No, they didn't call themselves "The Flower Girls," but that's what they were. Norma (my mom), Faye, and Ruth. All were preacher's wives, all lived in the same community, attended the same church (Mama and Faye were married to men serving in ministries outside the pastorate), and all beautiful, strong-minded, creative, and delightful.
My mother gave me her tiny inheritance money for the down payment of my first home, which I purchased when I was 30. It wasn't much, but it meant the world to me that she wanted to bless me that way. I've learned since that in order to make a house "mine," I have to change some things, inside and/or out. That first little cottage measured approximately 24 x 40, had a kitchen, dining room, living room, 2 bedrooms, and 2 baths, and I shared it first with my brother and then with my best friend. We replaced a toilet, painted the walls, replaced the kitchen counter tops and painted the cabinets, added 2 large rooms, and built a deck. We also put a bright yellow, 1960's era free-standing fireplace/stove in the new den, with beautiful Mexican tile under it. It was a gorgeous room.
But even before those internal changes, Mama and the other flower girls helped to make the exterior a true home. My middle brother, Amos, man-handled the tiller to create flower beds around the entire perimeter of the fenced backyard. The ladies showed up that same day to help create a virtual paradise. Mama sat on her bottom literally all day long, lining the beds with monkey grass (liriope), most of which had been dug from her own yard. Faye and Ruth had also brought cuttings from their gardens, and by days' end, we had an antique rose, several crepe myrtles, a bed of hostas and calladium, and a variety of other beautiful, flowering plants. I don't believe I ever expressed to them adequately just how much their labor of love meant to me. Thank you, ladies. You made that house a home.
The Flower Girls were drawn together by a number of things. Flowers, yes, and gardening. Mama and Faye owned their homes and had gone after their respective lawns with a vengeance, creating outdoor rooms before they were popular, coaxing azaleas to bloom in soil that was too alkaline, finding antique flowers and other rare specimens, and sprinkling in a heavy dose of the Southern standards -- forsythia, quince, nandina, and lots of monkey grass. Ruth still lived in a parsonage, but she was no less dedicated to her "borrowed" yard, and as long as she and B.F. occupied the manse, it was a true showplace.
On several occasions, they made trips to see famous gardens and raid massive nurseries. They also loved antique and junk-store shopping, and Faye and Ruth left a large fingerprint on Mama's house, with their decorating finesse. Years after Faye and Ed boldly painted their textured wallpaper a bold cranberry color, I followed suit to paint an entire living room that was papered in texture -- I went for an off-white color, but Faye led the way. Ruth once gave me a beautiful blue bud vase with a fluted top, and I treasure it to this day, placing the first jonquils of spring in it every year.
When Mama began to lose her mind, literally, to Pick's Disease, Ruth and Faye stayed strong and near, in spite of the fact that Mama became a person none of us could recognize. When Mama tried to paint Al Gore being chased by a wild hog out of the textured ceiling of her bedroom, dropping an entire gallon of paint on her bedspread and carpet, Faye called me home to help. And Faye was still there when we needed to have an intervention to end her driving privileges and arrange for daycare.
Ruth and B.F. were Mama's favorite people during those early years of her dementia, and they were unfailingly supportive of her. She was a handful, in public exhibiting outrageous, uninhibited behaviors, and in private, pouring out her woes and frustrations ad nauseum. They just hung steady, loving her, supporting her, encouraging her. When Mama seemed to turn to them and away from family, they loved us, too, and eventually we found some solace with one another as we watched this bright shining one we had loved so much deteriorate so thoroughly into an unrecognizable shadow of what she had once been. They retired and moved 70 miles away, but still remained a presence in our lives, praying and encouraging us as we continued the journey.
The week that Mama died, Faye sat with me for long hours in the nursing home. She held Mama's hand and reminisced aloud about the things they had done together. She was as delighted as I when Mama squeezed her hand in recognition, after weeks of recognizing and responding very rarely. She kissed her gently when she told her goodbye, and helped me to know that though this might be the most difficult thing I would ever face, I could do it, with God's strength.
The Flower Girls added so much beauty to the world around them. Their friendship was cherished by many, individually and as a group. Thank you, Faye and Ruth, for loving my mother and sharing your lives with us all.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Turning 50 -- Something Like 64 days to go...I'll count later
We have just returned from a flying trip to Kansas City. Saw lots of good friends, visited two schools, ate at several of our favorite restaurants, even learned to cook my grandma's shrimp gumbo recipe for friends while we were there. Busy, busy time. We drove for 12 hours today to get home, unloaded the car, unpacked all the bags, made 3 beds so we could go to sleep tonight in comfort, and I am now tee-totally exhausted.
When I was 26 and had just begun my own itinerant ministry, I drove 24 hours seven times in a two-week period once. I am not 26 anymore. I am almost double that. And I am twice as tired after one long day of driving than I remember being after 7 unwise marathons 'way back when. Fifty is not the same as 26. I mourn the loss of some of that youthful exuberance and seemingly endless energy. Particularly when the two 2nd graders in this household are still bursting with it at the end of a week like this. Ugh. That's why they give babies and young children to young parents.
But I'm grateful for what 50 brings, too. For one thing, I really know how to appreciate home now. I still love to travel and experience new things, but home is much more precious now. I also know how to cherish the friends in my life. I regret that at 26 I connected so deeply with so many (again, the travels) but failed to hold on to many of them for the long-haul. I hope that now my traveling has begun again, I shall do better to nurture the relationships, even when I have to move on.
Finally, 50 knows when to go to bed and rest. Good night, all! I'll catch you tomorrow.
When I was 26 and had just begun my own itinerant ministry, I drove 24 hours seven times in a two-week period once. I am not 26 anymore. I am almost double that. And I am twice as tired after one long day of driving than I remember being after 7 unwise marathons 'way back when. Fifty is not the same as 26. I mourn the loss of some of that youthful exuberance and seemingly endless energy. Particularly when the two 2nd graders in this household are still bursting with it at the end of a week like this. Ugh. That's why they give babies and young children to young parents.
But I'm grateful for what 50 brings, too. For one thing, I really know how to appreciate home now. I still love to travel and experience new things, but home is much more precious now. I also know how to cherish the friends in my life. I regret that at 26 I connected so deeply with so many (again, the travels) but failed to hold on to many of them for the long-haul. I hope that now my traveling has begun again, I shall do better to nurture the relationships, even when I have to move on.
Finally, 50 knows when to go to bed and rest. Good night, all! I'll catch you tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Turning 50 - 66 Days to Go -- Mama's Friends -- the News Hens
"Why are you talking about your mother's friends in a blog about turning 50?" you ask. Well, I don't know...filler? No, really, there is a method to my madness. Part of my plan in this time of transition is to take a look backward, not just at my own life, but at the things that influenced me, and my mother and her friends were certainly among the strongest influences.
The other reason I am focusing on Mama is that she was 25 years old when I was born. She would have turned 75 in August, 2009, and so this would have been a milestone year for her, too. Mama died 10 years ago, and some of her friends have gone (including Carolyn #3, who died 30 years ago of a brain tumor). My hope is to see many of them during this special year, invite them to join me somewhere in a garden for tea, probably near in an antique mall. That is what they enjoyed doing together.
In the last 20 years of Mama's life, she had three groups of friends who played an important role in her life. In the early 1980's, Mama joined the staff of the local newspaper, editing, writing local news, features and opinion columns. Like most news rooms, the writers sat in an open hall, desks clustered together to encourage creativity and open sharing of ideas. I never understood how they could concentrate on anything, but Mama thrived in that atmosphere and treasured the companionship of her workmates. The flock of friends that emerged there was known as "The News Hens."
Throughout her life, most of Mama's friends had been discovered through involvement in various church/faith activities. But the News Hens were the first group that gathered primarily because of their career interests. They worked in every department of the newspaper, from hard news to feature writing to editing to advertising to graphic arts. They shared a mutual passion to offer the best local paper they could, and I think a mutual frustration at the limitations imposed on them by limited finances and sometimes callous corporate decisions.
I didn't know the News Hens well...only 2 or 3 of them actually crossed into my circles of church and university activities. But I know that Mama cherished each of them individually for their unique personalities. Shirley was the wise older sister, bringing a large dose of humor to everything they did in a way that kept them from losing focus. Francis' connection to the local community, Beverly's youth and enthusiasm, Fairfax's gentle grace, Vicky's no-nonsense news reporting. There were several others I didn't know as well, and I regret that I never had the opportunity to have a really good look into the Hen House and understand what kept them close to one another. More than work, certainly. More than mutual indignation about those indifferent corporate bosses. More than simple time spent in the same space.
I think part of what kept them together was a genuine respect for one another's intelligence and creativity. In a field in which many journalists were greatly under-appreciated for their long, hard hours of work, their contribution to community transparency and cohesion, and their genuine desire to help make a better community, they provided one another the encouragement and fortitude necessary to keep producing the best product they could offer.
And they like each other! I remember "landing" at the same restaurant as the Hens one lunchtime. I didn't know they were there, but kept hearing the roar of laughter from a boisterous group seated on the patio. I don't remember why I ventured out there, but I somehow caught a glimpse of them, circled around a wrought-iron table under the trees, heads thrown back in raucous laughter. A few minutes later, they were leaning forward, heads tilted toward one of their flock who was sharing something intimate. And yet again, laughing, wiping tears, squeezing hands.
I've known that kind of friendship with 2 or 3 different groups in my lifetime, friendship not born of mutual faith, but of deliberate choice to gather. Our personal values and political positions were not what drew us together, but as openness to differing opinions and mutual respect for one another grew, I came to love these friends in a kind of protective, family way that I found to be a refreshing change from the sometimes insulated, isolated circles of friends I have had in church. They challenged me to make sure that my opinions and values were based not on inherited, cultural norms, but on genuine, informed belief that they were the staff of life.
I think that's what Mama found with Shirley, Frances, Fairfax, and the others. All precious women, all "church" ladies, though not in the traditional sense, but all with a view of the world that wasn't dimmed by stained-glass windows. These are the friends that take the strength of faith and give it roots, simply by virtue of challenging one to make sure the so-called strength is not just stubborn adherence to unsupported opinion.
Thanks, Ladies. You've made my life much more colorful, Mama's too.
The other reason I am focusing on Mama is that she was 25 years old when I was born. She would have turned 75 in August, 2009, and so this would have been a milestone year for her, too. Mama died 10 years ago, and some of her friends have gone (including Carolyn #3, who died 30 years ago of a brain tumor). My hope is to see many of them during this special year, invite them to join me somewhere in a garden for tea, probably near in an antique mall. That is what they enjoyed doing together.
In the last 20 years of Mama's life, she had three groups of friends who played an important role in her life. In the early 1980's, Mama joined the staff of the local newspaper, editing, writing local news, features and opinion columns. Like most news rooms, the writers sat in an open hall, desks clustered together to encourage creativity and open sharing of ideas. I never understood how they could concentrate on anything, but Mama thrived in that atmosphere and treasured the companionship of her workmates. The flock of friends that emerged there was known as "The News Hens."
Throughout her life, most of Mama's friends had been discovered through involvement in various church/faith activities. But the News Hens were the first group that gathered primarily because of their career interests. They worked in every department of the newspaper, from hard news to feature writing to editing to advertising to graphic arts. They shared a mutual passion to offer the best local paper they could, and I think a mutual frustration at the limitations imposed on them by limited finances and sometimes callous corporate decisions.
I didn't know the News Hens well...only 2 or 3 of them actually crossed into my circles of church and university activities. But I know that Mama cherished each of them individually for their unique personalities. Shirley was the wise older sister, bringing a large dose of humor to everything they did in a way that kept them from losing focus. Francis' connection to the local community, Beverly's youth and enthusiasm, Fairfax's gentle grace, Vicky's no-nonsense news reporting. There were several others I didn't know as well, and I regret that I never had the opportunity to have a really good look into the Hen House and understand what kept them close to one another. More than work, certainly. More than mutual indignation about those indifferent corporate bosses. More than simple time spent in the same space.
I think part of what kept them together was a genuine respect for one another's intelligence and creativity. In a field in which many journalists were greatly under-appreciated for their long, hard hours of work, their contribution to community transparency and cohesion, and their genuine desire to help make a better community, they provided one another the encouragement and fortitude necessary to keep producing the best product they could offer.
And they like each other! I remember "landing" at the same restaurant as the Hens one lunchtime. I didn't know they were there, but kept hearing the roar of laughter from a boisterous group seated on the patio. I don't remember why I ventured out there, but I somehow caught a glimpse of them, circled around a wrought-iron table under the trees, heads thrown back in raucous laughter. A few minutes later, they were leaning forward, heads tilted toward one of their flock who was sharing something intimate. And yet again, laughing, wiping tears, squeezing hands.
I've known that kind of friendship with 2 or 3 different groups in my lifetime, friendship not born of mutual faith, but of deliberate choice to gather. Our personal values and political positions were not what drew us together, but as openness to differing opinions and mutual respect for one another grew, I came to love these friends in a kind of protective, family way that I found to be a refreshing change from the sometimes insulated, isolated circles of friends I have had in church. They challenged me to make sure that my opinions and values were based not on inherited, cultural norms, but on genuine, informed belief that they were the staff of life.
I think that's what Mama found with Shirley, Frances, Fairfax, and the others. All precious women, all "church" ladies, though not in the traditional sense, but all with a view of the world that wasn't dimmed by stained-glass windows. These are the friends that take the strength of faith and give it roots, simply by virtue of challenging one to make sure the so-called strength is not just stubborn adherence to unsupported opinion.
Thanks, Ladies. You've made my life much more colorful, Mama's too.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Turning 50 - 67 Days to Go - Mama's Friends, Silver and Gold
When I was a little girl, before handheld digital game players and portable DVD players, our family spent travel time in the car reading aloud and singing together. I learned a lot about melody and harmony in those years, simply from singing simple rounds. One of our favorites said, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." My mother lived that principle beautifully.
The mark of a truly good friend is found in one who genuinely loves people, and my mother certainly had that trait. Some people favor friends of this age or that, but Mama loved them all. During a couple of my father's pastorates, she worked with the children's and youth choirs, and through that experience gathered around her a large following of adoring teenage girls. The boys were probably just as enamoured of her, but she drew the girls close to nurture, mentor, and counsel.
By the time I was a young adult, I realized how many young women actually came to my mother for advice. It wasn't just that she was older than them, it was that she possessed a wisdom born of the quiet she had spent listening for God's wisdom and pondering his word. She genuinely enjoyed her young friends, and at times, they just got together to enjoy one another's company. But for the most part, they came to her for the insight and guidance she shared about their love lives, careers, friends, and futures. I certainly understand why...she was my chief confidante and counselor.
At the other end of the spectrum were the grandmothers and aunts who generously offered the same kind wisdom and compassionate understanding for my mother that she learned to give to others. Granny Tess, in Itta Bena, used to come get my younger brothers (ages 15 months and 7 months) and say, "I need me some little boy lovin'," but what she was really doing was given my worn-out mother a much-needed respite from the 24/7 job of caring for 4 children. Others taught her their favorite crochet patterns and bread recipes. Others reminded her that God was in control and that every seemingly impossible situation in her life would be wrapped up in His good plan for her life.
She gave to those elderly ones, as well, reading to a blind, bed-ridden friend for years, tutoring another who had never learned to read. She baked several loaves of bread each week and spent part of the weekend delivering delicious, warm, fresh-from-the-oven comfort to shut-ins. As a newspaper feature writer, she sought out many retirees and told the tales of their fascinating lives, forging lasting friendships with many of them.
The tapestry of my mother's life was beautiful, in large part due to the colorful variety of her friendships. I enjoyed sitting under the fringes of that beautiful tapestry in those days, and looking back now to remember the riches. It is not untrue to say that my life is, likewise, richly blessed by precious friends.
The mark of a truly good friend is found in one who genuinely loves people, and my mother certainly had that trait. Some people favor friends of this age or that, but Mama loved them all. During a couple of my father's pastorates, she worked with the children's and youth choirs, and through that experience gathered around her a large following of adoring teenage girls. The boys were probably just as enamoured of her, but she drew the girls close to nurture, mentor, and counsel.
By the time I was a young adult, I realized how many young women actually came to my mother for advice. It wasn't just that she was older than them, it was that she possessed a wisdom born of the quiet she had spent listening for God's wisdom and pondering his word. She genuinely enjoyed her young friends, and at times, they just got together to enjoy one another's company. But for the most part, they came to her for the insight and guidance she shared about their love lives, careers, friends, and futures. I certainly understand why...she was my chief confidante and counselor.
At the other end of the spectrum were the grandmothers and aunts who generously offered the same kind wisdom and compassionate understanding for my mother that she learned to give to others. Granny Tess, in Itta Bena, used to come get my younger brothers (ages 15 months and 7 months) and say, "I need me some little boy lovin'," but what she was really doing was given my worn-out mother a much-needed respite from the 24/7 job of caring for 4 children. Others taught her their favorite crochet patterns and bread recipes. Others reminded her that God was in control and that every seemingly impossible situation in her life would be wrapped up in His good plan for her life.
She gave to those elderly ones, as well, reading to a blind, bed-ridden friend for years, tutoring another who had never learned to read. She baked several loaves of bread each week and spent part of the weekend delivering delicious, warm, fresh-from-the-oven comfort to shut-ins. As a newspaper feature writer, she sought out many retirees and told the tales of their fascinating lives, forging lasting friendships with many of them.
The tapestry of my mother's life was beautiful, in large part due to the colorful variety of her friendships. I enjoyed sitting under the fringes of that beautiful tapestry in those days, and looking back now to remember the riches. It is not untrue to say that my life is, likewise, richly blessed by precious friends.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Turning 50 -- 68 Days to Go --
A couple of days ago, I started talking about Mama's friends. She had three wonderful friends named Carolyn/Carol. They will be the start to my musings on the individuals.
Chronologically, the first was the wife of a seminary student, another would-be Mississippi Methodist pastor, and the men were both in school while the wives made their tiny nests in married student housing and worked to put food on the table. These two couples remained dear friends for many years -- at least 20 -- until the other couple divorced and Mama developed dementia. They not only went to school together, but had their first children together, a boy and then a girl, all of us almost the same age, and in that same order. (It's late...did that make sense? Their son and my older brother were both born in 1956, and their daughter and I were both born in 1960.) Both men returned to Mississippi to pastor churches. And both women maintained a great sense of humor through all the challenges they met in the pastorate.
I remember hearing them talk about parsonages, some of which were so "simple" that they could see through the floor boards to the dirt under the foundation. (I avoided saying 'dilapidated' because that wouldn't be respectful of the precious parishioners who did their best to provide housing for their pastors' families. I'm thinking they might have been able to do a bit better, in some instances. I'm just sayin'...) They learned to laugh about meddling members, testy trustees, and crusty choir directors. They loved the people to whom they ministered, and they were in that old breed of ministers' wives who felt they were partners in ministry, whether they received remuneration for their service or not. (Please don't misunderstand -- the workman is worthy of his hire, and we lay persons should do our best to bless those who serve us, official staff or not.) I think Carolyn #1 and Mama were, first and foremost, a safe soundboard and an endless encouragement to one another, in their unique sisterhood as clergy wives.
Carolyn #2 was school librarian and wife of the high school principal in the last community where my dad pastored, before he went into itinerant evangelism. She, again, had a son close to my brother's age, and a daughter my age, and Penny and I were bosom buddies. I can't wait until I'm talking about my friends and can share with you about her. But tonight's subject is Mama's Carolyns, so...
While the roles were not identical, as two of the first ladies in our tiny community of 2000, Mama and Carolyn #2 again found a camaraderie in their shared sisterhood, but they also clung to one another because they helped one another laugh. In fact, as I recall, all three Carolyn's helped my mother laugh, and vice versa. Principal's wife Carolyn lived on a corner on the main drag into town, just 2 blocks from the town square. We were off the main drag one block (the town was only 3 blocks wide, at it's widest, at least on our end of town), and only one block away from one another. To say that these women lived in "Glass Houses" would be a gross understatement. Small town America, especially in the deep south, is by very nature a hotbed of personal interference. Nothing remains a secret for 24 hours, and town leaders are fair game for anyone's curiosity.
The oldest sons in both of these families matured to adolescence while we were still living there, and I know that at least in our household, there was a lot of prayer, biting of the lower lips, and wringing of the hands, as my parents endeavored to let him stretch his wings -- knowing all too well that well-meaning, busy-body neighbors would be standing ready to lob ground-to-air missiles at the young eagles. Mama and Carolyn were once again a safe haven and a source of equanimity for one another, a reminder to each other that you can survive just about anything that the local gossips dish out.
Carolyn #3 became a Navy widow at about the same time my mother became an evangelist's widow. In Carolyn's case, her husband was actually lost at sea when his aircraft failed to make altitude from the air craft carrier. I believe he was stationed in the Pacific, during the Vietnam War. Her widowhood was permanent. She moved to Starkville, MS, in 1971 in order to take a position in the early childhood education department at Mississippi State University.
My dad started traveling 45 weeks of the year in 1971, pursuing his call to itinerant evangelism. My mother was an evangelist's widow, left at home a majority of the time to care for my now three brothers and I. We also moved to Starkville that year, and were connected to Carolyn and family by mutual friends from the Mississippi Delta. Again, there were boys in both households just entering the teen years, girls on the cusp of adolescence, and then Mama had two additional toddlers. We all attended the Methodist church, Mama and Carolyn becoming fast friends and her daughter and I becoming fierce rivals. We have a sweet admiration for one another now, and I love her all the more for her connection to my mother.
This friendship was the first one I really remember trying to eavesdrop on...hanging around at the breakfast table while they solved the world's problems, learning how to open my heart in friendship to another woman, learning how to respect her boundaries, to give her courage in her weakness, comfort in her sorrow, laughter in everything. They were like sisters, sitting close to one another on the couch so look at magazines together, swapping children and recipes whenever there was a need, calling one another in the middle of the night when the darkness was too much to manage. Looking back, I am so grateful that the Lord, once again, gave my mother the perfect sister/friend, who could understand her aloneness and hold her hand.
Phileo -- the Greek word for the kind of love that friends have for one another. I used to think it meant "I like you because you're like me." It does, but it also means that the two share a common bond, whether it is similar life circumstances or favorite pasttimes. In their likeness, those who share phileo love for one another are much like Jesus as our high priest who "was familiar with our every weakness" because he became a man like us.
We need phileo, the love of friends who understand us because they are walking the same road and share the same values. This is the love that helps to make the path of life secure so that when we venture out into unknown territory, we know that there are those who will be "holding the stuff" for us back at home, anxious to bring us back to center, back to safety.
God, thank you for the Carolyns in my mother's life. by the way....did you know that Carolyn means, "One who sings"? Ah, I like that. It also means "free woman." Appropriate, don't you think? And I certainly saw in these woman a freedom that exhibited itself in a life sung well.
Carolyn was the #1 most popular name given in the early 1930's, when all three of these women, and my mother (Norma) were born, but it has fallen 'way down in the rankings now. I think there should be a revival of the name, don't you, especially if there is any truth to the Biblical practice of naming your children with their future in mind.
Chronologically, the first was the wife of a seminary student, another would-be Mississippi Methodist pastor, and the men were both in school while the wives made their tiny nests in married student housing and worked to put food on the table. These two couples remained dear friends for many years -- at least 20 -- until the other couple divorced and Mama developed dementia. They not only went to school together, but had their first children together, a boy and then a girl, all of us almost the same age, and in that same order. (It's late...did that make sense? Their son and my older brother were both born in 1956, and their daughter and I were both born in 1960.) Both men returned to Mississippi to pastor churches. And both women maintained a great sense of humor through all the challenges they met in the pastorate.
I remember hearing them talk about parsonages, some of which were so "simple" that they could see through the floor boards to the dirt under the foundation. (I avoided saying 'dilapidated' because that wouldn't be respectful of the precious parishioners who did their best to provide housing for their pastors' families. I'm thinking they might have been able to do a bit better, in some instances. I'm just sayin'...) They learned to laugh about meddling members, testy trustees, and crusty choir directors. They loved the people to whom they ministered, and they were in that old breed of ministers' wives who felt they were partners in ministry, whether they received remuneration for their service or not. (Please don't misunderstand -- the workman is worthy of his hire, and we lay persons should do our best to bless those who serve us, official staff or not.) I think Carolyn #1 and Mama were, first and foremost, a safe soundboard and an endless encouragement to one another, in their unique sisterhood as clergy wives.
Carolyn #2 was school librarian and wife of the high school principal in the last community where my dad pastored, before he went into itinerant evangelism. She, again, had a son close to my brother's age, and a daughter my age, and Penny and I were bosom buddies. I can't wait until I'm talking about my friends and can share with you about her. But tonight's subject is Mama's Carolyns, so...
While the roles were not identical, as two of the first ladies in our tiny community of 2000, Mama and Carolyn #2 again found a camaraderie in their shared sisterhood, but they also clung to one another because they helped one another laugh. In fact, as I recall, all three Carolyn's helped my mother laugh, and vice versa. Principal's wife Carolyn lived on a corner on the main drag into town, just 2 blocks from the town square. We were off the main drag one block (the town was only 3 blocks wide, at it's widest, at least on our end of town), and only one block away from one another. To say that these women lived in "Glass Houses" would be a gross understatement. Small town America, especially in the deep south, is by very nature a hotbed of personal interference. Nothing remains a secret for 24 hours, and town leaders are fair game for anyone's curiosity.
The oldest sons in both of these families matured to adolescence while we were still living there, and I know that at least in our household, there was a lot of prayer, biting of the lower lips, and wringing of the hands, as my parents endeavored to let him stretch his wings -- knowing all too well that well-meaning, busy-body neighbors would be standing ready to lob ground-to-air missiles at the young eagles. Mama and Carolyn were once again a safe haven and a source of equanimity for one another, a reminder to each other that you can survive just about anything that the local gossips dish out.
Carolyn #3 became a Navy widow at about the same time my mother became an evangelist's widow. In Carolyn's case, her husband was actually lost at sea when his aircraft failed to make altitude from the air craft carrier. I believe he was stationed in the Pacific, during the Vietnam War. Her widowhood was permanent. She moved to Starkville, MS, in 1971 in order to take a position in the early childhood education department at Mississippi State University.
My dad started traveling 45 weeks of the year in 1971, pursuing his call to itinerant evangelism. My mother was an evangelist's widow, left at home a majority of the time to care for my now three brothers and I. We also moved to Starkville that year, and were connected to Carolyn and family by mutual friends from the Mississippi Delta. Again, there were boys in both households just entering the teen years, girls on the cusp of adolescence, and then Mama had two additional toddlers. We all attended the Methodist church, Mama and Carolyn becoming fast friends and her daughter and I becoming fierce rivals. We have a sweet admiration for one another now, and I love her all the more for her connection to my mother.
This friendship was the first one I really remember trying to eavesdrop on...hanging around at the breakfast table while they solved the world's problems, learning how to open my heart in friendship to another woman, learning how to respect her boundaries, to give her courage in her weakness, comfort in her sorrow, laughter in everything. They were like sisters, sitting close to one another on the couch so look at magazines together, swapping children and recipes whenever there was a need, calling one another in the middle of the night when the darkness was too much to manage. Looking back, I am so grateful that the Lord, once again, gave my mother the perfect sister/friend, who could understand her aloneness and hold her hand.
Phileo -- the Greek word for the kind of love that friends have for one another. I used to think it meant "I like you because you're like me." It does, but it also means that the two share a common bond, whether it is similar life circumstances or favorite pasttimes. In their likeness, those who share phileo love for one another are much like Jesus as our high priest who "was familiar with our every weakness" because he became a man like us.
We need phileo, the love of friends who understand us because they are walking the same road and share the same values. This is the love that helps to make the path of life secure so that when we venture out into unknown territory, we know that there are those who will be "holding the stuff" for us back at home, anxious to bring us back to center, back to safety.
God, thank you for the Carolyns in my mother's life. by the way....did you know that Carolyn means, "One who sings"? Ah, I like that. It also means "free woman." Appropriate, don't you think? And I certainly saw in these woman a freedom that exhibited itself in a life sung well.
Carolyn was the #1 most popular name given in the early 1930's, when all three of these women, and my mother (Norma) were born, but it has fallen 'way down in the rankings now. I think there should be a revival of the name, don't you, especially if there is any truth to the Biblical practice of naming your children with their future in mind.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Turning 50 -- 69 days to Go -- I'm an OLD Mom
A few years ago, I realized that I could easily divide my life into approximate 20 year segments: 20 years of growing up under the protective care of my parents (yes, college years count); 20 years of living single, traveling the world, a tramp for the Lord; and then, after adopting Christian when I was 44 and he was 20 months, I expected 20 years of full focus on rearing my son. Yes, I knew I would, as a single mom, be required to work in order to support us both, but one doesn't really take into account just what will be required in single motherhood.
Friends warned me, and after two years of, "I told you so!" I wanted to smack some of them in the sunset of their sweet anatomy! Do people say that to biological parents? "I told you so, I told you so!" As if I had a choice! Adoption for me, while completely out of the norm for our culture (maybe any culture), was not an choice, anymore than birthing a much-wanted biological child is an choice. It was an irresistible pull, like finding my magnetic north and forever being dragged that way, from the time I was a little girl. Sure, I could have resisted the pull, just as biological parents can exercise options to prevent parenthood. But I would have forever been off-kilter, struggling to figure out why I was limping through life.
Parenting is a full-time job. Full-time and a half, three-quarters, double-time! There is never a day off, and even when I get the chance (curse?) to have 24 hours away, my mind is always pulled back to him. I'd like to think that as an older mom, I have a lot of wisdom and grace under my belt that younger moms lack. Unfortunately, I think what I have discovered is that I just have 20 more years of living to please myself, a veritable fortress of self-absorption that stands between me and the kind of sacrificial living that is required for motherhood.
I never dreamed that I would be so completely enamoured of this little human! While I am driven to the brink of madness on a regular basis, I wouldn't trade one minute of my life with him in order to return to "freedom in singleness." He is perfect in every way. He is thoughtful and impulsive, cheerful and whiny, pensive and pulsing, focused and scattered. A few days ago, he slipped into an unusual spell of quietness and I worried the entire evening that something terrible had happened - that someone had wounded him and then threatened him, should he tattle on the evil-doer. But the next morning - and ever since - he has talked almost non-stop, chattering about everything under the sun, working his imagination overtime to discuss how rolls might rise on the moon, where there is no gravity to keep them in check; how we might re-locate our house and everything and everyone in our new Mississippi neighborhood to our old location and among our old friends in Missouri; demonstrating that his food is shaped like a light saber, his rolled-up pajamas a submarine, and his "precious, little camel" a falling star. Life is never boring for him.
And it's never boring for me, either. Exhausting, but not boring! He is a pressure-pot exploding with energy, and I am the slow cooker, set to low. He is a Ferrari on the Autobahn and I am a Studebaker on the boulevard. He is shooting stars and fireworks and I am the slow glow of the punk used to light them.
This year, we together undertook the adventure to move back to Mississippi to join my dad's ministry, which requires me to travel all around the world in ministry. Eventually, I hope that he will be able to join me all the time. For now, we home school and he is with me Stateside, while I am anxiously anticipating our first 3-week separation in February when I go to Africa. Tonight, we are on the road again, settled into a hotel on our way to our next destination. We'll be here only one night, but we've made a little nest for him in the room, in the car...home away from home.
I worry that he won't have the on-going, day-to-day relationships with the 300+ 2nd graders in the school he would attend. But then I laugh...do I really want him spending more than half of his waking hours, 5 days a week, under the influence of 300 seven year olds, 300 6 year olds, and 300 kindergartners? I think not! The advantages to this life far out-weigh the limitations, in my estimation. He is out-going and friendly, but has learned to set boundaries and find time for himself. He never meets a stranger and he is comfortable introducing himself to grown-ups, ordering his own meals in restaurants, and asking for assistance when he needs it. He is learning about our great nation by seeing it first-hand, and someday, he will get to see the rest of beautiful planet Earth in the same way. Yes, this is a good decision.
But tonight, after a full week of preparation for a long, 2-day conference, and beginning a 700 mile journey this morning, the day after the conference, I am feeling every bit of my "old mom" status. He is moving like a whirling dervish tonight, unable to be still. I am so tired I can't think straight. But we are together. We are family. And God has made it so. I wouldn't have it any other way!
Friends warned me, and after two years of, "I told you so!" I wanted to smack some of them in the sunset of their sweet anatomy! Do people say that to biological parents? "I told you so, I told you so!" As if I had a choice! Adoption for me, while completely out of the norm for our culture (maybe any culture), was not an choice, anymore than birthing a much-wanted biological child is an choice. It was an irresistible pull, like finding my magnetic north and forever being dragged that way, from the time I was a little girl. Sure, I could have resisted the pull, just as biological parents can exercise options to prevent parenthood. But I would have forever been off-kilter, struggling to figure out why I was limping through life.
Parenting is a full-time job. Full-time and a half, three-quarters, double-time! There is never a day off, and even when I get the chance (curse?) to have 24 hours away, my mind is always pulled back to him. I'd like to think that as an older mom, I have a lot of wisdom and grace under my belt that younger moms lack. Unfortunately, I think what I have discovered is that I just have 20 more years of living to please myself, a veritable fortress of self-absorption that stands between me and the kind of sacrificial living that is required for motherhood.
I never dreamed that I would be so completely enamoured of this little human! While I am driven to the brink of madness on a regular basis, I wouldn't trade one minute of my life with him in order to return to "freedom in singleness." He is perfect in every way. He is thoughtful and impulsive, cheerful and whiny, pensive and pulsing, focused and scattered. A few days ago, he slipped into an unusual spell of quietness and I worried the entire evening that something terrible had happened - that someone had wounded him and then threatened him, should he tattle on the evil-doer. But the next morning - and ever since - he has talked almost non-stop, chattering about everything under the sun, working his imagination overtime to discuss how rolls might rise on the moon, where there is no gravity to keep them in check; how we might re-locate our house and everything and everyone in our new Mississippi neighborhood to our old location and among our old friends in Missouri; demonstrating that his food is shaped like a light saber, his rolled-up pajamas a submarine, and his "precious, little camel" a falling star. Life is never boring for him.
And it's never boring for me, either. Exhausting, but not boring! He is a pressure-pot exploding with energy, and I am the slow cooker, set to low. He is a Ferrari on the Autobahn and I am a Studebaker on the boulevard. He is shooting stars and fireworks and I am the slow glow of the punk used to light them.
This year, we together undertook the adventure to move back to Mississippi to join my dad's ministry, which requires me to travel all around the world in ministry. Eventually, I hope that he will be able to join me all the time. For now, we home school and he is with me Stateside, while I am anxiously anticipating our first 3-week separation in February when I go to Africa. Tonight, we are on the road again, settled into a hotel on our way to our next destination. We'll be here only one night, but we've made a little nest for him in the room, in the car...home away from home.
I worry that he won't have the on-going, day-to-day relationships with the 300+ 2nd graders in the school he would attend. But then I laugh...do I really want him spending more than half of his waking hours, 5 days a week, under the influence of 300 seven year olds, 300 6 year olds, and 300 kindergartners? I think not! The advantages to this life far out-weigh the limitations, in my estimation. He is out-going and friendly, but has learned to set boundaries and find time for himself. He never meets a stranger and he is comfortable introducing himself to grown-ups, ordering his own meals in restaurants, and asking for assistance when he needs it. He is learning about our great nation by seeing it first-hand, and someday, he will get to see the rest of beautiful planet Earth in the same way. Yes, this is a good decision.
But tonight, after a full week of preparation for a long, 2-day conference, and beginning a 700 mile journey this morning, the day after the conference, I am feeling every bit of my "old mom" status. He is moving like a whirling dervish tonight, unable to be still. I am so tired I can't think straight. But we are together. We are family. And God has made it so. I wouldn't have it any other way!
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Turning 50 -- 70 Days to Go -- Mama's Friends
One of my goals during my 50th year of celebrating is to see as many of my mother's friends as I can. Mama died 10 years ago, and she would now be 75. I think it will be a fitting way to honor her, and a real treat for me to see the girls.
My mother was very good at friendship. She had two sisters, and I think her genius as a friend was birthed in her love for her sisters. She said that Aunt Betty never let her go to the outhouse by herself after dark, and they often lay in bed, reading either side of the page of the same book. Aunt Karey said that Mama took on that role for her, and they always loved being together as adults. But I'll save the sisters for another day.
Today, it's the friends I want to start talking about. Again, Mama knew how to be a good friend. She was a wonderful listener a gifted conversationalist. She had the ability to engage in small talk that I still long to develop, and yet, she could just as easily slide into deeply meaningful conversations on any number of topics, from faith and politics to favorite books and child-rearing. I loved to sit at the table with them and listen as they weaved a tapestry of words, the ups and downs of life the warp and woof. I was often shooed away when they turned to more serious issues.
Funny, this week as I talked about things with some of my girlfriends, I wondered if Mama and her friends ever covered those subjects. My thought was that they were probably too conservative or prudish to touch them, but now that I think about it, I think they just shooed young ears out of the room before I could pick up on "adult" things.
Mama's closest friends were such special folks, so unique and different from one another, but all with down-to-earth values and no-nonsense perspective. They laughed easily, cherished family and church, often loved music, always loved books, usually loved gardening, sometimes enjoyed baking, and to a person, loved Jesus. She had lots of other friends, and enjoyed them all, but the ones she spent the most time with were a reflection of herself...not a mirror image, but more like a deep lake, in which you could see your own image, but with depth and color and shadows and light.
There will be more to come in the future, but I wanted to make a start tonight. I'd like to tell you about them individually, so maybe that will come. Tonight, I need to get busy.
I was hoping to write every day, but we had a weekend ministry event and I was not able to write yesterday. Tomorrow, we're headed to Kansas City for a few days, and the next week, to North Carolina for a retreat, and immediately after, I will go to Africa. Busy, busy time. I'm going to do my best to keep up. I'm talking to you like you're really paying attention...ha! What a hoot! Anyway, I hope to be here as often as I can. And thank you for reading.
My mother was very good at friendship. She had two sisters, and I think her genius as a friend was birthed in her love for her sisters. She said that Aunt Betty never let her go to the outhouse by herself after dark, and they often lay in bed, reading either side of the page of the same book. Aunt Karey said that Mama took on that role for her, and they always loved being together as adults. But I'll save the sisters for another day.
Today, it's the friends I want to start talking about. Again, Mama knew how to be a good friend. She was a wonderful listener a gifted conversationalist. She had the ability to engage in small talk that I still long to develop, and yet, she could just as easily slide into deeply meaningful conversations on any number of topics, from faith and politics to favorite books and child-rearing. I loved to sit at the table with them and listen as they weaved a tapestry of words, the ups and downs of life the warp and woof. I was often shooed away when they turned to more serious issues.
Funny, this week as I talked about things with some of my girlfriends, I wondered if Mama and her friends ever covered those subjects. My thought was that they were probably too conservative or prudish to touch them, but now that I think about it, I think they just shooed young ears out of the room before I could pick up on "adult" things.
Mama's closest friends were such special folks, so unique and different from one another, but all with down-to-earth values and no-nonsense perspective. They laughed easily, cherished family and church, often loved music, always loved books, usually loved gardening, sometimes enjoyed baking, and to a person, loved Jesus. She had lots of other friends, and enjoyed them all, but the ones she spent the most time with were a reflection of herself...not a mirror image, but more like a deep lake, in which you could see your own image, but with depth and color and shadows and light.
There will be more to come in the future, but I wanted to make a start tonight. I'd like to tell you about them individually, so maybe that will come. Tonight, I need to get busy.
I was hoping to write every day, but we had a weekend ministry event and I was not able to write yesterday. Tomorrow, we're headed to Kansas City for a few days, and the next week, to North Carolina for a retreat, and immediately after, I will go to Africa. Busy, busy time. I'm going to do my best to keep up. I'm talking to you like you're really paying attention...ha! What a hoot! Anyway, I hope to be here as often as I can. And thank you for reading.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
