say, “Okay ---you can let go now.” |
Tamara Bundy
Some musings on being a mom, teacher, writer ..or maybe just being. Archives
November 2020
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