Liquids and solids. Undoubtedly gas, too. Adventures in grandparenting Chapter 2

After a seven year gap of no tiny grandbabies to care for I now find myself immersed in the bliss of a new grandson.  He is sturdy.  He is happy.  He is delightful.  He is a breeze to care for on the one day a week that I watch him while mommy works.  

But he is a bit of a human fountain and I have an age induced tendency to forget that fact while changing his diaper.  His mom even provides "pee pee teepees" for such tasks.  And of course, I think of using them too late.  

No biggie.  He seems to enjoy my surprised reactions.  All he has to do is smile and laugh and I temporarily forget that I've been sprayed with warm urine.  (Ewwwww) 

A few years ago, long before this baby boy was born, his older brother (age 2 at the time) had his first long visit with sleepover at my house.  Our two older grandchildren were included and it was great fun. For whatever reason grandpa was absent on this visit so it was just me and the three grands, age 7, 5 and 2.  

No matter how fun grandchildren can be, there is an enormous amount of exhaustion involved for us grandparents.  I think it's caused by the fact that we have to remain so alert.  No nodding off.  Keep the kiddoes entertained.    

So by evening bath time this old grandma decided to take the easy way out.  I have a big whirlpool tub in our master bathroom.  Put 'em all in there together.  Leave the jets off so the littlest guy doesn't freak out.  Boom.  Such a time saver.  Quickly we can be snuggled together, all four of us, in my big king sized bed.  

The kids were excited for such an adventure and eagerly climbed into the tub.  I promised them the jets would remain off, no worries about Little J screaming in terror.  

All was well for less than one minute at which point the little guy pooped in the tub.  Never in my life have I seen my two oldest grandkids move so quickly.  If rapidly jumping from the inside of a large tub of water onto the floor was an Olympic event they'd get the gold.  I lifted the little guy out of the water and then ran to the kitchen to grab the first thing I could find to fish out the poop, which turned out to be a bent up old tea strainer thing with a handle.  

Don't judge me....I believe that there's really no established protocol for the best way to remove feces from a tub of water.  Not that I actually googled it or looked for you-tube videos for instruction.  Perhaps I should have.  

The kids stood by the tub, wrapped in towels and wide-eyed while I pondered exactly how to use the old tea strainer in my hand to get that poop out of my big tub.   Finally I determined that if I stretched my short body across the wide triangular portion of the tub it would be possible to reach most of the floating feces, which unfortunately had all accumulated in that far corner portion.  

The kids were silent, probably a bit frightened, as I leaned way over the tub.  The handle on the bent up tea strainer turned out to be not nearly long enough, requiring me to kind of drape my body above the water and stretch out as far as possible while my knees were propped up on the tub ledge.  Yes, I realize that's QUITE the visual.  And I apologize.  

In the process of all the stretching, reaching, and balancing on the tub's edge, something horrible happened.  I unexpectedly hit the switch on the tub ledge that turned on the whirlpool jets.  The water level was barely above the jets which caused a pretty powerful water-spout effect.  

Poop flew.  A bonafide pooptastrophe ensued.   

Of course I quickly hit the off switch on the jets.  Well, with as much speed as a woman my age can accomplish.  Rather sloth-like reflexes anymore.  

To clarify, none of us were struck by flying poop.  Nor was the ceiling affected.  

What did we do next?  We laughed.   And laughed.  And laughed.  Little J has no recollection of this event.  Nick and Tessa and I will NEVER forget the night that poop flew. 

And. If you come to my house I may offer you tea.  Rest easy.   The bent up tea strainer has been disposed of.  

  

The flip side of beautiful.

Are you familiar at all with 45 RPM records?  Side A generally held the recording of a popular hit song that received a lot of radio air time.  Side B was typically lesser known, less popular, sometimes never-played music.  

Back in the 1960's most homes with teenagers included stacks of these singles that were played on devices like pictured above.  For you young folks, 45 RPM records were kind of similar to the size of a CD.  But they just played one song on each side, instead of several on one side.

Side A of these records were generally played over and over, sung along with, danced to..... until they were worn out and rendered unusable.  Side B was often ignored, seldom played, songs that might cause no one to sing along, or even leave on the player long enough to listen to the complete song.  

But occasionally the B side  turned out to be a well known song.  I googled "B side songs that became hits" and the top song on the list was "God Only Knows" by the Beach Boys.   "God only knows what I'd be without you".  

Interestingly enough, that particular line of that particular song reminds me of the rest of the story for this post about the B side of life.    God only knows....

I'll never forget the day two years ago that I woke up to a text message on my phone from my sister telling me about a "full of cancer" diagnosis for a little girl we loved.  And later on that day I was sitting in the office of our church when the words "Stage 4 Neuroblastoma" came across by text, confirming our fears for our family's 8 year old Ella Grace. 

Flipping our lives from Side A to Side B.  

The months that Ella spent fighting cancer were just awful.  She won the fight, healed in the arms of Jesus after her brave and painful journey.  But her family is left with the question "What will we be without Ella?"  

I became involved in a close way during Ella's fight against cancer.  From her time at Children's Mercy in Kansas City I first became acquainted with a room at the hospital called the Parent's Room.  It was there that I witnessed the servant hearts of selfless individuals who would come into that room, prepare food that they purchased with their own money, and set up a meal.  Family members of the very ill young patients were welcome to eat meals for free.  The room was well equipped with comfortable furniture, televisions, computers, laundry equipment..... and other Parent Rooms were equipped with larger family rooms and nap rooms.  Nearby the hospital were free standing homes that had been refurbished to comfortably accommodate families for longer term overnight stays.  

It was my first experience with Ronald McDonald House and the wonderful service they provide.  As I sat in that little Parent Room and watched the meal prep, my heart was touched in a way that is hard to put into words.  I witnessed regular people meeting the needs of folks they did not know, might never see again..... reaching out to hurting parents going through the worst chapters of their lives.  

And I commented to my niece Amy, who was there with me, that it must feel so good to be able to serve others in this way.  To be able to spend a few hours out of a day, a few dollars from your pocket, and serve hurting people in such an important, such a tangible way.  We both were overcome with gratitude for these folks.  

When Ella's battle took her to New York City I expected that big city Ronald McDonald House would be a different story.  It really wasn't.  Same servant hearts, being the hands and feet of Jesus.  I know that many of the people serving at RMH aren't necessarily believers in Christ.  I actually thanked one young man there working at the NYC RMH for "being the hands and feet of Jesus."  His response was silence, his face displayed that he really wasn't interested in hearing my words.  He wasn't rude, and I didn't press the issue.  It's okay.  No harm done. I continued to express my deep gratitude to him.  We were truly, truly grateful for the service they provided.   It's okay that he didn't know he was being used by Jesus to meet needs and answer prayers! 

The cool thing about Jesus?  He can use anyone with a servant heart. 

For me, the beauty of the B side has been a passion for volunteering at the local Ronald McDonald House.  Because of my personal experience with Ella's cancer treatment I can serve others in similar situations with a deeper compassion.  I can't explain to you in words what it feels like to be able to give back.  It's a heart deal.  An action that changes your very soul.  Being the hands and feet of Jesus. 

The flip side of beautiful.... can still have beauty.  Lasting beauty.  Heart-changing beauty.  Broken, but still deeply beautiful.  

The thing is, you really need to be open to looking for the beauty in the B side.  While it's human nature to just dwell in a sad place, there is great therapy in stepping outside your comfort zone and reaching out in a way that you might never have dreamed of before your own personal tragic experiences.  Ella's mom, Abbi, along with several other members of Ella's family,  have done that in so many ways for other parents of critically ill children dealing with pediatric cancer.  

Truthfully, it's scriptural.  God leads us through our own sad chapters to prepare us to help others in the same situation.  "Praise the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort.  He comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any kind of affliction, through the comfort we ourselves receive from God"   2 Corinthians 1:3-4.  

If you haven't experienced the B side in your life yet, hang on.  You will.  We all do.  But trust me when I say that there is still beauty in the flip side of beautiful.  And it's worth looking for.  

✟ Father of mercy....God of comfort ✟

P.S.:
If by chance you have some interest in volunteering, I would encourage you to find a nearby Ronald McDonald house.  It can be as simple as checking their website for supplies they need, buying something from the list, and delivering the items to the specified location.  You can also sign up on the website to prepare a meal with a few of your friends.  

And next time you eat a meal at McDonald's, consider putting a little cash in the collection container for Ronald McDonald House.  

Cici's no more. Adventures in grandparenting chapter 1

If you enter the doors of Cici's Pizza in Topeka, Kansas there may well be a "Wanted" type poster with mugshots of myself and my two oldest grandchildren hanging at the entryway.  Probably with some sort of  large orange bio-hazard symbol on the poster somewhere near our pictures.   I can't verify the existence of such a poster, but considering the events of my only trip to this restaurant back in probably 2010 it stands to reason that there should be one.  

The grandson was around 4 years old and the granddaughter was 2 and a half years old if memory serves me.  I decided to treat them to a wonderful meal at Cici's followed by a trip to the park.  

You can't go wrong with pizza when it comes to my grandkids.  

Or can you?

We arrived at the noon hour rush and the place was packed with people.  After finally making it through the buffet line with plates loaded with pizza of the pepperoni and cheese variety we found one place to sit in a very crowded area near the back of the restaurant.  

I managed to get the table all set up with plates and drinks and a couple napkins.  The kids sat down right away and took their first few bites of pizza.  

At this point somehow little T girl wiggled around in her chair enough to cause the chair to fall over backwards with her in it.  Her head hit the tiled concrete floor with a bit of a thud which of course immediately elicited loud screaming from her and terrified horror from the other folks dining nearby.  VERY nearby.

The place was packed and we were the center of attention.  Oh happy day.

I picked her up and put her on my lap right away and examined her head for bumps or bleeding of which there was none.  Her eyes looked fine and she was far from lethargic.   And she continued to scream at incredibly high decibel levels.  

Folks all around the entire restaurant ceased eating, staring at us to see if T was okay.  I was sure she was but I held her close and kissed her little cheeks and wiped her tears.  And whispered gently in her ear.  To the onlooker it probably appeared that I was whispering stuff like "poor baby girl".  And yes, those were my initial words of comfort.  Followed quickly by the quiet but firm plea: "please don't throw up, please don't throw up, please don't throw up".  T was famous for vomiting every single time she had a crying spell, with or without injury.

Her crying subsided a bit and she got off my lap for me to help her back into her chair.  And as she stood there by the table waiting for me to get her chair, suddenly, of course,  she hurled her tummy contents all over the table. All. Over. The.  Table.    Dripping onto the floor.  

At this point big brother N, seeing the large pool of nastiness on the floor, jumped up to stand on his chair and in the process of doing so he tipped over his large glass of soda onto the already flooded table and floor below.  Then from his lofty position standing on his chair he proceeded to scream at his sister "T why did you do that, now you're going to stink.  I'm not sitting in the back seat with you on the way home."  And I firmly instructed him to be quiet and sit down right now.  

Do I need to tell you that we were still the center of attention there at Cici's?  

A man at a nearby table felt sympathy for us and brought me over a couple napkins to help clean up the mess.   It was a generous and kind gesture, but, yeah, I needed so much more.  

Somehow the restaurant employees hadn't really noticed the debacle that was occurring in our neck of the woods.  A nearby customer watched the kids for me while I made my way quickly to locate the store manager and told him we'd made an epic mess and asked if he could get me a mop so I could clean it up.  He was very kind and told me they were professionals at handling messes of this nature and he right away headed in our direction.  

We stood nearby as he efficiently cleaned up the mess.  By that time T was feeling much better and N had returned to his normal delightful self.  Remarkably none of the onslaught of fluids had soiled any of our clothing.  Or hair.  Or shoes.  So, yeah, there's the silver lining in this little fiasco.  No wardrobe changes required.  

What did we do next?  Well.  Uh...we were still hungry.  So we went back through the pizza line.  We sat down at our same table which had been all cleaned and sanitized.  We made it through our meal without further incident.   And then, as happily as we'd entered the building, we walked on back out and went to the park.  

Pretty sure management was quite relieved to see us leave the premises.  Pretty sure I'll never go back.  Even though we probably no longer resemble the images on the potential "Wanted" poster from that day in 2010.... It's just a risk I'm not willing to take.  

Unfinished business. Call NOW.

If you live in our part of Kansas and you've ever watched anything on TV there is 100% chance that when you hear the phrase "call NOW" you think of one person.  Jerry O'Neal.  Continental Siding company.  You may not remember his company name but you cannot forget, no matter how hard you try, the sound of his voice saying "call NOW".  

Like multiple millions of folks across our nation I watched the big post-Super Bowl episode of This Is Us.  Perhaps you did, too.  It's easy for me to relate to the three siblings in this show who lost their dad at age 17.  The pain they experienced really struck a familiar chord with me.    I can say from experience that it is not possible to lose a parent when you're a teenager without having an abundance of unfinished business.  

And I know that this unfinished business scenario isn't limited to teenagers losing a parent.  Someone very very close to me lost his father quite suddenly several years ago. Though most of his family was able to be at their father's bedside in the hospital, communication was one-sided at best.  Dad was gone.  

Grieving is difficult enough without the pain of unfinished business.  Words left unsaid.  

I believe that anyone who has experienced such a loss would adamantly offer the same advice as Jerry O'Neal.  Call NOW.  Say what you need to say to those you love.   Can I get an amen?  Death is final and quite often unexpected.   And there will never be another chance to say what needs to be said.  That's a harsh truth, and I'm not sure you can grasp the depth of the pain involved unless you've been through it.  

Trust me, it's an experience you do not want to ever have.  

Let those of us who have been there gently urge you to say what you need to say while you still can.  Love while you still have them near.  Forgive them before it's too late.   "Too late" is a really dark place to be.  

I can also tell you from experience that healing is possible in times of deeply painful losses.  But there's no magic formula or quick fix. It can take a long time, and what might seem to be an ocean of tears.   

The solution?  Only Jesus.  Healing is his specialty.  His love for you is unending.  Forgiveness is yours before you even ask.  And the grace he gives is so much more than amazing.  He is a friend like no other.  

In my own experience I really struggled with regrets over what I didn't say to my dad, what I didn't hear from my dad.  After quite some time I knew my thought patterns desperately needed to change.  Not an easy task but through prayer I felt led to "find the good" (Phillipians 4:8).   I found a quiet place and wrote down every good memory I had of my dad.  It took time, and tears.  And it helped.  A lot. Thinking back on the good times helped me in a way to "hear" my dad say he loved me.  The good memories were saturated with evidence of our love.  My focus changed from regret to peace.  Plus I had the good times documented in writing to refer back to during difficult days.  This was the real-life practical way that Jesus helped me through my unfinished business.  

Speaking of unfinished business, do you have unfinished business with Jesus?  The remedy is so very simple!!  Jesus came to this world so that those who believe in Him would have eternal life in heaven.  Accept His love and forgiveness, it's there for the asking.   And He says to you "Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest for your soul." Matt 11:28.  It's a decision you'll never regret.  

Well....I have to say it..... call NOW.  

One of my favorite places to call on God.

Uncommon sanctuaries

Some children grow up spending most of their leisure time with siblings or cousins or next door neighbor kids.  

I did not.  No siblings even close to my age made me a bit of an only child.  Ditto cousins.  I had a couple very good friends, but play time wasn't all that frequent. 

My dad was my fishing buddy and my favorite person to spend leisure time with.  But of course time with him was limited because he had that pesky 40+ hour/week job thing going on.  

My mom also had that pesky full time employment scene happening from the time I was eight years old.  

Which left me with a lot of time at home while they were working.  This was back in the day when television was black and white and limited to whatever station would come in via roof antenna.  Never more than three stations, usually just one, and always a snowy reception.  

During times when I was particularly bored or frustrated, I'd call my mom at work.  I can still tell you what that phone number was.  EX2-2919.  I called it a lot.   "Mom, what can I do?"  Mom was always busy at work and she would advise me to bake some cookies or play the piano.  

Clearly, clearly, I baked a lot of cookies.  And ate them. 

But more often I sat at the piano.  The piano became my friend, my refuge, my port in the storm, my place to go when life threw chaos at me.  My 20-something sister, Sharon, with her little girl mind and special needs was always there with me.  At times she had rather intense moments of challenges and struggles, and her struggles became mine.  

And.....I found out that sitting at that old upright piano with my hands on the keys made the world I lived in a little more tolerable.  As I sat there my eyes saw the wooden upright portion of the piano, with the reflection of my chubby little cookie-fed face faintly visible in the polished wood.  I could look at the family pictures decorating the top of the piano.  My ears heard my hands play melodies and it didn't matter that those melodies weren't perfect.  I could play tunes over and over, as long as it took to make them sound right to my little girl ears.    My piano took me away.  Far away to a land where God created music.  And He shared that music with me.  He taught me.  

Sitting at that piano I believe God connected with me in a way that helped me cope with the chaos around me.  And eventually the music became pleasant enough to help my sister Sharon find some calmness  also.  He gave me a gift that would help both of us through the chaos. 

Which leads me to be grateful for not only the gift of music,  but also the chaos.  Without the chaos, would I have the gift?  

I'm not a little girl anymore.  But the piano is still my sanctuary.  The place where God can meet me and surround me with His presence.  His calming, soothing, loving presence.  

Do you have a sanctuary?   Sitting at a sewing machine creating handmade treasures?  Using a paintbrush to create a picture? (Painting is Sharon's sanctuary!!)  Casting a fishing line into a body of water?   Hiking through the woods?  Working with lumber to build beautiful treasures?  Shooting basketballs through the net?  Singing in your car while you're just out for a drive?   The possibilities are endless. Wherever God meets you can be a sanctuary.  If you'll reach out for Him, He's there waiting.  

Even in unlikely places.  Even when you're up to your ears in chaos.  

You need a sanctuary. Life is so much better with a hiding place. 

"The Lord your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing."  Zephaniah 3:17

It would be a few years before this little girl needed a sanctuary

Me and my piano.....best friends forever

2013  

Blessed by simplicity.

Someone really special will be celebrating her 80th birthday this month.  

She was born January 27 in 1938, my parents' first baby.  Sharon Kay.   

Nothing about this baby girl's life would be as dreamed by her mommy and daddy.  Starting with the day of her birth.  So many questions and concerns.  So many fears for my mom and dad.

She survived. And she was very very beautiful.  And very very loved.    

In 1938, living on a small  rural Kansas farm, children attended one room schoolhouses.  My three sisters attended a one room school not far from their little home.  

But Sharon wasn't able to learn the same way as her two sisters.  Or like anyone else in the little one room schoolhouse.  I wasn't there at the time, but knowing her, I would imagine she was a bit on the hyperactive side, too.  

Attempts to help her were discouraging and frustrating.  Especially for our mother and father.  She was allowed to be part of the school until my family moved from the farm to town in 1952.  A teenager.  Her intellect had ceased to develop around age 9.  

Tell her your birthday once and she'll remember it forever.  And every now and then she can wow me with some random bit of knowledge that leaves me speechless.  "Where did you learn that, Sharon?"  Play cards with her and you'll likely lose.  And she has an uncanny ability to paint pictures, especially roses.  She has her own unique little skillset.  

In 1938, in very rural Kansas and perhaps anywhere else, there wasn't a word to define Sharon's condition.  Just the "R" word. Not a happy word, with a lot of stigma attached.  

Stigma, and sadness.  Especially as the years passed and there wasn't any way to help her.  She would be Mom and Dad's little girl for the rest of their lives.

After they passed away she would live separated from her family, with her three sisters involved in her life from a distance.    

In this current day and age there is so much more help and hope for children like Sharon.  No more "R" word.  It's been replaced by kinder words that define and diagnose and explain why. I can think of a word that starts with "A" that may very well apply to my Sharon.  There are now so many ways of early intervention, using different approaches and treatments with great success, giving opportunities for fulfilling lives.  

I often wonder how different Sharon's life would be had she been born several decades later.  

But she wasn't.   

While her sisters all grew up, left home and went on to have families and careers, Sharon did not.  She wanted to, and she would often say "I wonder when I'll finally get married and have a family."  

She would say it often, OFTEN, and every single time I would feel a stabbing pang of guilt because I possessed something my sister Sharon could never have.  My dreams weren't that different from Sharon's.  Except mine came true.  And hers couldn't.   I can't think about that without getting teary.  

Her little girl ways endured, even up to this very day really.  And seriously, there's something beautiful about child-like simplicity.  

Sharon personifies simplicity.  Give her a cup of coffee "Make that decaf please", take her shopping or to a garage sale "Look what I bought!!", play a game of cards with her  "Shall we get into a Pitch deck?"..... that's about all it takes to make her happy.  

Especially, especially, if she's with her family.  Her sisters.  And her "brothers".  (Never would she ever refer to any of our husbands as in-laws).  Her nieces and nephews couldn't have a more adoring aunt.  

She loves us all, and she's not afraid to say so.  Accompanied by a very warm hug.  

Later on this month we are going to celebrate our Sharon.  We shall pick her up at her group home where she is wonderfully cared for by skilled staff.  We shall surprise her with a party filled with family, food, fun.  And red roses.  Her favorite.  Rose of Sharon.  That's what she'll call them.  

She will smile, she will laugh loudly, she will talk happily to everyone at her party. 

I think if you lined up every member of her family and assessed who had  made the most of the tools they'd been given...... Sharon would win.  

Happy birthday, my dear Sharon.  I love you.  

 Sharon and I, 1955.  She was such a beautiful young girl.

Sharon, by Ottawa Co Lake, not far from where she spent her childhood on the farm. 

  

Do you know? Have you heard?

One of my favorite rooms in our home is an unfinished room in our basement that contains the furnace and hot water heater.  Ductwork is visible through the unfinished walls and ceiling.  A single lightbulb is affixed to a ceiling joist. It's also our "office" of sorts.  A real cozy place with random pieces of carpet on the cement floor and our grandkids' artwork taped up here and there.  My husband's desk and our printer are down there as well as file cabinets full of all manner of stuff that probably has very little significance.  And there are several shelves of books, MANY MANY BOOKS, that we've collected over the years.  

Generally I just go into that room to print things off. Our printer is so slowwwww that I have quite a bit of time to sit in the chair that's down there and just gaze around at the book titles and artwork and multi-patterned floor coverings.    

Nice way to pass the time and help me forget that I'd like a newer, faster printer.  

Every now and then I'll run across something that I consider a treasure.  
A few days ago I hit the jackpot:

Holy Bible, King James Version. With my mother's handwriting on the "presented to" page.  She even used my formal name, not "Bunny".  You may notice that the book is pretty fragile, being held together by tape.  















I hadn't seen this book for years and of course it transported me back to Christmas 1965, the date I received it.  I'm certain that 10 year-old me politely appreciated the gift.  It replaced the children's Bible that she'd given me on my baptism day a few years earlier.  

However,  17 year-old me came to really love the gift. 

If you've read very many of my blog posts you are aware that I lost my dad to leukemia a few days before Christmas in 1972, when I was 17.  I made the statement last year in my Christmas post that  "The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. And in came Jesus."    

But I didn't really elaborate on the "in came Jesus" part.  

I spent a lot of time alone during the weeks that led up to Dad's death.  In the evenings before bedtime I would be swept away in sadness.  I would pray through my flood of tears, asking God to give me strength because I just didn't know how I could live without my father.  

And during one of those prayer times I opened my Bible and read 
words that leaped off the page and into my heart.  I underlined these words.  I even memorized them in King James text. 

                                                                      Isaiah 41:13                            

And Isaiah 40: 28-31, which in modern translation says these words:

 Do  you not know, have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth.  
He never grows faint or weary, and  there is no limit to His understanding.  
He gives strength to the weary and strengthens the powerless.  Youths may faint and grow weary, and young men stumble and fall, but those who wait on the LORD will renew their strength, they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary; they will walk and not faint.  

It was the very first time I experienced the Bible as the living word of God.  "In came Jesus", through the presence of God who spoke to me through His words that soothed my soul and brought me hope and strength.   

I experienced the Immanuel, God With Us of Christmas as these words told me that God would "hold thy right hand, saying...Fear not I will help thee".    "There is no limit to his understanding" told me that He understood my tears, he understood my pain.  "Those who wait upon the Lord will renew their strength" encouraged me to just wait on Him, trust Him,  and He would be faithful to give me what I needed to face the uncertain days ahead.

Opening this old Bible, seeing the words of truth that I underlined all those years ago..... I can't find the words to describe just what that meant to me.  Forty-five years ago as a heart-broken little girl God gave me a promise that He would be my strength, He would hold my hand, he would always, always understand me.  And He has kept his promise.  

Do you not know, have you not heard?    I pray you will know and hear.  I pray you will open the living Word of the One who created you and loves you more than you can imagine.  If you're wondering where to start, you can't go wrong with the book of John in the New Testament.  Or.....the Christmas story..... Luke 2:1-21.  

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  The best gift ever.  The Living Word.

  



               

Time well spent

This is what's left of a gift from my dad.  He bought me the entire set of encyclopedia books, but this is the only thing I kept after Google came into being.  Partly because I'm a word geek, but mainly because of the inside note you see here with his handwriting.  1968.  These items will never be found in a landfill.  Treasures.


My dad was a cabinet maker.  
Probably self-taught. Probably out of necessity.  He built pine cabinetry for various family members' homes.  His mother's kitchen was outfitted with some of his handiwork if I remember correctly.  Our own kitchen as well as the two other rental homes he owned also featured his kitchen cabinets.  

Functional, no-frills, not one ornate feature.  

One could describe the entire B.T. Krisher family that way.  

Daddy enjoyed working with all types of wood but walnut was his favorite.  He really appreciated the dark rich tones, textures and patterns in the grain.  And since he also loved his wife and daughters and family he built several things for each of us out of walnut lumber.  Desks, a little wall cabinet with shelf, book case.   I can say with certainty that none of these pieces of furniture would have been considered HGTV worthy.  But they were beautiful to his family.  We loved them.   Because we loved him. 

I was looking inside the doors of my wall cabinet just a couple weeks ago and discovered that the sliding door panels were made of strips of wood held together with red duct tape.  Red.  Duct.  Tape.  😁 Bear in mind that it was built in the 1960's.  The tape still holds. 

The bookends pictured at the top of this post are my favorite of his handmade gifts to me.  And, yes, there is red duct tape on the inside of the bookends.  

The desks have all for the most part fallen to pieces.  Mine is propped up against a wall in our family room with the wall cabinet sitting on top of it. Two of the desk legs are what you might call fractured beyond repair.   If there were a mild gust of wind in my family room the whole set-up would collapse.   My heart won't let me get rid of it.  My fingers almost wouldn't even type the last four words of the previous sentence.  

Some of the best times of my childhood were spent in that workshop behind the house.  Just Daddy and me.  As daughter number 4 and the last failed chance for him to finally get a son, he included me in most all of his woodworking projects.  Holding the lumber while he used the table saw or circular saw, holding the end of the tape measure, bringing him tools, helping him clamp and glue.  

Good times.   

Speaking of time...today I bought a new clock for our living room.   As I was unpacking and inspecting it, a long-forgotten memory flooded my mind.  

My dad once built a little clock for our home.  Out of walnut.  He crafted a 12" square piece of walnut and polished it up nicely then took the guts from an old clock to use for the mechanical part.  No duct tape was used this time.  And the clock worked.  I had it in my childhood bedroom on top of my desk.  I haven't seen it for years, have no idea at all where it ended up. Hadn't given it a thought until today.  

It was one of the last projects he tackled before he passed away.   It was a clock, yes, but today it occurred to me that it was more likely he was wishing he could give us time.  Which, with his leukemia, was something he was unable to do.  Our time together was oh so short.  A clock was as close as he could come.  A reminder of the precious nature of time.  

I'm not sure why this memory waited until now to come to me.  But I do know it's Christmas season.  

Many of us are making attempts to fulfill our children's "hopes and dreams" with the purchase of some trendy item that will end up in the back of a toybox somewhere, forgotten quickly.    

Or we're  struggling to find a gift for that older parent who has "everything".  

Let me offer the best suggestion ever.  Give them yourself.  Give them time with you. 

When it's all said and done and you're looking back at the years that have passed I can completely guarantee from experience you'll wish you had more time. 

 I wish I could find the clock.  But these are treasured memories of a simpler time with the man I was privileged to call Daddy.  

Time well spent. 

The year that changed Christmas forever

1972, my senior year of high school.  I was 17.  Dad had been battling leukemia for close to two years and it had been a roller coaster of both physical and emotional health. Mom continued to work because, well, she had to support us financially.    They celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary in late October and then of course the calendar was leading us on into Thanksgiving and Christmas.   

Thanksgiving that year was uncharacteristically cold and for some reason Dad started interrogating  me about my ability to change a tire during the 4 day break from school.    I assured him that Mr Campbell taught us the fine art of changing a tire during my freshman year of driver's ed.  This information didn't satisfy him and he simply insisted that we go out into the driveway so that I could prove to him that I could change a tire.  He was pretty weak, and it was bitter cold.  But he made his way out there and watched me, giving me step by step instructions.  Mission accomplished, I passed his test and we went back inside the house to warm up.  

Between that day and early December his health took a nosedive and on December 5th I watched as Mom, my brother-in-law, and my sister loaded Daddy up in the car to take him to the hospital in Salina.  I watched them drive away and as I walked back into the empty house, I had the overwhelming feeling that he wouldn't be coming home again.  

Over the next several days Mom stayed with Dad at the hospital and I went about school and my activities as much as possible, visiting him as much as I could in the evenings.  The weather was just horrible with snow and ice.  Mom had the good car in Salina, and I was driving the old Ford F150 red pickup, which we called Zip because its maximum speed was about 40mph.  Would you believe that during that period of time I had multiple flat tires on the pickup? Changed them all except one which was changed by a sympathetic passerby.  (Side note: I had never needed to change an actual flat tire before and to this day I have never ever changed a tire again)

I put up a little Christmas tree in the living room and tried to work up some holiday spirit.  But my heart was breaking little by little as I watched Daddy grow weaker and weaker when I went to visit him. He passed into the arms of Jesus on December 19.  Our hearts were relieved that his suffering was over, and our hearts were also broken into pieces at the same time.  

Christmas that year was not Christmas as we'd ever known it.  And it never would be again.   

The title of this blog post indicates that Christmas was changed forever. Changed, but certainly not ruined.  Not at all.  Far from it.  

In fact, you might be surprised to know that my heart learned exactly what the real meaning of Christmas is during those last two weeks of Dad's life.  

I spent a lot of time alone during that time.  Changing tires like Daddy had taught me to. Going through the motions of life as best I could.   Crying out to God with tears flooding my face.  Praying like never before.  Deep excruciating sadness like never before in my young life.  

The typical stuff of Christmases past went out the door that year. 

And in came Jesus.   Wonderful counselor, mighty God, everlasting Father, prince of peace.  Bringing comfort and strength that I desperately needed.  Loving as only God can perfectly love. Bringing hope even in the midst of deep sadness.   Immanuel, God with us.  God With Us.  What could be better than the very presence of Christ in our lives?  I can assure you from experience....nothing is better. 

Since 1972, the holly jolly, ho ho ho, giddy exuberance of Christmas never really happened for me again.  Losing someone you love will do that.  But it has been replaced by all is calm, all is bright, heavenly peace. Immanuel.  God with us.  The real deal.  Right there in a manger.