Recreational Vehicle? Depends on your definition of "recreation".

As I've mentioned countless times, we are campers.  Outdoorsy folks.  With limits, of course.  You will never see us riding a mountain bike up a 20% grade through thick forest and jumping the bikes over large boulders.  Or rappelling up a vertical slab of rock above a river of whitewater below.   We like to walk around on easy paths and occasionally flex our muscles in order to hoist up our smart phones and take a picture of some beautiful scene.  Yeah, that's our style of "outdoorsy".  

Now after all these years of camping we own a fifth wheel.  We glamp.  

But we started out with this:

Ottawa County Lake.  My nephew and our little girl. 1978

Then we bought a used Palomino tent trailer which was all tricked out with a stove AND oven, as well as a tiny little electric fridge.  It did not, however, have AC.  Or a toilet. But it was several steps up from above tent and we had good times in the old Palomino.  

 Palomino from the 1970's

And then, sometime in the early 1990's we became the owners of a used 1976 motorhome.  Very cheap.  Yes, we had hit the big time when it came to camping.  

You may have heard of the various classifications of motorhomes.  Class A is the top of the line with heavy duty engine and deluxe interiors.  Sturdy as an 18 wheeler but often as luxurious as a tour bus for a rock star.  Class B are like oversized vans equipped for camping.  Class C are like one-ton trucks with a permanently attached oversized truck camper.  

The motorhome we bought? It was a mini-ish motorhome.  I would classify it as a Class F motorhome.  When searching for pictures of it in my boxes of old pictures, there were none.  When googling the internet for pictures of this model/year of RV, Skamper, there were ZERO pictures.  So, Class F, for Forgotten.  

But my family will never forget this particular camping vehicle.   

Our maiden voyage in it to nearby Ottawa County Lake was a resounding success and we were dancing on tiptoe with excitement to take it on a trip to southwest Colorado where we camped every year.  

Sleeping space for us in the Skamper was limited to an overcab bunk the size of a full bed.  No ladder.   Which meant we stepped on the "sofa" and threw our leg way up over the side of the overcab bed and then climbed on in.  That right there is quite the feat for someone like me whose pants inseam barely measures a double digit number.  But I adapted and eventually could have qualified for the Olympics should such an athletic event have been offered.    

We did pretty quickly upon gaining ownership notice a leak in the closet area of the camper.  So we just didn't use that closet.  No biggie.  

And then of course right away on our first long trip to Colorado we learned that sometimes to start the engine it was necessary to open the hood and insert a flat head screwdriver into the..... carburetor?  Or something.  Anyway, it involved holding some sort of flap deal open so that the engine would get gas and then Voila the engine would turn over.  I got pretty good at it.  No biggie. 

In order to have a spare vehicle to drive we started towing our little Chevy S-10 pickup behind the RV.  Worked well in flatland Kansas.  However on a long trip from Kansas to New Mexico to SW Colorado we learned that climbing even a low grade hill with the S-10 in tow caused the camper to pretty nearly come to a complete stop.  So, we disconnected the S-10 and I drove it while the hubby drove the RV for the rest of our long trip.  No biggie.  

A little window in the overcab bed section blew out somewhere near Walsenberg on one of our first trips to the mountains.  It was just a little window.  We taped a trash bag over the hole and carried on.  Happily, no rain at all on that trip.  We replaced the window later on.  No biggie.  

On one of our first return trips home from the mountains the motorhome very gradually slowed down to a complete stop right there on a remote road between Walsenberg and LaJunta.  We were able to somehow limp into a farmhouse driveway and the hubby diagnosed alternator failure.  He was able to get an alternator in La Junta and replace the failed one.  This became a rather routine experience on future trips to Colorado.  Our RV seemed to have a disposable alternator with short lifespan.  No biggie??  Hmmm.  Maybe a slight biggie.  

And then came the year for a big old family camping trip gathering in SW Colorado.  Several families would be camping together.   We were all so excited for this trip and planned to have the time of our lives, I tell you.  Of course we had our flat head screwdriver on hand for starting the engine.  And we were prepared for the routine alternator replacement.  We were armed with stellar attitudes and fully expecting to have FUN!!   

Southwest Colorado has a monsoon season.  Most trips we typically lucked out and only had a random shower here and there with entertaining thunderstorms. No biggie.  

Until the year of the big old family camping trip gathering.  It rained pretty much night and day.  We entertained ourselves by playing dominoes in one of the campground buildings.  And having boat races down the streams through the campground with "boats" we made out of solo cups, etc.  Good times.  During the day, anyway. 

The skylight over our bed began leaking just a tiny bit the first night of the monsoon.  Just a drip here and there.  No biggie.  

The second night of monsoon the leaky drip turned into two or three leaky drips and I struggled to sleep.  I cannot say "no biggie".  My ability to function the next day was affected.  My usual sunny disposition was altered to at least partly cloudy.  

The next night of monsoon the skylight leak worsened and though my husband seemed to tolerate it, I could not.  I was exhausted.  I was not happy.  My disposition had morphed from partly cloudy to overcast to severe storm with loud wailing and heavy tears.  

In order to cope with the leak I determined that sleep was not in the cards and I needed to just get out of bed.  So I climbed over the hubby and hurled myself off the bed and onto the floor below.  I got a metal cooking pan and placed it on my side of the bed under the leak.  The sound of drips hitting the metal was just so very soothing.  No.  It was not.  

I deeply needed to distract myself from the sound of water dripping on metal, so I decided to sit and read a book the rest of the night.  The only book in the camper was "The Other Side of the Ocean".  Good grief.  Ocean, rainwater, sad story line, leaky camper.  Winning combination, huh?  But I sat myself in the comfortable dining chair and started reading.  A few sentences into the book the skylight above the living area started leaking quite profusely.  The words on the page blurred either from the water pouring through the skylight or my tears pouring from my face.  

BIGGIE.  Great big BIGGIE.  EPIC biggie.  That was the final straw for me.  

The next day was our last day of that trip and for the first time ever I was ecstatic to be leaving the mountains and heading home.  

And happily we made it through Walsenberg, La Junta, eastern Colorado and onto I-70 without any engine issues!!  My heart was happy and I just could not wait to get home.  The hubby and I chatted about future camping trips and how we might need to consider a change of camping vehicle.  Although, hey, we could probably patch up the leaks and still use the old Skamper.  No biggie.  

We were just rolling along I-70 somewhere in western Kansas near absolutely nothing but cornfields and open spaces when there was a very ominous loud bang coming from the engine.  DeWayne gripped the steering wheel and said "I'm going to try and pull this thing onto the shoulder and we need to bail out immediately and roll into the ditch. I think the engine's going to explode."  Well I was all about rolling into a ditch on a 100 degree day in western Kansas.  You know it.  

No rolling into the ditch was necessary.  The engine did not blow up.  The engine did, however, completely cease to function.  We didn't roll into the ditch, but we did wait in the shade of the camper until AAA came and towed our camper to Hays, Kansas.

And shortly after this trip, we purchased our next camper.  A brand new Coleman Cheyenne tent trailer complete with air conditioner and porta-potty.  Ahhhhhh.  No leaks, no alternators, no flathead screwdriver needed to get her going.  

Our Coleman on a wonderful trip in Buena Vista, Colorado

Oh the fun little stories that old Skamper gave us.  Worth all of the few dimes we spent to buy it.  I just cannot believe there are no pictures of it in the multitude of camping trip pictures over the years.  Believe me, there are images in my mind that will remain for as long as I live.  Oh my.  

Home

How many different houses did you live in as a child?  I lived in one.  Only one.  For all 18 years of my childhood.  That's probably pretty rare for the average person.  

this picture was drawn by a friend of mine from a photograph.  

In the first two years of our marriage we lived in 5 different houses.  Wow.  We slowed down our nomadic tendencies pretty quickly after the first two years.  

And now, with retirement coming up in the next year or so, we ponder what it would be like to live in our 5th wheel.  Traveling here and there, true nomad style.  

The jury is still out on whether or not we'll actually follow through with the RV lifestyle.  We love to camp, we love to travel. 

But there's just something about home.  Sticks and bricks.  Lawn and garden.  

Home.  

Over the years I've come to believe that when you've lived in the same home for a few years it becomes a part of the family.  As if it has its own personality.  Perhaps the walls have listened to the happy laughter, heard the sad crying, seen the tears and smiles and absorbed it all in some magical permanent way. 

The first fifteen or so years of Mom and Dad's life were spent living on maybe 80 (?) acres in a little house close to a creek.  With their three girls.  Several years before I was born.  Tiny little very modest house.  Though I never lived in this house, my mother's reactions when she spoke of this home made it quite evident that her heart would always remain on the little farm north of Niles.   She would tell countless stories of the independent, self-sufficient ways of living on your own land.  Chickens for eggs and poultry to eat, fresh vegetables from her garden, milk from their cow and fresh beef when they butchered, water from their well.  And a little bit of wheat to sell for everything else they needed. To listen to her talk, they had it all.  When I listened to her I honestly missed a place I'd never lived, probably never even stepped inside the door of the house.   You could hear a wistful nostalgic longing for the farm in her voice.  She missed living on that farm from the day they moved to town until the day she died.  

If I want to make my sister Sharon happy all I need to do is take her for a drive to the old farm north of Niles.  Her best years were there.  When being forever a little girl was okay.  No pressure to be something she wouldn't, couldn't be.  And no pressure for my mother, either, in regards to her little girl who would forever be a little girl.  The house has been gone for years, no sign at all of where it was.  But on our drives to the country we stop the car and Sharon can tell me about the location of the house, barn, outhouse.  As well as many stories of life there.  Memories.  Home.  Sometimes we get out and walk across the bridge over the creek.  Coal Creek.  Sometimes we walk up into the area where the house and buildings once stood.  Though I never lived there, when I'm walking on that land with Sharon I can find myself shedding a tear thinking about the life that was once there.  It feels like if I looked and listened closely enough I might actually see and hear the past, my young mom and dad, my little girl sisters.... the "good old days".  

Oh the power of Home.  

The house in the picture above?  The "house that built me"?  Eighteen years of my life.  Good times.  Not so good times.  A few downright awful times.  Life.  Sitting in lawn chairs in the front yard with my dad after supper.  Drinking iced tea and watching cars drive by.  Throwing a softball back and forth while he taught me how to hold the glove correctly.  Happy little memories, simple times.  Very simple times.  

My favorite memory of that home is the last few months of Mom's life.  Walking in the back door and finding her in the recliner doing a crossword puzzle while watching Murder She Wrote, or some other TV mystery show.  The minute she looked up and saw that I had walked through the back door, though, her face would light up with a smile.  I was home.  Comfortably loved.  Welcomed with open arms.  No other feeling like being home.  

I like to look at that picture and remember home, but these days I'm homesick for a place that I've never been.  A place that each one of us can call home forever.  Heaven.  Life is good, don't get me wrong.  But it can't compare with the promise: "He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever."  Rev 21:4.

Comfortably loved.  Welcomed with open arms.  Forever. 

For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come.... Heb 13:14

To Hear Him Sing

Music.  It's really everywhere around us.  Radio.  You tube.  Movies aren't movies unless there is a soundtrack.  TV advertisements couldn't exist without a catchy tune.  Elevators, subway stations, restaurants..... we are surrounded with song.  

Music.  Singing, piano, guitar were all a routine part of my family life growing up.  We sang a lot.  From a young age I played piano more than any other activity.  All.  The.  Time.  My mom played guitar and I guess my dad did too, though I wasn't aware of that until my sisters told me some time after he had passed away.  I do remember him making odd music with his mouth, sounding like a brass instrument.  Human trumpet, that man.  I loved to hear him as we'd work together in his carpentry shop, or when we were riding in the old pickup truck on our way to a farm pond to fish.  Such a fond memory.

Music weaved a thread of peace and calm in our family.  It was glue that held us together.    

Music moves us.  It can move us to dance, it can move us to laughter.  And I am pretty sure I'm not the only one who has been moved to tears by music.  It touches our soul.  

And singing is something every human being can do.  It's the sound of the soul.  Always beautiful.  Yes.  Always beautiful. We were created to sing. And our audience of One loves our song. He's the designer of our song.    

From Genesis to Revelation in the Bible there are stories of how God has designed us for music.  Angels sing.  Temple musicians sing.  David, the Psalmist, sings.  

While music saturates the pages of scripture, my favorite portion of scripture about music is only the first three words of one verse.  An obscure verse that I have overlooked many times until recently.  In the book of Matthew, chapter 26 tells the story of the first communion.  The Last Supper.  Just days before Jesus' arrest and crucifixion.  

The story of Jesus serving his disciples the bread and wine is so familiar.  Matthew 26: 26-29, is read by ministers to this day when communion is served.  But verse 30, which follows the eating of bread and drinking of the cup of wine, says this:

"After singing psalms, they went out to the Mount of Olives."  

Can you picture that scene?  Jesus and the disciples singing together.  Psalms of praise. Familiar songs to the disciples.  However, there is very little written in the Bible about Jesus singing.  

Can you let yourself picture Jesus at that moment singing with them?  Was his heart in his throat, knowing the suffering that was to come?  Did tears stream down his cheeks as He sang?  Did he raise his hands with his eyes closed, his voice reaching the Father's ears in prayerful song?  Did the music fill his soul to the point of overflowing, knowing it could be his last song before the Cross?

I wonder if the disciples recognized his passion as he sang.  If their souls were touched by his voice.  If they maybe stopped their singing to listen to his song.  

And I can only imagine what it would have been like to be there, in the presence of Jesus singing. Jesus pouring his heart out in song. In such a human way.  Like we might do.  

Wouldn't you love to hear the voice of Jesus singing?

One day we will.  Will we be able to sing along or will we be speechless, in total awe when our Savior sings?  The One who loves us more than we can know.  The One who welcomes us home to heaven with the words "Well Done."  Maybe He will look at us and say "I want you to sing with me!" 

Of all that Heaven promises us, I just can't wait to hear Him sing. To sing with Jesus.

And, a little guitar from Mom with her lovely alto voice, and maybe a little "trumpet" from Daddy.    

A Flush to Remember.

Tuttle Creek Reservoir, circa 1964. Brand new beautiful lake.  Summertime.  Most of our family loved to fish.  The few who didn't (MOM!!) at least loved to be outdoors.  My sister had a super nice red ski boat that she had recently purchased.  

So it just seemed natural that the whole bunch of our family should take a fishing trip to beautiful Tuttle Creek lake near Manhattan.  We could fish, we could ski, we could just have a grand time.  

Tuttle Puddle

And, really, why not make it a camping trip??   

Well, there was one glaring reason why camping probably should never have been on the agenda.  We had no camping gear.  A couple cots, a few lawn chairs, maybe a lantern or two.... that was about it.  No tent.  No trailer.  No nothing really.

We had heard from others that this lovely new lake boasted large sturdy picnic shelters with cement floors and roofs.  So the family member(s) responsible for planning this momentous event determined that we could take a large supply of military tarps and cots and sleeping bags from our soldier friend who would be joining us.  And we would enclose one of those picnic shelters with tarps, which would give us a large "tent" for our cots, lawn chairs, etc.  I think we even used picnic tables for sleeping perhaps.  

I was only 9 or so at the time so my recall may not be perfect, but I can tell you it was an epic family event.  Epic, I tell you.

None of the details of the daytime fishing or skiing or whatever else we may have done stick in my memory.  But oh my, when the sun dropped from the horizon things got pretty memorable.  It was not a peaceful starry night.  There was no full moon for illumination.  

"panel wagon" from the 1950's

Mom and I ended up sleeping in our car.  One of us in the front bench seat, the other in the back.  I'm not sure where everyone else chose to sleep. One of my sisters and her husband owned an old "panel wagon" so maybe they slept there.  

I'm not sure anyone else actually chose to sleep.    It's likely the fishermen & fisherwoman (Lois) thought fishing all night in the boat was a splendid idea.  

And it might have been a splendid idea except for the fact that Tuttle Creek lake is in Kansas.  And it was a summer evening.  And in 1964 there wasn't such a thing as radar or smart phones with weather apps.  

Sometime during the dark of night, of course, a monstrous storm hit.  Was it a tornado?  I'm not sure.  But it was wicked awful.  Lightning popping very nearby, high winds tearing up the army tarps, and torrential rain.  Good times.  If you're in the basement of a sturdy home.  We were not.  

The brave family members fishing in the boat had a fight for their lives getting to shore. While the rest of us were pretty sure we'd seen the last of them.  There was wailing, I feel certain there was loud wailing by at least a couple of us on the shore.  Or maybe just one of us.  The 9 year old.  Me. 

It was a muddy struggle, but finally they all made it up the steep bank to shelter.    And honestly,  I use the term "shelter" loosely.  In fact, we all quickly determined that we needed to get in our vehicles and get outta Dodge.  Maybe a park ranger told us to leave....I'm not sure.  

But we left.  In the dark.  Through the pouring rain. The only light being headlights and flashes of lightning. I believe we all chose to leave and divided up into separate vehicles and headed out.  But some of the men may have stayed behind.  

Mom and I and my sister Lois ended up in one car and I'm pretty sure Lois was driving.  Our exodus was complicated by the fact that we weren't familiar at all with this area of the state.  We lived 90 miles or so west of the lake and this was our first trip to Tuttle.  I believe our main objective was to drive quickly away from the direction the storm was traveling.  Brilliant.  We could do that.  

But it continued to rain heavily and the roads were unpaved and of course we had no map.  Three females in a car?  Of course we urgently needed a restroom stop.  The sound of the rain pouring on our car magnified our needs, causing us to "dance" a little in the car.  I'm certain I whined a bit.  It's what I do from time to time.   Wailing, whining....I'm just a human symphony of unpleasant sounds.  

We drove on, dancing our way through vast areas of nothingness.  Well, nothing that we could see in the dark of night.  The storm abated some eventually.  Finally we were able to see what we hoped was an actual sign for the city limits of a town.  Ah.  Relief.  

The sign read Flush.  So we immediately thought "this is some weird sort of sign that a restroom must be near".  But sadly that was the name of the town.  Really?? This caused the 3 of us to start laughing until we cried.  Oh, the irony of finding a town named "Flush" while having painfully full bladders.  But this tiny little unincorporated stop in the road provided no relief for our bladders.  I'm not sure there was a public restroom at all in this tiny village.  

As it turned out we had traveled around 25 miles from our campsite.  I believe after the rain stopped we found somewhere to stop and squat.  I don't really remember, though.  And I don't remember anything else that happened after that.  Age 9?  I probably fell asleep in the backseat once my bladder was empty.  Not sure how, but we did make the 25 mile trip back to the lake at some point.  Possibly right as the sun was rising. 

It didn't take long for us to pick up all the debris, all of our camping "gear",  and  listen to Dad declare that this trip was over.  History.  Bye-bye camping.  Never again.  

Well.  Never again for my mom and dad.  It was their first and last camping trip.  But remarkably, every one of us girls ended up completely hooked on camping.  Our children and their children are hooked on camping.   We started with tents, we graduated to regular hard sided campers.  WE CAMP!!!  Happy campers, every one of us.  

Pretty sure not a one of us have camped at Tuttle Creek Reservoir again.  Not that it wouldn't be safe.... maybe... maybe not.... too many haunting memories of the night we ended up in Flush.  

Though if we did choose to camp at Tuttle again, we would by now surely realize that the city of Manhattan is a mere 5 miles or so away from the lake.  Toilets galore.  Abundance of shelter.  Good grief.  

Remedies and Remedy

Did your mom have her list of go-to remedies for every malady you might experience?  I'm thinking your answer is probably "yes".  My mom sure did.  

Milk of Magnesia would cure everything.  Tummy ache?  Take some milk of magnesia.  Tired and worn out?  Take some milk of magnesia.  Ingrown toenail?  Same remedy..... well yeah that might be an exaggeration.  

Then there was Alka Seltzer.  Pop pop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is.  For every other known physical ailment that M.O.M wouldn't cure.  

Except skin scrapes and open wounds.  Mercurochrome was the deal for all things considered a "boo-boo".  And no, it doesn't sting.  Or so I was told that the pain I felt was not a sting.  Okay then, it was more the sense of your skin being doused with gas and set on fire.  Yeah, that might be an exaggeration, too.  

Mom may not have had the cure for all physical ills, but she definitely knew how to deal with bad attitudes and mean spirits.  She was the calmest person I've ever known and really all she had to do was look at me, listen to me, and say very little.  Maybe a little "actions speak louder than words" advice, or "fifty years from now this won't matter".  And my Dad actually gave me some of the sagest advice in situations where my feelings were hurt.  "Just make sure you're not the mean one.  Rise above".  

Often, very often, Mom had no words.  I think sometimes she listened and said nothing because she just didn't know the answer.  And that was okay.  I always knew her heart.  Always knew that she cared, and that my hurt was her hurt, too.   

Sometimes even in my older age, in fact more than sometimes, I really wish I could talk to my mom and dad.  Even just to be told that Milk of Magnesia will take care of it.  Even to get a wrong answer.  Even to get no answer.  There's just something healing about talking to one who loves you in a way that no other human being was designed to love you.  A parent's love.  

I'm really long in the tooth now, and I have two middle-aged (!?!WHAT?!?) daughters that come to me for the same reasons I went to my own mother.  I love that bond, but I also am acutely aware of my limitations in the wisdom department.  Every human has limitations in the wisdom department.  

Although we all like to think we have wise answers, don't we?  I find myself often stewing over unpleasant and painful situations.  Generally I replay conversations and insert "what I should have said" into the dialogue.  Or rehearse "what I'll say next time".  Like perhaps I think I know more than I really know. Like I actually am my own remedy.  While my blood pressure rises.  And my smile fades.  And my muscles tense.  And my spirit suffers.

In this whole process, something really important is totally overlooked....The Remedy.  We are not the Remedy.  

God designed us to need Him.  To seek His wisdom.  To trust His sovereignty.  To follow His call to "Love one another, as I have loved you."  To "be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry".  To "be kind to one another, tender-hearted and forgiving just as God in Christ Jesus has forgiven you."  

During times when I'm a bit overwhelmed with life and more than a little discouraged I find the most comfort in the fact that God doesn't find fault with us. Even when we find fault with others. Even when we find fault with ourselves.   He looks beyond our faults and offers grace and wisdom.  He will give us the words to say or the grace to remain silent.  And then.... he gives us His peace.  We can relax knowing He's God and we're not.

He is The Remedy.  

Passing time and snapping fingers

Her name was Elnora Christina Borgen Reed... Nora was her common name.  I didn't know her, but she knew me.  For the first six months of my life I believe she may have held me, maybe sang to me, definitely prayed for me.  They were the last six months of her life.  

I didn't know Grandma Nora, but I watched my own mom grieve her death.  Often during my early childhood Mom would be teary and talk about how very much she missed her momma.  

From reading my mom's diary recently I learned that Grandma Nora was a great source of strength to my family.  And I know that Grandma was a strong believer in Jesus and a Baptist through and through.  She prayed.  Though she lived to be 80 it wasn't long enough to see a lot of results from her prayers for her family.  I hope she knows that her prayers have made a difference.  Her prayers planted seeds.  It took some time for the seeds she planted in the hearts of her family to germinate.  But yes, Grandma Nora, your prayers have made a difference to your children and future generations.  In His time.  

Time.... of the waiting variety:
I have vivid memories of sitting in the car with Dad and my sister Sharon, the engine running, waiting to head out to some important event.  What were we waiting for?  Mom.  Probably standing in the house, looking in the mirror wishing her hair would cooperate.  Or applying lipstick at the last minute.  Wasting time, according to one man in particular. 

Dad did not like to be late, but he knew that hurrying Mom along was futile.  Even counter-productive.   Hmmm.  I am my mom.  😜

Time.... of the swift passing variety: 
I was 37 years old when my mother passed away.  During the first few hours after she passed I distinctly recall thinking, almost in panic mode, "Wait a minute!! That happened too fast.  How could 37 years have gone so fast? I'm not through with this part of my life yet. It can't be over"  I felt like a little girl still needing to hold my mom's hand.  Oddly enough until that moment I wasn't aware I still needed my mom's hand to hold.  I was well into adulthood, just assuming that I had everything under control, life was good.  All was going according to what I had always planned.  But one short moment in time changed that.  One last breath from the woman who loved me more than any other human being ever would.  

Time... of the anticipating variety:
Now retirement, the golden years, are up ahead and we can see those years approaching quickly.  We are so very excited for the time we expect to spend together.  We're enjoying making lists of things we want to do, places we want to go.   But I've also lived long enough to know that it's best to hold on to your own plans and dreams lightly.  Both of our fathers' lives were cut short and the "golden years" of retirement just didn't happen.  

Time...  of the hopeful variety:
There's a very good chance that we could live for a few more.....decades!  We're both in pretty good health.   My father's mom was 98 when she passed and my husband's grandma was in her 90's.  But even if we live to be 112?  You could add up all the days any one of us live and it would be equal to a quick snap of the fingers compared to the days between the beginning of time (creation) and all of eternity.  

Time... of the beautiful variety:
A few weeks ago we took a trip to Orlando Florida with our oldest daughter and son-in-law and the two oldest grandchildren.  Disney was the destination.  It was such a fun trip, making so many memories!  On the final day at Magic Kingdom, we stayed for grand finale which is a fireworks display at the Magic Kingdom Castle.  Though we were truly exhausted from three days of Disney, the amazing, magical, stunning transformation of the castle was the pinnacle of our time there.  Worth the wait.  

Pictures can't begin to capture the magic!

As we were watching the magical display it was easy to be just totally overwhelmed and stunned by the beauty of it all.  Just blown away by the creative engineering and man-made design of Disney.  

In the grand finale of that fireworks show, a thought came to me and I feel certain I know the source of that thought.  It was like God was saying to me, "Oh my dear girl you ain't seen nothing yet.  The beauty of Heaven will make this seem like just a fizzled firecracker."  

And I looked around at the crowd of thousands watching this show with their wide eyes and oooohs and aaaahs.  In that group of thousands, one will be the next person from that particular collection of humanity to come face to face with their Maker.  And see the real show.... for the rest of eternity.  Forever.  

I looked at faces and wondered if they know about the brevity of their time here and the reality of eternity.  I want them to know about Jesus and heaven, and the love that caused God to sacrifice His Son in order to make their eternity in heaven a possibility. 

The things of this world, both good and bad,  can consume us.   We get caught up in how good life is, we get caught up in how awful life is.  We forget how short life really is.  

We all need a Savior.  We all need the hope of Heaven.  We all will spend far far more time in eternity than we ever spent living on earth.  Please be ready.   

Like Grandma Nora, I find myself planting seeds of prayers.  Faith tells me those seeds will continue to germinate and grow.  Hope is leading me to believe that one day my faith will become sight.  And there will be a glorious reunion in heaven.  

When time will be no more.

Little White Church

Little white church.  Every small rural town has one.  Ours was on 3rd and Argyle.  Nondescript.  Simple.  Easily overlooked.  Just a little white church.

Last year our little white church was demolished after having been unused for a few years.  I watched the Facebook live video of the demolition from my home 100 miles away, with tears running down my cheeks.  We were married in that church.  Our two baby girls were dedicated in that church.  We worshiped in that church for 25 years or so.  Our hearts were deeply embedded in the four walls of that little building.  It hurt so bad to watch it being dozed, even though it was obvious the building condition had deteriorated to the point it was necessary.  

I felt like the walls were surely crying out with the voices of those who loved that church.  And comments on that video were similar in nature.  "I attended Sunday School there".  "That was my church when I was a kid."  "I loved that church."  

If there were 50 people in attendance it was a "good Sunday".  A few faces in the crowd changed as children grew up and moved away, or as new folks would come through the doors and find a home for their souls.  But the core remained.  The small group of faithful members.   And remarkably, the same pastor for most of the years this church was open.  

For forty-two years the same man served as shepherd to the flock at this little white church.  He is a gentle, humble man with a servant heart.  He gave of himself to every person who walked through the doors of that church.  Correction:  he is a gentle, humble servant to every person in our small town.  Even if  they never darkened the doors of the church he pastored.  

His life goal was to be the hands and feet of Jesus and to speak hope and love, grace and salvation,  into hurting hearts.  He did it well.  It was his calling.  

It was his calling, and it was never easy.   He persevered by the strong arm of the Savior who lifted him up  and often carried him through storms.  He's been retired for several years now, and his gentle humble servant heart remains.  And his Savior is still carrying him through difficult days.  

I feel certain that the demolition of the church he served for his entire working life was painful for him.   

An unknowing onlooker might think it was a failed church.  Just too little.  It folded.  Shrunk and died.  

I disagree.  Oh, how I disagree.  Seeds were planted in that little church that have spread and grown to far reaching places as folks moved away, and children grew up to become strong servants of God in their chosen professions.  Desks in the classrooms of various universities have been occupied by children that grew up listening to Pastor Dave speak truth into their hearts and minds.  Those same children have gone on to be Christian teachers, Christian social workers, Christian mothers and fathers, missionaries, health care workers, on and on.  Light in the darkness around them, planting more seeds that God will cause to grow.  That's how it works in God's garden.  Some plant, some water.... but God causes the growth.  1 Corinthians 3:6.   

Even in little white churches and tiny groups of people.  

Appearances can be so deceiving.  When it appears like little has been accomplished, God has been behind the scenes causing hearts to grow in His grace and love.  The Word planted in hearts will remain and give direction.  I often find myself recalling specific parts of Pastor Dave's messages that I heard so many years ago, and finding hope in the words God gave him to speak.  And Scripture that he opened up to my heart.   One verse in particular that I recall Pastor Dave quoting through tears during a message:   "Fear thou not, for I am with thee.  Be not dismayed, for I am thy God.  I will strengthen thee, I will help thee.  I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."  Isaiah 41:10 KJV

And I remember why that verse was significant to him.  He was at a point during college where he just felt like giving up.  Throwing in the towel.  God poured hope into Dave with these words.  I'm glad he didn't give up.  I'm thankful for the seeds he's planted in hearts over the years.  

I'm thankful for the little white church on 3rd and Argyle.  The building is gone, but not the mission.  Not the message of Christ.  Not the fruit of the labor.  The seeds were planted.  The fruit will continue to grow and spread.  

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.