Celebrating 60 years

My dad tells the story this way:

One night in 1961 or so my dad’s roommate in the Air Force came into the room and said, “there’s someone I want you to meet…Hey, I’m going on a date but my date has a niece with her so we’re going to go on a double date.”

The niece was a year younger than the aunt, incidentally, so she was about 17.

“Hurry up,” the roommate said. “Iron your pants and let’s go.”

This was in North Carolina. Seymour Johnson Air Force Base.

So my dad headed out with them and met my mom (the 17-year-old) in the backseat of a 1948 Ford coup (not meant to be as suggestive as it sounds..)

“Pontiac engine and three deuces,” he told me when I double-checked the make and year of the car.

Mom and Dad were the best man and maid of honor when the roommate (Johnny) and the aunt (Peggy) were married. Two years later, Johnny and Peggy would have been their best man and matron of honor but Peggy was eight months pregnant and living in Mississippi at the time. My parents were married in the home of a minister someone or other knew and had a small celebration at her parents in Kinston, N.C. afterward.

Six years later my brother was born and three years later my sister was born early and passed away only two days later. I came along eight years after my brother.

(As an aside to this story, my son and daughter are also eight years apart and I had a miscarriage in between. Mine was very early.)

Two weeks ago we celebrated my parents and their 60 years of marriage.

We held a small celebration at a renovated drug store (circa early 1900s building) down the street from our house.

Friends and family came out to congratulate them on a long marriage, which is often unheard of these days.

Our local state representative came and honored them with a proclamation from the Pennsylvania House of Representatives and then she also recognized my dad for his service in the United States Air Force.

“What’s the key to a long marriage?” Rep. Tina Pickett asked my parents.

My dad said it helps to have a sweet wife. My mom said that having God in their marriage had been incredibly important and necessary and helped them through the tough times.

And there were tough times – maybe not with the marriage itself but in our family with finances and loss and times of emotional hurt that we all worked through like any family.

I never had what I would call trauma in my childhood and for that I’m thankful.

I’ve always looked at my parents’ marriage as a perfect example of what marriage should really be. There was give and take, communication, and a lot of affection – sometimes more affection than I cared to see as a teenager and young adult.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my parents were never crude in front of us but they didn’t shy away from a kiss, a hug, or a mildly suggestive comment about their romantic life.

No marriage is perfect but my parents’ marriage has been close.

There were times they snapped at each other.

Times they both may have held a grudge.

Times they were both stubborn (though Dad is more stubborn than Mom).

My mom cared for the home for most of their marriage while Dad worked 40 years for a local block and cement delivery company.

Mom was always there when I needed her but Dad was there for me and my brother, Bryan, as well when he was home from work.

Through my parents showing each other love, Bryan and I learned how to treat our spouses.  

Several years ago Dad planted a rose bush in the backyard for Mom. He gives her cards and special meaningful gifts on her birthday and their anniversary, and even for no reason at all. Now that they are older and she has a hard time getting around he cares for her by pushing her in the wheelchair or helping to make the meals.

About five years ago he helped her track her calories so she could lose over 100 pounds.

It’s been hard to watch them grow older in some ways. Watching them both struggle to do what they used to be able to do makes my heart ache. There are days I would give anything for them to not have to go through the trials and pains of growing older. I’m sure they would do the same for me and my brother.

Watching them hold hands and exchange sweet looks with each other during their anniversary party and during other times throughout the years though helps dull that ache.

I don’t know what the future holds but in the present, there is love that has grown and blossomed. That love has broken through darkness. It has spread light not only because of my parents love for each other but also because of their love for Christ.

My parents have shown what it is to be a Christian and they are a hundred times better than me at following the example of Jesus.

In the days before it was dangerous to pick up hitchhikers (or as dangerous) Dad would bring home someone he picked up off the streets to give them a warm meal and a place to sleep.

There were many trips somewhere that were delayed because he and Mom saw a car along the road and wanted to stop and make sure the person was okay. Just last week Dad and I were on our way back from his physical therapy when we saw a vehicle pulled off in a very strange and dangerous spot in the road. I felt that urge to check on the person because it was how I was raised. I said, “That’s a weird place to park.”

Dad said, “They didn’t even have their flashers on.”

We both knew I was going to find a place to turn around. When we went back the car was gone and we were late getting home but we did what Jesus would have wanted us to do  – check on another person and make sure they aren’t hurting somehow.

My parents have become friends over the years with several people who struggle with mental illness. While I often feel frustrated with these individuals, my parents see them through the eyes of Jesus. They want to help them, save them, offer them some respite from their emotional struggles.

This has left my parents open to being taken advantage of and maybe even opened them up to dangerous situations. I have asked them to stop reaching out to and befriending so many who struggle with mental illness, but their response is always, “There is that verse in the Bible  ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” (Matthew 25:40)

Not too long ago someone asked Dad, “Where do you find all these broken people you seem to know?”

Dad responded, “All you have to do is look around. They’re all around you.”

He’s right. Our world is full of broken and lost people. This is not a fact that was lost on Jesus and it also hasn’t been lost on my parents.

They’ve reached out when I turned away.

They’ve comforted when I have condemned.

They’ve given when I would have withheld

They’ve loved like Jesus loves.

They have instilled in me the potential to love as unconditionally as they do.

Through their dedication to each other, to the broken and the lost, they have shown me, my brother, my husband, their grandchildren, and countless other people the heart of Jesus.

No one is perfect and they have not been perfect throughout their lives (though they have been fairly close at times).

Whatever faults they have had, however, have been overshadowed by their love for each other, for their family, friends, the lost, the brokenhearted, the downtrodden, the bruised, the mentally disturbed, the physically frail, the outcasts, the rejected, the people the world pushes asides and shuns, and anyone else who Jesus told us to love.

God knew what he was doing when he brought these two together.

He knew that through their marriage hundreds, if not thousands, would be touched, would be changed and in many cases would be saved.

Their lives, joined together in marriage, have had a ripple effect that we have not seen the end of.

For every couple they encouraged there is a family who is thankful their family is still intact.

For every child they encouraged there is an adult who has found fulfilment in life and has gone on to have families of their own.

For every dollar they spent to support a Christian message, there are souls thirsting after God and ready to be in heaven one day.

More importantly, their marriage has created a legacy for their children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews – something to strive for and a goal to reach.

May we all be able to love our spouses like they have loved each other, but even more importantly may we all endeavor to emulate Christ the way they have for the past 60 years.

How many directions can a mom stretch before she breaks?

Originally published on Today.com Parent Contributors


The 4-year old wants to have a tea party and a play date, but the oldest needs to have his lessons given to him and lunch needs to be cooked.

The dog just had surgery so she needs extra attention.

The cat is out of food and lets me know.

The oldest is now hungry and is asking for dinner

The husband is home and needs to share about his day and I want to hear about it.

I want to be everything to everyone all at once.

I’m trying to listen to the podcast of a psychologist who is trying to advise me on how to manage a mental crisis and she’s yammering on about a box – some box that you have to place your thoughts in to get through a moment or put people in a box or I don’t even know what the bloody hell she is saying about the box because all I can hear is the emotional blackmail of a 4-year old asking me why I’m not playing with her while I hold a piece of raw chicken and a knife in my hand and am standing by the stove.

Gasp.

Breathe.

“Slow your breathing. Freak out in the love zone.”

The South African accent of the neuroscientist, the psychologist, whatever she is, is supposed to be soothing but all I want to do is fling the knife at her and tell her to freak out in her own love zone, whatever a love zone is.

There are days I simply can’t keep up. It’s all moving so fast but at the same time going nowhere.

I thought I’d be so much further in life by now. But at the same time, I’m shocked with all I have. I am a twisted mess of contradiction.

Some days I am completely contented where I am in life – a stay-at-home, homeschooling mother who rambles on her blog and take photographs of her life.

Other days I mourn what I thought I’d be – a well-known writer or photojournalist traveling the world.

With the hours my husband works, I rarely find guilt-free time to write or take photos. When I’d rather be writing I should be folding laundry, or loading a dishwasher or cooking a meal. When I’d like to go to a park or travel somewhere to use my camera to interpret what I see, I should, instead, be planning my son’s assignments for the week or playing with my preschooler.

It isn’t that my husband makes me feel this way. It isn’t that my children make me feel this way. It isn’t that I resent them for my own feelings. Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t an extreme feminist hit piece. It’s just where my feelings are some days.

I feel stretched thin, some days.

I feel pulled ten different directions, some days.

I feel splayed apart like a dead frog in a science experiment (if they even do such things anymore), some days. But, I also feel complete, some days.

Complete and whole. Whole in that my family is whole, mostly healthy and held in the hands of an all-seeing, all-knowing, always loving God.  We all get stretched too thin, pulled too much, pressed down and poured out.

I’m stubborn and weak and whiny and I don’t always do what I know I should; let Him pour back in, stretch gently for growth, pull softly in the right directions and press down only for our own good and progress.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I have gray hair – reason no. 30

I heard it before I saw it and knew at that moment I’d made a mistake letting my 4-year old jump from the couch to the metal barstool we’d never actually used at a bar since we didn’t have one. I saw her hanging over the bottom rungs of the chair, now on its’ side, like a limp rag doll, and yelled for my son to help because I figured that in his youth he could move faster. He wasn’t there, though, and by the time I got to her she had lifted herself up and was standing with her hair in her face and her mouth open while she tried to scream, but no sound would come out.

A bright red river of blood was streaming a path from her nose to her mouth and I wasn’t sure if she had ripped her nose or her lip open.

Always cool under pressure, I started to scream “Help me! Help me!” over and over, yelling for my son to call his dad at work. He, having been upstairs for what he’d hoped to be a relaxing visit to the bathroom, was a frazzled mess and stumbled to find one of our phones.

“Grace. Face bleeding.” He shouted into the phone and hung up.

Somehow I had mentally slapped myself out of my hysteria and asked for a box of tissues, snatched one and held it against my daughter’s nose, noting I had smeared blood above her eyebrow as I’d pulled her close for a hug and examination.

knew that in order for her to calm down that I had to calm down and suddenly I went into robot mode. Wipe face. Hold nose, ask what hurt and what she had hit. She said her nose and her ear so I examined both appendages and saw blood caked along the edge of the nose and the tip of it swelled some, but otherwise it seemed fine. The ear didn’t have the gash I worried I would see. 

My husband burst through the door a few minutes later and we checked her out together while she cried. A popsicle and a cartoon helped her calm down.

A half an hour later she was in the kitchen twirling in circles next to the counter, an inch from smashing her face in again.

“Excuse me. We’ve already had one bloody nose. Are you trying to get another one?” I asked.

And that’s when I felt it – another gray hair pop up on top of my head.

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Four is the new terrible twos

“I’M NOT DOING ANY MORE SCHOOL WORK UNTIL MY BROTHER SITS NEXT TO ME AT THE TABLE!!”

Her little voice pierced my eardrums and grated on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Papers, pencils, and crayons scattered across the floor with a swift move of her fierce little hand. Next, she took aim at the battery for my camera and the charger it was connected to sent that to the floor with a bang.

DSC_3479For the last week, I had been laying my hand against her forehead to see if she was coming down with something, anything, looking for any reason for her Horrid Henry-like behavior. Since no fever was detected next on the list was to call the local Catholic Church to see if they still perform exorcisms in between press conferences to defend their innocence in abuse cases.

She was sitting with her head down on the table, her little feet dangling off the bench, kicking them back and forth as she revved up for her tantrum.

She was wearing the same outfit she’d had on for three days – a long sleeved dress and long pants with a brown leopard pattern. On Saturday she’d fallen asleep before I could negotiate a peaceful ending to the outfit change. On Sunday I knew we’d never make it to church if we stopped to let her pick the ten outfits she normally does before she gets dressed.  I promised myself I’d begin a peaceful settlement when we returned. Negotiations failed and I somehow let it go an extra day. So there she sat, her clothes probably caked to her now, while she started her new tactic of whining instead of verbalizing.

“Your brother is in the bathroom, I can’t make him sit next to you,” I told her, throwing up my hands in exasperation.

“I won’t do work ever, ever again if he doesn’t sit with me!”

I ignored her and went to the kitchen to start cleaning the pan for lunch.

Her brother came down and I asked him to sit with her but now she had worked herself up to a wail, the same wail she’d been sounding for almost a week now – anytime she didn’t get what she wanted, when she wanted, even though half the time she never said what she wanted, but simply cried and whined and kicked her feet.

I burned my hand in the hot water trying to clean out the cast iron pan to make lunch. It made me even grumpier.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” my screams were now matching her own and for good measure, I tossed a fork, which bounced off the counter and shattered the McDonald’s collection Garfield class I’d bought for my husband to replace the one he’d had as a child.

Now I was mad at her and myself. It was a standoff of uncontrolled emotions and suddenly I realized I had dropped my emotional maturity to the level of a 4-year old. A 4-year old who was still trying to figure out how to navigate her emotions, while I was 41 and supposed to already have it all figured out. I shouldn’t have a fuse as short as a preschooler and I knew it.

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“Let me hold you,” I told her finally, no longer caring what her original breakdown had been about. She climbed into my lap and leaned into me her little body warm and heavy against me. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks as I rubbed her back and absentmindedly patted her bottom as  I rocked her.

It grew quiet and she sniffed.

“Mama?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Are you patting my butt?”

“Hmm….um..yeah, I guess I was. I thought it was your lower back.”

She pulled away and looked sideways at me.

“Okay. That was disturbing.”

She climbed off my lap with her finger in her nose and shook her head.

She’s been skipping naps of late so when she passed out against my chest early in the afternoon, an hour or so after this. I texted my husband and said, with much relief, though a bit of regret, “she’s asleep and I have to pee.”

I held that pee in until my bladder almost burst because I had a plan to enjoy the last chapter of my book in blissful silence.  That hour free of preschool manipulation was certainly welcome.

And then my preteen began to extol the virtues of his latest video game discovery and the silence was broken, but, hey, that’s life.

 

Three going on fifteen or why my new name is “mooooooom”

Little Miss, 3, 1/2 is back to calling me “mom” instead of “Mama” and saying it like an annoyed and spoiled teenager. “Oh Moooom.”

“Mooooom, watch me.”

“No, I don’t want that for dinner, Moooom.”

It’s seriously like she’s 3 1/2 going on 15 some days. And boy does she have my moodiness tendencies, much to my disappointment. One day last week she made a mess with water by pouring it all over the living room floor in what she said was an attempt to pour it on Zooma the Wonder Dog to stop her from pulling on her clothes.

I asked her to clean up said mess and she informed me, first, “No. I won’t. That’s not my job.”

Trust me, that little comment did not go over well with me.

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Her second excuse was: “I just got comfortable” as she lounged on the couch watching a cartoon.

I promptly turned off the cartoon and this resulted in long sighs as if she’d been mentally transported into the future as her 15-year old self. Somehow my demands that she clean up the mess she made by herself became a completely overblown toddler crisis and she ended up hiding behind our couch, in a small area near our front door where we keep our shoes.

She had thrown all the shoes out, was crying and in between sobs was saying “but it’s not my joooob! I don’t want to do it! I just want to be lazy and not clean it up!”

I know exactly where her demands to be lazy are coming from and when my 11-year old son got back from camp we had a serious talk about the days he declares “I don’t want to do anything today! It’s lazy… (insert whichever day of the week it is). Eventually the entire drama came down to her saying she would have cleaned up the water if only I had used the word, “please.”

She said all this while still nestled in the space behind the couch and when I added the “magic word” of please to the request a slightly muffled voice informed me: “Well, I can’t do it while I’m crying and I can’t stop crying!”

Eventually, the water did get cleaned up and the drama was abated with a cartoon and cuddle but the attitude bordering on full-blown teenage angst continued off and on throughout the day, with most of her responses coming at me in irritated and impatient tones.

I liked my mom’s suggestion when I told her this story, which was that if she says again “it’s not my job” I turn the tables on her by refusing to do various tasks she would like done and saying flippantly “Sorry. It’s not my job.” Mom and I were fairly certain this effort will one day backfire on me, however, since I am a mom and it actually is my “job” to take care of my kids and Little Miss will most likely inform me of that. one day.

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